And there it is—the sentence that kicks my chest from the inside. “I missed you too.”
We hold that for a breath. Then I clear my throat because I’m me. “I, um… spoke to someone.”
“Oh?” He’s wary now, like I’ve produced a small bomb from a tote.
“Emma,” I say. “Chris’s sister.”
His mouth lifts, surprised. “Emma?”
“She was… following me,” I admit. “In a not entirely subtle way. We ended up talking.”
Pete blows out a breath and leans back. “She’s determined, I’ll give her that.”
“She said she liked you,” I say. “That you keep in touch. She seems… intense, but good. Like a hurricane that makes you soup afterwards.”
He smiles properly at that, then sobers. “She wants answers. And so she should.” A shadow crosses his face. “I feel guilty. About… all of it.”
Guilt. That word sits down at our table and orders itself a pastry.
“And is she trustworthy?” I ask.
“I mean, she comes across like an erratic hamster wheel on speed, but she’s trustworthy,” he confirms, and I feel a knot in me slacken an inch. Emma: one. Daniel: zero. It shouldn’t be a scorecard, but my brain loves a league table.
We talk a little more about Emma—how she messages him every few weeks, how she oscillates between poised and frantic. Pete squeezes the bridge of his nose. “I just wish I had something that would help her.”
And this is the point where I either change the subject or jump off the cliff I’ve brought us to. The problem is I’ve never been good at changing the subject. Especially when I’m standing on a cliff with a backpack full of evidence and a guilty conscience.
“Pete,” I say, and my voice comes out thinner than intended. “I did something. And you’re going to be… annoyed. But I need you to know why.”
His eyes lift to mine, wary. “Okay…”
“I went to your house. When you were out.” The words tumble now, trying to outrun each other. “I used the spare key behind the plant pot — don’t hate me — and I got into the office and… I went through some of the CCTV files.”
Silence. Then: the barest flinch—like someone snapped a rubber band inside him.
“Youwhat?” he says, very softly.
“I know,” I rush. “I know it’s a massive invasion of privacy. I know. I hate myself. But I—Emma said there might be evidence, and I’ve been so worried, and when you told me about the cameras—”
He puts his hand up. “Tom.”
I stop. The café becomes extremely loud, then extremely quiet, then normal again. Pete stares at the table for a moment, jaw working, then looks back at me. There’s fear, yes—but also something like calculation. Tired math.
“How?” he asks.
“How…?”
“How did you get past the computer?”
The question is so practical I blink. “Your Apple Watch,” I say, embarrassed. “It was on the charger. I know the code. It’s the same as your alarm.”
He closes his eyes like he’s praying for patience. “And how did you guess that?
“I memorised it when you typed it in the other day.”
He shakes his head, in no way marvelled by my apparent criminal genius.
“Of course you did.”
