Emma points at him with a shaking hand. “You are a monster.”
He considers it, smiles sadly. “I’m a realist.”
“And us?” I ask, because my voice needs to do something besides tremble. “This — me. What was I? Another replacement?”
He looks at me properly for the first time, and the warmth that used to live in that gaze has cooled to something clinical. “You were a joy,” he says. “Area joy.” He almost laughs. “I’ve loved every second of being with you. There’s no reason that can’t carry on.”
My body feels transparent. My blood knows what my brain won’t say: he’s been moving us like pieces, and we are already where he wants us.
Emma lets out a low, horrified sound. “You had us kill him.”
Pete’s smile flickers. “You had choices,” he says softly. “And so did he. Tonight was always going one of two ways.” He leans back. “Now that it has gone the right way, we can plan.”
“Plan?” The word claws me. “For what?”
“For the future.” He says it like a toast.
I stare at him. I try to find a seam in the mask and all I see is skin. “You think I could ever—”
“Tom,” he says gently, almost kind, “you already have.”
My head is full of buzzing. I can’t tell if it’s the fridge or my nerves.
“Tom, I love spending time with you. We have a genuine connection.” A surge of air flies out of my mouth in disbelief as I can’t find the words to respond, as Pete continues. “These past months have been a blessing. You’ve brought so much joy to my life, so much happiness. We can continue how it’s been.”
Pete takes another sip of his wine. “We could be happy, comfortable, just the three of us?”
“Three of us?” Emma screams. “Are you insane? Are you expecting me to be a part of some psychotic threesome?”
Pete chuckles. “Oh no. I didn’t mean you. I meant Tom and I. And my boyfriend.”
Pete nods to the doorway.
And there he is — the other boyfriend.
Sam.
He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to. The gun in his hand does the talking.
Chapter 62
TOM
I feel like I’m drowning.
Sam’s shoes make no sound on the tiles when he crosses the room; the gun in his hand looks impossible and tidy, as if it belongs on a mantelpiece in a different life. He doesn’t look at the body. He looks at me like a man reading a score and deciding on the cadence.
Boyfriend.
“You’re a couple?” I ask.
“Yes, very much so,” he says, as if we’re discussing an old holiday. “Eighteen years. Since we were teenagers. We met in one of our foster homes.”
The words land with the weight of a book dropped on my chest. “You and Pete?” I ask, because I’m grasping for anything that even smells like an explanation.
Sam nods. There’s a small, ugly pride in the nod. “Together. Together in the only ways that made sense then.”
He looks at me, his eyes wide. “You don’t get it,” he says. “Me and Pete — we didn’t get families. We got new houses every few months. New rules. New faces pretending they’d keep us. We learned early: nobody stays unless you make them.” He glances at Pete like it’s the simplest truth in the world. “We had nothing but each other. No safety nets. No inheritance. No second chances. So we built ourown. Made our own rules. Made sure nobody could throw us away again.”
