I lower the phone into my lap and stare at the blank screen until my reflection comes into focus: pallid, older, like someone who has been living under a fluorescent light.
Talking to Evelyn is like dragging a net through a sea I’m not supposed to swim in anymore. Everything I pull up is sharp.
Guilt climbs into my lap and makes itself comfortable, but before I can properly acknowledge it, my phone buzzes on the passenger seat.
A text from a number I don’t recognise.
I pick it up. It reads:
Why are you ignoring me? Why did you block my number? Daniel
Of course it’s him.
Because who else would send something that passive-aggressive wrapped in fake vulnerability? Classic Daniel. Pretend to be wounded, make me feel like the villain. Even when he got us into thousands of pounds worth of debt from his gambling, it was still somehow my fault for driving him to it. He’s like a magician who pulls guilt out of thin air.
I haven’t blocked his number, what the fuck is he talking about.
I should ignore this. I should absolutely ignore this.
I’m not sure if it’s the post-Evelyn adrenaline, my anxiety around Pete, or just my lifelong inability to make a single healthy decision under pressure, but I stab at the screen, hit “call back,” and press the phone to my ear.
My hand shakes so badly I nearly drop the phone again.
Then, a click.
A breath.
And Daniel’s voice, cool and sharp, slides through the line like a knife.
“Tom.”
Chapter 33
DANIEL
Daniel answers on the second ring.
“Tom.” His voice is smooth, steady, practised — the kind of tone he uses in court, calibrated to sound reasonable, in control.
On the other end, Tom’s voice spikes. “Why are you following me?”
Daniel smiles faintly, rifling through a stack of papers on Tom’s desk. Bank statements. Receipts. Tedious, but sometimes the banal hides the important.
“I’m not following you,” he says, pitching it light, almost hurt. “Honestly, Tom. That paranoia of yours again. I just wanted to talk. Clear the air.”
“I’ve seen you. Twice. Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not lying.” His fingers slide open a drawer. Pens. Cables. A spare set of keys. He pockets them without hesitation. “You’ve blocked my number. What choice do I have? I’ve been trying to reach you, to be nice. You can’t fault me for that.”
“Being nice?” Tom’s laugh is sharp, bitter. “You call showing up in the street, stalking me, ‘being nice’? Stop texting me. Stop following me. Just—stop.”
The line quivers with Tom’s anger. For a moment, Daniel lets the silence stretch, savouring it, because anger is still attention. It means Tom still feels something.
“Tom,” he says softly, coaxing now. “You’re being aggressive. Why? I don’t understand. I’ve always been here for you. Always. I never stopped caring.”
He sits down on the desk chair in Tom’s office.
“And I never will.”
