“He was with me.”
I turn. Craig steps forward into view from the living room where he was waiting for his tea. Calm. Solid. Confident. He gives the detectives a polite nod.
“Oh, hello Sir,” the taller detective says.
Sir.
They recognise him—DCI Craig Hollis. Their superior. That softens something in them. A tiny shift. “Sorry, we didn’t know you were…friends.”
Craig doesn’t acknowledge this comment. “He was at the hospital with me. In A&E. My husband was knocked down in an accident the same night, you may have heard. Tom has been a great support.”
I don’t breathe.
“Right, yes we heard,” the shorter detective says, nervously. “I’m sorry to hear that. I hope he’s doing ok, Sir?”
Craig nods. “Yes, it was touch and go initially, but they’re confident he’s going to make a full recovery.”
Both detectives seem genuinely relieved. “Well, that’s excellent news,” one of them says.
There’s a pause.
“Um, I’m afraid we have some bad news,” the other detective says. “Pete Harris is dead. He took his own life two days ago.”
I let the shock hit my face like a slap.
“Oh my god,” I whisper, hand to my mouth. “No. I… I had no idea.”
They nod. They give me a sympathetic look. They say they may need to speak to me again. They may need me to come in and make a statement. Standard procedure.
“Let me see you out,” Craig says, leading them to the door.
Through the window, I watch him stand at the front gate with the two detectives. They talk. Craig gestures once, twice — calm, professional, completely in control. Five minutes. Maybe less. Feels like an hour.
And then—
They leave.
Silence sinks back into the house, thick and heavy. The only sound is Buster drinking from his bowl, the slow lap-lap-lap like nothing in the world is wrong.
I turn back to the counter.
Two mugs. Kettle cold.
Tea. I was making tea for us, like this was any other quiet morning, before that knock on the door.
I switch the kettle back on. Watch the water tremble to a boil. Keep my hands busy so my mind doesn’t spiral.
Craig comes back in. Closes the door softly, like he’s afraid even the latch might trigger something inside me.
“Well?” I ask. I hear the need in my own voice.
“They’re satisfied,” Craig says. “They’ve seen the videos on the memory stick. The texts between Emma and Pete back up the ‘domesticincident gone wrong’ narrative. They’re calling it a murder–suicide for now. They haven’t dug into Emma’s background yet. And I’ve already congratulated them on ‘quick work’, so they’ll be keen to close it down swiftly now.”
He gives a half-smile. “Truth is, itissloppy policing. But for once, sloppy works in our favour.”
I exhale. I didn’t realise I’d been holding my breath.
I hadn’t wanted Craig involved — after everything. But the second I learned Phil survived, instinct took over. I ran straight to him, and the whole truth spilled out. Craig did what Craig always does — stepped between me and the fire.
