For a split second, I freeze. My brain can’t make sense of it. The figure is dark, half-silhouetted by the streetlight leaking through the curtains. Male. Still. Watching me.
My heart lurches so violently it hurts. I sit up too fast, the duvet tangling around my legs.
“What the fuck—”
“It’s me,” the voice says, low and urgent. “Tom, it’s me.”
Daniel.
My breath catches. He takes a small step forward, hands raised like he’s warding off panic.
“I just want to talk,” he says.
“What are you doing in my house?!” My voice sounds wrong, too loud in the stillness.
Of course, I know how he got in the house. The spare key. I was adamant that I needed to change the locks. Just my luck that I got distracted watching a CCTV murder video of my boyfriend’s ex.
How is this my life?
“Can we just talk?” he says simply.
“I should call the police.” I reach for my phone on the bedside table.
Daniel moves fast—too fast. “Don’t.”
“Get out of my house.”
“Just listen—”
He grabs for my arm. It’s not rough, not at first, but it’s firm. I yank away, stumble half-off the bed, reaching for the phone again. This time, he catches my wrist—hard.
“Daniel, stop!”
He pushes forward — maybe trying to stop me, maybe just panicking.
“Tom!” he says, breathless, almost pleading. “Don’t do this.”
The weight of him knocks me back and my head slams against the wall with a dull crack. Pain bursts behind my eyes.
The words blur. The room tilts, warps, spins.
I don’t remember falling to the floor, but I see his face above me, too close, a mix of desperation and fear, and then everything goes black.
Chapter 50
DANIEL
Daniel sits on Tom’s cold bathroom floor, legs folded, back pressed to the wall. His knees ache, but he doesn’t move. The only sound is the slow, steady drip from the tap that won’t quite shut off.
Each drop lands like a countdown.
Tom is slumped in front of him, his body half-curled against the bathtub, wrists bound behind the back of the toilet with duct tape. His head hangs forward, chin to chest. Unconscious, but breathing.
Daniel watches him. He doesn’t hate him—not exactly. Hate requires distance, perspective. What Daniel feels is closer, sharper — like a wire pulled tight between them.
He reaches out and touches Tom’s shoulder gently. “Tom?”
No answer.
