Nothing unusual — it’s a public road — but the headlights sit too neatly in my rear-view mirror.
I turn left. It turns left.
I turn right. It turns right.
Paranoia, I tell myself. It must be.
I need to turn left, but turn right instead, just to see. It turns right.
My palms go slick on the steering wheel.
I pick up speed, heart hammering. I take the long way round the Downs, weaving through side streets, doubling back, the whole paranoid-thriller-movie routine.
As I pull up to my house, the car just drives straight past. Too dark to see the driver, but I can make out the car following me is a grey BMW 1 Series.
Or maybe it was never following me at all.
I sit in the car outside my house for a long moment, forehead against the wheel, breathing hard.
With everything going on, today is becoming all too much.
I want to call Craig, tell him what just happened, but my phone rings first.
Pete.
I answer so fast I almost drop the phone. “Pete? Where are you? Are you okay?”
His voice is low, strained. “Tom, I… we shouldn’t see each other anymore.”
“What?” The word comes out sharp.
“It’s James,” he says. “He’s not coping with this. With… us. It’s getting bad.”
“Then leave,” I say, too quickly. “Pete, you don’t have to stay there if he’s—”
“Tom.” His voice cuts through mine. Quiet, but final. “Please. Just… don’t come round again.”
“Pete—”
But the line clicks dead.
I sit frozen, phone still against my ear like the call is somehow still happening, like I can will him back onto the line if I just hold still enough.
Then I’m moving.
I don’t think. I just drive.
By the time I reach their house, the sky has gone from grey to black, the kind of cold darkness that feels like it’s watching you.
I park across the road and wait.
The house is still dark.
Minutes stretch.
Finally, headlights sweep across the driveway and Pete’s car pulls in. Relief floods me so hard I almost cry.
He gets out slowly, head bowed. Even from here, I can see the bruises.
