James doesn’t smile. His stillness is unnerving. “You’ll find that the people who last here,” he says, “are the ones who know what they’re signing up for. Some think they do. At first. Then they discover what it really takes. Some get overwhelmed. Some leave.”
I grip my wine glass tighter than is strictly safe. “Leave?”
James shrugs one shoulder, casual, like he’s discussing bin day. “Sometimes quickly. Sometimes not quickly enough.”
A prickle runs down my spine. My brain is screamingwhat does that meanbut my mouth, traitor that it is, blurts out: “Like Chris?”
James’s head turns sharply, his jaw tight. The silence that follows could freeze wine.
His eyes narrow just slightly.
“Chris is…in the past,” he says finally, and his tone is soft — too soft — the kind of soft that makes my stomach drop.
Before adding a final blow.
“Where he belongs.”
Before I can recover or dig myself in deeper, Sam’s voice booms cheerfully from the hall, followed by Pete’s laugh. James leans back again, face smoothing back into polite neutrality, as though the last thirty seconds didn’t happen at all.
Pete re-enters, holding the wine like a peace offering, and my chest feels tight enough to snap.
Chapter 20
TOM
I’m perched on the edge of the guest bed like it’s about to eject me, trying very hard to look like someone who stays in strange houses all the time and is totally fine with it.
Spoiler: I am not fine with it.
This is not the cosy, romantic sleepover I’d half-fantasised about on the drive over here. This is me in a house that feels like a country club that accidentally gained sentience and a personality disorder, wearing borrowed pyjamas and pretending I’m not internally screaming.
Pete is so annoyingly calm. He’s humming to himself as he plugs in his phone and lays his Apple Watch on its charging dock, like we’re in some indie rom-com montage, not trapped in a gothic thriller.
“Why is your face all scrunchy?” he says, grinning as he tosses his jumper over a chair.
“It’s not!” I lie, spectacularly. “This is just my face.”
He sits beside me on the bed, takes my hand. The contact is grounding, annoying in the way only Pete can manage — like he’s casually diffusing a bomb.
“I had a chat with James,” I say.
“And how did that go?” he asks, cautiously.
“Well, he didn’t kill me, so I’m taking that as a win.”
“Oh, that well?”
“Yes,thatwell. He was intimidating to say the least.”
“James can be a bit…” he searches for the word, “intense. But he’s just feeling you out.”
“Feeling me out? Like a job interview?”
“Exactly. He’ll relax once he sees you’re serious about this. You just have to keep being you.”
I snort. “Well, I’m exceptionally good at being me.”
“Perfect,” Pete smiles.
