When HEROES don't come HOME

Chapter Twelve – The Visitor

The knock came at 09:14 a.m.

Sharp. Three raps, measured. Not the neighbor. Not a delivery.

Emily Carter froze in the kitchen, her hand wrapped around a mug of coffee she hadn’t touched. The apartment was quiet enough that she could hear her pulse in her ears. For three days the memory of the pier haunted her — Reeves’s guarded eyes, his warning questions, his careful nod. She hadn’t told anyone. And yet someone was here.

She opened the door slowly.

The man on the other side looked like he belonged to the kind of world that swallowed questions whole. Dark suit, pressed sharp. Hair cropped short enough that not a strand dared rebel. His shoes were mirror-polished, his badge clipped to his belt like a declaration of authority. His eyes were still, the kind that didn’t blink more than necessary.

“Mrs. Carter,” he said, voice calm, clipped. “Special Agent Harris, NCIS.”

He lifted the badge, gave her exactly three seconds to see it, then slipped it away. “May I come in?”

Her instinct said no. But her training said a refusal would only draw more attention. She stepped back.

Harris entered like he’d already been here before. His gaze flicked across the room — sofa, counter, the folder of documents on the table. He chose the chair that faced both her and the door, then unbuttoned his jacket with slow precision. He opened a notebook, pen poised.

“We’ve opened an official investigation into Sergeant Daniel Carter’s death.” He spoke like a man reading from script. “I wanted to notify you personally.”

Emily leaned against the counter, arms crossed tight across her chest. “Strange. Three weeks of silence, and suddenly it’s official?”

Harris offered a small smile that never touched his eyes. “Chains of command take time. Authorization. Documentation. Surely you understand.”

“I understand delay tactics when I see them,” she said flatly.

He didn’t flinch. He made a note, then looked up. “Tell me. What did your husband tell you before deployment?”

Emily’s throat tightened, but she forced her voice steady. “Nothing. Not even that there was a deployment. I found out after they told me he was gone.”

“No hint?” Harris pressed. “No late calls? No odd messages?”

“No,” she said again, firmer. “He called the night before. Said he’d be busy. That’s all.”

Harris tapped his pen. “The operation was cleared last minute. That lines up.” He paused. “Tell me — why do you think his closest friend waited until after the funeral to approach you? Why wasn’t he at the graveside?”

Emily’s eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

“I’m referring to Sergeant Morris,” Harris said smoothly. “Served with your husband. Yet he didn’t appear at the cemetery. He only turned up the next day, privately. Curious, don’t you think?”

Her jaw tightened. “Maybe because grief isn’t a timetable. Maybe because he couldn’t stand there staring at a coffin with nothing inside. Or maybe,” her voice cut sharp, “because not everyone heals on your schedule, Agent.”

Harris tilted his head, as if studying her reaction under a magnifying glass. “Sometimes absence says more than presence.”

Emily leaned forward slightly, glare fixed on him. “Sometimes absence says nothing at all. Sometimes it just means the world is unbearable.”

The silence between them stretched. Harris broke it first, turning a page.

“Let’s discuss Rachel Morgan,” he said. “She’s been digging into areas far outside her clearance. Rumors, half-truths. If she’s contacted you, it’s important you tell me.”

Emily’s arms locked tighter across her chest. “Do I still have a right to a personal life, Agent? Or should I forward you a report every time I talk to someone in a grocery store?”

His pen stopped. His gaze sharpened. “This isn’t about groceries. It’s about national security. And the people you associate with.”

Emily stayed silent.

Harris leaned in, voice lowering. “And the man you met on the pier?”

Her heart slammed once, but her face stayed calm.

“Michael Reeves,” Harris said. His tone was pure disdain. “A disgraced ex-cop. Internal Affairs nailed him for falsifying evidence. Medals stripped, badge revoked. He survives on liquor and whatever scraps of work desperate clients throw his way. The kind of man who drags down anyone who gets near him. He’s the last person you want tied to your husband’s memory.”

Emily met his stare with one of her own. Her voice was controlled, each word like glass. “Funny. You say you’re here to investigate Daniel’s death. Yet all I hear is you cataloging who I speak to. Which journalist. Which detective. Which bench I sit on.”

Harris’s jaw twitched, barely visible. His eyes hardened. “Everything touches the case. And yes — we know where you’ve been. The store. The pier. The cemetery. We know who you speak with and what questions you ask.” He straightened slightly, tone still calm but edged like a blade. “Be careful, Mrs. Carter. Curiosity has cost lives before.”

Emily felt her pulse hammer, but her voice stayed level. “So has silence.”

For the first time, Harris looked at her directly, no mask. For one second, it was predator and prey staring at each other, neither blinking.

Then he closed the notebook with a snap. The sound echoed through the quiet apartment.

He rose, buttoning his jacket. His voice smoothed back into professionalism, like nothing sharp had passed between them. “I want you to hear this from me: there will be a fair investigation. Justice will be done.”

The words should have been comforting. Instead they fell heavy, like a warning cloaked in courtesy.

When the door clicked shut behind him, Emily’s knees nearly gave way. She gripped the counter, coffee mug trembling in her hand. Her breath came uneven, but her eyes burned steady.

She didn’t believe him. Not about the investigation. Not about fairness. Not about anything.

But Harris’s visit told her something more valuable than any promise.

They were watching her. They were afraid.