Behind me, Pete kicks the door open, rage boiled down to something animal.
“You should’ve just loved me, Tom!”
All I can do is stop and hold up my hands.
He points the gun at me. “We could have all been happy together.”
I shake my head, scanning the room for an escape, but I’m acutely aware that my time is coming to an end. I breathe.
“You know I would have given you everything,” I say.
Pete, chest heaving, pauses.
“I wanted to be with you, get you away from James and start a proper life with you,” I say, earnestly. “I would have done anything for you, given you everything. You wouldn’t have needed to blackmail into staying.”
Pete shakes his head. “That’s what they all say. They promise me the world at first, before they take it away! They never stay! Nobody ever stays.”
“I would have!” I cry, and part of me believes that completely.
“Well, it’s nice that you look back on our time so fondly,” Pete says, focusing the gun at me. “But it’s too late for that.”
The gun clicks.
Empty.
He looks at it like it betrayed him, then throws it to the floor with a scream. And then he comes at me — fast. Faster than I’m ready for.
We crash into the metal shelving — paint tins fall, tools slam to the ground, something sharp slices my arm. He’s on me with fists, nails, teeth — all desperation and fury. I shove him back, but he’s relentless. The sweet, charming boy who once held my face in hishands is gone. This is something else entirely. Hunger. Survival. Madness.
He lunges again and we tumble, knees and elbows cracking against concrete. I try to get up, but he tackles me, hands clawing for my eyes, my throat.
He wants to kill me with his bare hands.
I manage to flip him just long enough to crawl away. My fingers scrape cold metal — a wrench — but he kicks it away before I can grab it.
I back up wildly, scanning for anything,anything, and then I see it —
A coil of rope hanging from a hook.
I snatch it down just as Pete slams into me again, his hands around my throat. He squeezes. Hard. My vision sparks white. My legs kick uselessly. He’s stronger than he looks. His weight is crushing my chest.
The world is fading, the air disappearing, my heartbeat a wild drum in my skull—
And I swing the rope.
It hits him across the face. He flinches just long enough for me to loop it around his neck. He claws at it, eyes wide, but I pull. I pull with every ounce of terror and fury and grief left in me.
He thrashes. He makes these awful choking sounds—half-human, half-feral—but I don’t let go.
I can’t.
Not after Emma.
Not after Phil.
Not after Guy.
Not aftereverything.
