Me having this video alone is a huge invasion of Pete’s privacy. But one in hindsight I’m comfortable with based on what I’ve just found. However, I need to talk this through with Pete before we go to the police. I can’t go behind his back.
I need to do this with support. Together.
It sounds almost reasonable in my head. Something Craig would say — “Don’t do anything rash, Tom. Keep your head.”
Craig.
God. I should call him.
He’d know what to do. Heisthe police. But the idea of explaining how I got this footage—how I broke into James’s house and stole it—well, that would go down about as well as an arson confession at a fire station. And then it would be out of my hands I’m sure. Craig would call his murder squad pals and it would all snowball before I could speak to Pete.
No.
Pete first.
Then the police.
I want to shoot over to Pete’s place right now. I look at the clock. It’s 9.30pm. James will be home and I need to get Pete alone. I think about calling him now, but I stop myself. No, James might be there when I call and this needs to be a face-to-face conversation. Waiting until first thing in the morning is the best course of action, I assure myself.
I breathe, trying to slow the panic, but the adrenaline doesn’t fade. I keep picturing Chris’s final moments, that frantic blur of limbs and noise, the knife flashing like lightning. My body feels charged, electric with disgust and fear.
The laptop screen still glows faintly. I snap it shut and push it away like it’s contagious.
I’m about to go to bed when my phone buzzes. Facebook Messenger.
Emma Christianson.
I just stare at the name for a full ten seconds before opening it.
“Hey Tom. What did you find out? Can we meet? Tomorrow maybe?”
The message feels almost harmless, ordinary. But knowing what I know — what she doesn’t — it lands like a bullet to the chest.
Her brother isn’t missing.
He’s dead.
And the man who did it is still walking around free, sleeping next to Pete, eating toast in the same kitchen where he bled out.
I grip my phone tighter. I can’t tell her. Not yet. She deserves the truth, but not through a screen. Not like this. And not until I speak to Pete.
Still, ignoring her feels cruel.
I type:
“Nothing new to report, but let’s catch up soon. Will message you tomorrow.”
Then I hit send and instantly regret even that much. My thumbs hover like I’ve sent a confession.
When I finally crawl into bed, exhaustion crashes over me like a wave, but sleep doesn’t come easy. Every time I start to drift, I see flashes—Chris’s face, the blood, James’s blank expression after it’s done.
I don’t know what time I fall asleep. Sometime after two, I think. The house is quiet, the kind of quiet that feels heavy, like it’s waiting for something.
Then there’s movement.
It’s faint at first—a sound like a shoe brushing carpet. I think it’s part of a dream until I open my eyes.
Someone is standing at the end of my bed.
