He shrugs, like it’s just logic. “You don’t walk through that kind of fire with someone and come out separate. We survive because we stay together. Always.”
I don’t know whether to be horrified or fascinated. My brain, traitor that it is, latches onto small details — the way Sam says “we,” the way he has always known how to dial the volume on a room.
“You did this before,” I hear myself say. It’s not a question.
“A few times.” He answers like a man checking off a list. Not proud, not ashamed. “It’s proved an efficient way of securing our future.”
Pete smiles at his partner. “We did what we had to — to survive. We learned patterns. How to make things look like accidents. How to make people want to be in the same room as you while you move the pieces.”
“But I saw you, you and James… together,” I say to Sam. Even in this moment, I can’t bring myself to say the word “sex”.
Sam nods. “Well, James liked to take his frustrations out on me. He wasn’t going to get it anywhere else, so he just went with it in the end. And I very much let him.” He smiles, “I like my men to get real rough with me.”
“And I’ve always been more vanilla,” Pete says, looking to me. “As you know.”
“That’s the brilliance of open relationships. What one partner can’t give you, you can get from another,” Pete says, like he’s explaining the benefits of a Tesco Clubcard.
There’s a pause, a break while we all process this revelation
Pete places his wine on the side table and stands up.
“So,” he starts. “Now, we all know where we stand, let’s talk this through like adults.”
Before I can respond, Pete taps on his phone and looks up at the TV. The screen fills again with the same bright, clinical light, the same cluttered kitchen. The fight, the knife, the red that crawls. Then the angle that makes everything worse: Tom — me — on top of James, arms wrapped around his torso, face a knot of exertion. Emma over him, knife in hand, the stabbing motion clear and repeated. The clip goes slow in my head, the world smeared like a bad camera filter.
The thing that had felt like self-defence in the heat of it becomes something else when it’s replayed in pixels.
“See?” Pete says, his voice as calm as a man describing the weather. “It’s a lot clearer now. You aren’t defending anymore — you’re restraining. She’s the one doing the killing.”
My stomach drops out of me. There is a hollow place where argument lives. “That’s not how it—” My voice is thin. “It happened fast. He lunged—”
“He lunged,” Pete repeats, not unkindly. “But you had the knife away from him first. You had the control.” He leans forward, fingers steepled. “We could take this to the police, Tom. We could tell them every word and let the law sort it out.”
I feel like someone’s speaking through a wall. “I was holding him down to stop him,” I say. “I thought he would have killed Pete.”
“You’ve seen it back now,” Pete says softly. “It’s not a good look.”
It is not a good look. The camera is merciless; the camera makes choices for the world. When you see a thing through a lens that has no mercy and no excuses, there is very little left to say that sounds like a defence.
Pete turns the remote toward me like a judge passing sentence. “So, let’s just all calm down. We can all live happily together in this house. We have fun, don’t we?” he says, all too casually. “And that can continue, but I just need access to your bank accounts.”
The demand hangs in the air, not phrased as a threat but with every millimetre of implication it needs. Blackmail with more polish than the word deserves.
“I’m not going to blow it all in one go,” Pete says, as if to reassure me. “I’m not reckless. Just enough for us to live long term as we have been.”
Sam’s eyes flick to Emma. “With some extra top-up funds from you.” She’s sitting on the floor, knees pulled to her chest, wet tracks down her cheeks. She looks like she could break like a biscuit.
Pete also looks to Emma. “I know you need that video of you in the house the night of the fire. You can have it. Hell, I’ll stand up in court as your alibi to get the police out the way. I’ll just need your funds too.”
“I don’t have any money,” she whispers.
Pete laughs. “Of course, you do. I know your family background. Chris told me all about it. I know how much money he started with. You don’t just lose that kind of generational wealth.”
Emma is the one to laugh this time. “Then, you really don’t know me at all. I lost the money years ago. Blew it on all kinds of shit. Theexpensive clothes, the car, the jewellery, all I have left now is stuff. But I have no real money. I live month to month like anyone else. Why do you think I spent two years inside for fraud?”
“I see,” Pete says. His tone is steady and clinical.
Pete looks at Sam, then back to Emma.
