He doesn’t need much. Just enough to disappear. Five hundred thousand. That’s the figure echoing in his skull like a hymn. Enough to clear the debts and start over somewhere warm. Somewhere without cold English rain or polite letters that become threats.
He leans back and stares out the windscreen.
He’s parked outside their house. It’s a handsome place, too handsome. Lights low but still on inside. He can smell the money from here.
He reaches into the glove compartment and pulls out the gun. Cold, heavier than it looks. It isn’t his—it belonged to one of the men who lent him money, the kind who laugh when you ask for receipts. They didn’t lend to be repaid; they lent to own you. He’d gone back to his house to grab it. After what happened at Tom’s earlier, it was clear he needed some added protection.
He doesn’t plan to use it. Not really. But desperation has a way of making promises it can’t keep.
He imagines how it’ll go. Knock on the door. Calm voice. “We need to talk.” Show them the video. Let them see the problem. Letthem understand that unless he gets what he wants, that footage finds its way somewhere public. Simple business.
He’s good at sounding reasonable, even when he’s drowning.
Then he closes the laptop, tucks it under his arm, and opens the car door. The rain hits like cold needles. He pulls up his collar and starts walking toward the house.
His steps are slow, deliberate. The gun feels heavier with every one.
He hesitates at the gate. This is it—the final roll of the dice. The house looms over him, silent, unaware that its walls are about to hold one more desperate act.
Chapter 58
TOM
Rain batters the windscreen so hard it sounds like applause from hell. As I start the car, I can barely see ahead of me, just streaks of white lines smudged by the wipers. My phone rings on the passenger seat — the screen lighting up blue.
Pete.
I snatch it up. “Pete? What’s going on?”
His voice is jagged, frantic. “Tom—Tom, I don’t know what to do.”
“What’s happening? Are you okay?”
“He’s completely lost it. I’ve never seen him this bad.”
“Where are you?”
“In the bathroom,” he pants. “I’ve locked the door. He’s downstairs. I can hear him — he’s smashing things.”
My heart spikes. “Pete, listen to me, stay in there. I’m on my way.”
“No!” His voice cracks. “If he sees you, he’ll kill you.”
“Emma called,” I say quickly. “She told me. I was already heading over. Just — just hold on.”
“I think he’s broken a rib,” Pete whispers. His breath comes in short, painful bursts. “I can’t breathe properly.”
The words hit like ice water. “Oh my God, Pete. You need to get out of there.”
“I can’t. I can’t get past him. And I can’t jump the window — it’s too high. Tom, he’s gone mental.”
“Okay, okay, listen,” I say, forcing myself to stay calm. “I need to call the police. If your rib is broken, you need medical attention. I know what James is capable of. He could kill you too.”
There’s a pause. “What do you mean?”
“I saw it,” I tell him. “On the CCTV. I know he killed Chris.”
Silence. For a few seconds, all I hear is the rain and the engine.
