They’re not just fighting. They’redestroying. Every movement is jagged and desperate. The table goes over. Plates explode. A fork skitters across the tiles like a bullet ricochet. It’s chaos.
Blood flashes across the screen—I don’t even know whose. Chris’s, maybe James’s. Both. They’re slick, tangled, feral.
Chris manages to get on top, his face twisted in a mix of fury and survival. He lands a punch—brutal, clean—right to James’s jaw. The impact throws James back. I flinch as if I can feel it.
For a heartbeat, Chris has the upper hand. He draws back again—one more hit, maybe enough to end it.
Then James’s hand moves. A flicker of metal catches the light.
A knife.
It happens in a blink.
The first strike lands at Chris’s throat. A horrible, jerking motion—too fast, too real.
Chris’s hands fly to his neck.
The second blow follows instantly. A flash of red against white.
The third. The fourth.
By the fifth, I’m gripping the edge of my desk so hard my fingers ache. I can’t breathe. The screen shows movement, then stillness.
Chris collapses forward, half onto James, blood soaking his shirt, his arm twitching once, twice—then nothing.
The camera keeps recording. Silent. Cold. Unflinching.
And I just sit there, frozen, the world narrowing to the size of that flickering image.
Chapter 49
TOM
I don’t move for a long time after the video ends.
The screen goes dark, and I just sit there, staring at my own reflection in it. The ghost of me looks pale and wrong, like a man who’s seen something that should not exist.
Chris is dead.
James killed him.
And I’ve just watched it happen.
Every instinct tells me to rewind, to watch it again—toconfirm, as if confirmation would make it more bearable. I don’t. My stomach already feels like I’ve swallowed glass.
The house feels too quiet. Even the hum of the fridge sounds accusatory, like it knows what I’ve just seen. I get up, pace the living room, then sit back down again. I can’t stay still. My mind keeps flicking between thoughts like faulty Christmas lights.
James did it. James murdered Chris.
Pete lives with him.
Pete sleeps next to him.
The thought makes me nauseous. My hands are shaking, so I clasp them together like I’m praying, but prayer feels too hopeful for this moment.
I have to do something.
The obvious answer screams in my head: go to the police. It’s the one rational thought trying to push through the storm. I’ve got the proof — every horrible second of it. But I can’t just walk in alone. They’ll want context. They’ll want details. And I can’t do any of that without Pete.
