His face goes red, then purple, then slack. His body twitches once, twice—then drops still.
I don’t stop pulling right away.
I can’t trust stillness anymore.
When I finally let go, my arms are shaking, my fingers numb. I stumble backward, gasping, coughing, the rope still in my hands like a dead snake.
Pete’s body lies crumpled on the concrete, eyes open but empty, tongue swollen, rope mark embedded deep into his skin.
The silence that follows is too big. Too heavy. Too final.
Four bodies.
Four lives gone in one night.
And I am still breathing.
My chest heaves. The rest of me is a blur. I’m covered in blood that isn’t mine. My heart isn’t beating normally — it’s vibrating, like it’s trying to break its way out.
I look at Daniel.
I look at Pete.
And I think:
What have I done?
And more terrifying:
What do I do now?
EPILOGUE
TOM
The kettle clicks on and fills the kitchen with a low mechanical hum. I take out two mugs, place them on the counter.
Buster sits at my feet, nosing at the edge of his bowl, oblivious. Lucky him. Two days have passed since I walked out of that house. Two days of silence, sleep in short bursts, and the constant feeling that I’m standing on a frozen lake and the ice is whispering warnings.
I look out the window over the sink. It’s grey outside, the kind of sky that makes the world feel unedited, unfinished. I breathe in slow, as if air will steady me.
I keep replaying the night, frame by frame. Not the violence — the aftermath. I thought about calling the police, confessing everything. How could I explain this all, everything that happened, my role in James’s death and not walk away from it unscathed?
I thought about calling Craig, but then I remembered about Phil and how getting him involved in something as insane as this was not a viable plan.
So, in a moment of potential insanity, I decided not to call the police.
I hung Pete’s body in the garage, the memory stick in his pocket with the footage of James hitting him, of Sam and James together, of James killing Chris: the crumbs of a story that leads everyone away from me.
Unlocking his phone with his Face ID, I typed out the message on it — suicide note, remorseful tone, vague enough to sound believable, detailed enough to stop questions.James was abusive. Emma came to help. Things escalated. James killed Emma. I killed James and Sam. I can’t live with what I’ve done.
A far-fetched story, but with the video evidence of continued abuse, it would be believable, right? My brain fuelled with adrenaline and panic decided that the answer would be yes.
After that, it was about the cover up. I searched the house to find Pete’s Apple Watch, found it in the drawer. Entered the laptop. Stopping the CCTV system. Deleted everything. Every file. Every backup. Then cleaned the house. Every last bit of evidence I could find that could tie me to the house.
In the moment, every step felt logical.
Except for Daniel’s body.
