But I can’t help myself, I need to watch one more.
Front hall. James steps in, coat on, movements clipped. Pete follows, carrying a bag, speaking animatedly. James turns, says something sharp. Pete stops. James takes a step forward. Another. It’s like watching weather roll in. Pete lifts a hand—a small, fragile stop—and James swats it away and launches. There’s no wobble in the movement. A punch. Another. Pete’s head snaps to the side, to the other side. He goes down to a knee. James hits him again. The absence of sound makes it worse; it feels like I’m watching a silent film of a body being edited out of itself.
My mouth fills with that hot, metallic taste you get before you cry or before you say something you can’t take back. I slam the spacebar. The image freezes with Pete mid-fall, eyes shut, mouth open. I sit very still because if I move too quickly, I’ll throw up.
There it is. Proof. No interpretation needed. No “maybe it was an accident” or “maybe we’re reading this wrong.”
A fist hitting a face is a sentence nobody can misread.
All the files have copied over now on my desktop. Still at least another twenty to watch.
I stand. I need to move. I pull the memory stick out of my laptop and into my pocket and grab my keys, phone, courage. I give Buster a panicked kiss on the head — he endures this with the stoicism of a soldier — and head for the door.
How do I broach this with Pete?
Chapter 44
TOM
I park a street away because somehow that feels less dramatic than pulling up directly outside the café like I’m here to stage an intervention over an latte.
The August light is that Bristol kind—bright and slippery, like the sun’s been polished and is now reflecting itself off every window. I check my reflection in one of them anyway. I look… fine. Fine-adjacent.
As I walk, my phone buzzes. Facebook Messenger. Emma.
How did you get on? Any news? x
Of course she uses an x. People who weaponise affection via punctuation are dangerous. I hover my thumb over reply, then don’t.
Daniel’s voice from earlier slinks back in —She’s a liar, Tom. Don’t trust her.I don’t want to give Daniel space in my head, but he’s already rented the loft conversion and installed skylights.
I slip the phone away. See Pete first, think later.
The bell over the door tinkles as I step inside. The café smells like coffee and the kind of banana bread that pretends it’s healthy, despite being 80% sugar.
Pete is already at a corner table, hands curled around a mug like it might run away. He looks tired — creased at the edges, likesomeone folded him and didn’t quite unfold him properly. When he sees me, he smiles, and the room tilts back into focus.
“Hey,” he says, standing. We hug — properly, longer than polite. There’s that moment where our shoulders drop in sync. It’s a small, wonderful relief that makes everything else worse.
“You look…” I search for the least loaded adjective. “Human.”
He huffs a laugh. “You too.”
We sit. My heart is a drumline. I don’t know what to say first —I stole your house’s memoriesfeels like a bit of a conversation killer.
Pete nudges a second mug towards me.
“I ordered you a latte. One sugar. Don’t @ me.”
“That’s exactly my order,” I say, mock-surprise.
“Yes, I can order a coffee under extreme trauma.” He smiles again, small and bright, then glances out the window. “I just wanted to see you. Yesterday was a quiet day at the house.” A pause. “Well. Quiet-ish.”
“Quiet-ish is good,” I say. “Quiet-ish is underrated.”
For a little while, we skate on safer ice. Work. Weather. A woman nearby who keeps loudly mispronouncing “cha-cuterie” like it’s a spiritual practice. My shoulders loosen a fraction. It almost feels normal—if you ignore the rogue hard drive-shaped guilt buzzing in my pocket like a wasp.
Pete traces a finger along the rim of his cup. “I missed you,” he says simply.
