That didn’t fit the narrative.
But now I’m here. Making tea.
Waiting.
Waiting for the police to knock and say the one sentence I can’t unhear:We know what you did.
My leg is still sore from where Sam stabbed me with the pen. Fortunately, it wasn’t deep, no lasting damage. I couldn’t risk going to the hospital, so I cleaned it up myself that night, but it still twinges when I put weight on it.
I tell myself I planned well. That I thought of everything. But doubt leaks through the cracks like cold air. A hair on James. Skin under Sam’s nails. A footprint in the garden. My phone left in the car — maybe it pinged off a cell tower nearby. The texts on Pete’s phone — there weren’t many, we generally just called each other. I couldn’t delete them, that would scream guilt. My Facebook conversations with Emma, those were more incriminating.
All those pieces of evidence I hadn’t considered in the moment, but now it’s too late.
I just have to hope no one looks too closely.
I’d spent the morning checking the house again for cameras after Sam’s admission. I’d found five so far in various rooms. The one in the corner of my bedroom distressed me the most, but anything Sam saw in there was the least of my worries. I disposed of them earlier, not that that gives me any peace.
The kettle clicks off.
And before I can pour, there it is.
A knock at the door. Three sharp raps that feel like the end of everything.
Buster looks up. I freeze.
I already know who it is.
I open the door and two detectives stand there. Coats, badges, neutral faces. They say my name like it’s a formality, but in my head, it sounds like a verdict.
“Can we come in?”
I step aside. My pulse tries to punch its way through my throat.
In the hallway, they ask about Pete. They say they’ve seen the texts between us. The late-night calls. They ask how we knew each other.
I keep my voice as small and harmless as possible.
“We met a couple months ago. Just… met. He gave the impression he and his husband were in an open relationship, but I didn’t want to get involved in that. We talked sometimes. We’d meet for coffee occasionally. As friends.”
They don’t react. They don’t write anything down. That’s worse.
“Sorry, what’s this about?” I ask. Playing dumb is the only tactic I have right now.
Then: “He called you late Saturday night. What was that about?”
I swallow. Hard.
“He sounded… upset. Said he and James were fighting. I got the impression it wasn’t the first time. I told him to get help, or call someone.”
One of them watches me like he’s waiting for the lie to twitch on my face.
Then the other asks: “Where were you Saturday night?”
There it is. The question.
I open my mouth—
—and Craig’s voice comes from behind me.
