What have I become where a casual breaking and entering isn’t the most dramatic thing that has happened to me since breakfast.
I head to the study. My laptop sits on the desk like a lifeguard. I fish the memory stick from my pocket. It feels too light for the amount of hope I’ve invested in it.
After a frantic search for a USB-C to USB adapter, I slot it in. The computer makes the cheerful “I recognise this” noise, which feels jarringly upbeat given the content. I open the drive. The filenames are not helpful: CAM-KITCHEN-DATE-TIME, CAM-DINING-DATE-TIME, CAM-BEDROOM-DATE-TIME. Cold, tidy. Of course, James’s surveillance system would be clinically labelled.
I select all, drag to my desktop, and the little progress bar appears — cool, indifferent. “About 6 minutes remaining.” Great. Plenty of time to overthink myself into a faint.
I pace. I open the fridge and stare at it like answers live behind the hummus. I close the fridge. I check the front window to make sure the street looks like a street.
And that there’s no sign of Daniel outside.
My hands still shake.
I should message Emma and say I havesomething, but I don’t know what I have yet. Better to look first. Better not to give the hurricane a reason to make landfall.
A collection of videos have been copied, with 3 minutes of copying time remaining.
I stare at the video files that have copied over so far, like it’s a moral test I’m about to fail. A collection of tiny windows into someone else’s life — into Pete’s life — and every one of them is a trespass with timestamps.
My finger hovers over the first file and all I can think is: this is wrong. It’s an invasion. The digital equivalent of rifling through someone’s underwear drawer while they’re out buying milk. But then another thought muscles in — louder, angrier, righteous — if I don’t look, who will? If this footage holds proof of what I think it does, it’s not voyeurism, it’s evidence. Pete’s not going to save himself; he’s too deep inside the story to see the fire.
I tell myself that what I’m doing isn’t spying, it’s safeguarding. The kind of moral gymnastics that would make a priest sweat, but it’s enough to make me double-click.
“Right,” I say to nobody, and click the first video.
The screen jumps to a view of the kitchen island, the steel fridge, the expensively useless herb garden on the windowsill. No sound, just that CCTV hush that makes everything feel like it’s happening underwater. James strides into frame like a storm in a pressed shirt. Pete is by the sink, shoulders rounded, hands fidgeting with a tea towel.
James is shouting—his mouth is open, the lines of his face sharp—and Pete shakes his head, small, the way you do when you’re trying not to cry. James slams his palm on the counter. Pete flinches, tries to placate, hands up. James points, leans in, crowding him. It’s all mime and yet I can hear it somehow. I can hear the posture of it.
I feel sick. I scrub forward. Pete backs out of frame. James pursues him like gravity. My knee bounces so hard the table shivers.
I click on another file.
Same room. Different day. Morning light. Another argument. James is screaming. Pete across the kitchen. James grabs a plate from the rack, and—without warning—hurls it across the room. It explodes against the wall, white shards spraying across the floor like confetti from a bad wedding. Pete flinches so hard he almost falls. It ends there.
I have to stand up. I do the tight little lap of someone trying to outrun their own heartbeat, then sit again because I need to see. I need to know I’m not inventing monsters.
My phone rings, and I jump like I’ve been tasered. Pete.
I answer. “Hey.”
“Tom,” he says. He sounds small and careful — the voice you use in a library where the books bite. “Are you… free? Could we talk? Coffee?”
“Yes,” I say so fast I worry I’ve exposed a rib. “Yes, absolutely. Where?”
He suggests a café not far from the house. “Twenty minutes?”
“Yes,” I say, because hope makes me competitive. We hang up.
I should go. Sensible me saysclose the laptop and leave. But there are files copied, and one more won’t kill me. Famous last words.
I click another.
Night. The room is low-lit, shadowy. James and Sam stumble into frame, and the energy is not dinner. It’s charged, sharp, the kind of kinetic that makes your mouth dry. There’s nothing wrong with sex in kitchens when everyone is consenting, but this… this looks like the opposite of tenderness. James grips the back of Sam’s neck, hard, pushes him against the counter. I wince because a face-plant like that has to hurt. James’s hand closes at Sam’s throat. He’s saying something—lips thin—and thrusts with a fury that reads as punishment. My stomach knots. I scrub forward because I know how this will play out. I witnessed it myself when I watched them that night. It ends with Sam sliding to the floor, eyes screwed shut, and James walking out without looking back.
I close the window, breathing too fast.
I look at my watch. I’m going to be late for Pete.
