And I’m trapped.
Chapter 39
SAM
Sam comes back to the house like he owns half of it, which, in his head, he does. He’s spent the last hour going for a run around the Downs and back, sweat running down his face and in his hair.
He hums to himself as he opens the door, because if you are going to be a houseguest with free rein you might as well supply the soundtrack.
And with two cars not in the drive, this means he has the house to himself.
In the kitchen, Sam removes his headphones and peels off his sweat-drenched t-shirt, chucking it in the washing machine in a way that suggests he’s been doing this for years.
Sam knows the domestic rhythms of this household better than most. His role is flexible: occasional lover, regular nuisance, unpaid events manager, and unofficial surveillance tech. He likes having a stake in something that has the texture of permanence. It’s calming. He remembers darker places — hostel rooms with bedbugs, foster houses where the wallpaper peeling meant nobody cared — but this house is a refuge of linen and scented candles. He respects linen.
But then he hears it: a small, muffled sound. Somewhere between the house settling and the possibility of someone moving about in a way that is not scheduled and therefore alarming.
Sam tilts his head, listening.
Instinct — call it street-sense, call it having grown up in places where unexpected movement means you look over your shoulder twice — tells him to be careful.
Not anxious-careful, more practical-careful.
Check. Confirm. Prepare.
From the kitchen, he slides out a knife from the block — one of those long, dependable things with a black handle that makes everyone feel like Gordon Ramsey or Michael Myers, depending on your objective.
With the knife by his side, he moves around the house with the footed stealth of someone who has sneaked around places he shouldn’t be far too many times.
He checks the usual places: dining room, living room, before moving to the office. Its door is almost closed—the kind of almost where a gap exists like it’s keeping secrets. Strange. James leaves that door wide; it’s always been more of a show-office.
If the door’s ajar, someone’s been in there.
He pauses at the threshold.
Slowly bringing the knife up higher, he raises his hand to the door.
With a flip, he pushes the door wide open.
Empty.
He tightens his grip on the knife a fraction and steps forward, because the sensible thing to do is to check thoroughly.
Sam takes a slow step forward before something clamps over the back of his shoulder in lightning cold stillness.
He spins, reflex, and the blade is at a throat before his brain has time to narrate what’s happening.
“Jesus, Sam!” James shouts, his eyes wide as the tip of the blade touches his skin
“Fuck!” Sam shouts back, whipping the knife away.
“Christ, what the fuck are you doing wandering around the house with a knife?”
“I heard a noise. I thought someone was in the house. Your car’s not here.”
James rubs his throat where the knife pressed against him. “I had the car in the garage for a service,” he says. “I was just having a lie down.”
“A nap? On a weekday? You must have had a busy night,” Sam grins.
