I hesitate, then gesture toward my car. “Look, this isn’t the best place to talk. Let’s go back to mine. Have coffee. We can figure this out properly.”
She blinks at me, surprised, then nods. “Yes, that would be nice.”
As we get back into our cars, my heart is hammering again, but this time not from fear—this time from the feeling that I’ve just stepped further into something I won’t be able to step back out of.
Buster is waiting at the door when we get back, glaring like I’ve ruined his life.
“Don’t worry,” I mutter, stepping aside for Emma. “He’s harmless. Just judgmental.”
Emma crouches briefly, offering Buster her hand like she’s greeting royalty. “He’s gorgeous,” she says softly.
“He’s a tyrant,” I reply, heading to the kitchen. “Tea? Coffee? Wine?”
“Coffee. No, Wine. No, coffee. Do you do an espresso martini?” she says erratically. “No coffee. I need a clear head.”
Fair. I put the kettle on. She perches on the edge of the sofa, hands folded tightly in her lap. Up close she’s even more of a contradiction: expensive coat, tired eyes, a jittery energy under her stillness.
“I’m sorry,” she says after a moment. “For following you. When I saw you with Pete, I just had to know who you were. Whether you were someone I could trust.”
“You can,” I say, maybe too quickly.
She gives me a wary, questioning look.
“I’m not exactly James’s biggest fan,” I add. “And I care about Pete. I don’t know what’s going on in that house either.”
Her shoulders relax a fraction. “Chris adored Pete,” she says quietly. “They were good together. It wasn’t perfect — Chris could be intense, always falling too hard, too fast — but he loved Pete. And Pete loved him. I don’t think he would’ve just walked away.”
The idea of Pete and Chris being in love lands hard in my chest, but this isn’t the time to entertain these thoughts, so I just nod.
“And what was he like?” I ask.
She glances around as if the houses might be listening. “We grew up in Chelsea. He was successful — business consultant, travelled a lot. Meanwhile I was getting banned from casinos in Brighton for counting cards badly.”
I blink a few times, not knowing how to respond.
“Anyway,” she continues, “Chris was always the golden boy; I was the family liability. When he met Pete, he was happy. The happiest I’d ever seen him, actually. And then…”
She hesitates.
“And then he just vanished.”
Emma’s fingers tighten on her mug. “But that’s not Chris though. He wouldn’t do that to me. Something happened.”
She glances at me, searching my face. “But I know he’s alive. I know it.”
“How?” I ask.
She hesitates, then leans forward, lowering her voice. “At first, I had a few messages from him saying he was leaving, it was safer to not be in contact with him. He still messages me occasionally, but he won’t tell me where he is or what happened, just to stop looking for him. The police said he made a large withdrawal of money just before he disappeared, perhaps he went abroad.”
A shiver runs down my spine. “And the police haven’t been helpful?”
“No, they think he ran of his own accord.”
“Why?” I ask
“It’s a long story, but two years ago, his firm got embroiled in a financial investigation — big one, government-level.” She lowers her voice. “Chris wasn’t some criminal mastermind, but he was directly involved. Or adjacent. Or complicit. I’m not sure, but the blame was landing firmly on him. I’m sure he was the scapegoat.”
My stomach tightens.
