Pete’s body tenses when he glances at the clock. He shakes his head. “You can’t stay. James will be back soon.”
My stomach drops. “So what? I’m just supposed to vanish?”
He moves quickly, already heading towards the study. “No, Tom, listen to me. You have to go. And I need to delete the CCTV of you being here.”
I freeze in the doorway. “What do you mean, delete the CCTV?”
Pete’s voice is clipped, urgent. “James has cameras all over this place. Sam set them up for him. He reviews them sometimes, not always, but enough. If he sees you here—” He doesn’t finish the sentence, but the weight of it lands hard.
I follow him into the office. The room smells of cold coffee and printer ink. He opens the MacBook on the desk, which opens automatically when it connects to his Apple watch. He double-clicks on an icon on his desktop, SecureTech, which pings open.
Pete doesn’t look at me. He clicks quickly, deleting files with the efficiency of someone who’s done it before. So quick, I’m not sure what I’ve just witnessed. “Best to be safe. He’ll never know.”
The screen blinks back to the feed, empty now of evidence. Pete stands, finally looking at me.
“I’ll call you in a couple of days, when things quiet down,” he says, and we share a warm hug.
His face is pale but determined. “You can’t go out the front now. You’ll be filmed again. Go through the back door, left around the house, cut through the trees — you’ll come out by the lane.”
I open my mouth to argue, to tell him how insane this sounds, but his eyes stop me cold. He’s deadly serious.
So, I do what I’m told. I slip out the back door, my breath catching as it shuts quietly behind me. The night air hits my face sharp and damp. I keep low, moving left along the wall, the house glowing like a watchtower at my back. Through the trees, branches snapping underfoot, my heart pounding like I’m already guilty.
By the time I hit the lane, my chest is burning and my hands are shaking. I glance back once—just once—and swear I can feel James watching, even if the cameras no longer are.
Once in my car, I just sit in silence.
Despite everything we’ve just talked about, all I can think about is Guy.
How I thought he was my second chance, my lifeline after Dad died. How I clung to him like he was the only thing keeping me upright. And how he was ripped away in a single violent moment.
I can’t do that again. I can’t lose someone else I care about.
I look at Pete, broken and beautiful and terrified, and the thought hits me hard: I don’t just want to save him because I can’t stand seeing him hurt. I want to save him because I’m falling for him.
Because somewhere, somehow, despite everything, I still believe love might save me too.
Chapter 36
TOM
I pick the table by the window because it looks like the kind of spot where revelations happen. You know — natural light, a plant that’s just credible enough to be real, a wall of reclaimed wood shouting “authenticity” in typewriter font.
If I’m about to become an amateur detective, I’d like it to be bathed in a flattering glow.
Emma arrives like a weather front in expensive boots. She doesn’t so much sit as orbit: coat half-off, sunglasses pushed into hair, phone, tote, keys, another phone, all of it landing across the table like she’s laying out evidence in some café-based murder mystery.
“Flat white. Actually, no, make it an oat latte. No, scratch that, flat white. I can’t drink oat, it makes me cry. Long story,” she says to no one in particular, then to me, “How are you? Terrible question. Don’t answer. Tell me everything. Actually—wait—have youseenthe traffic on Whiteladies? Criminal. Speaking of criminal—James.”
A waitress appears, takes her order, mine, and leaves looking faintly winded.
“I’m… good?” I try. “And by good, I mean brittle. Like a posh cracker.”
“Perfect,” she says. “We love brittle. Brittle keeps you sharp.”
Emma’s energy is… a lot. Imagine someone pressed fast-forward on a person but forgot to tell their limbs. She’s not rude, exactly — she’s attentive in sprints — but her thoughts play hopscotch. Still, there’s something oddly comforting about it. I’m a chronic overthinker; she’s an over-sayer. Between us we almost make one functional adult.
“Well, thanks for meeting me again,” she starts.
