“I’m sorry,” I say. The two least useful words. “I shouldn’t have. But I thought if we had proof—”
“Stop!” He says, in a firm whisper. The charcuterie lady looks over for a second before returning to her coffee. “That was stupid, dangerous. What were you thinking?”
“But I’ve seen what’s on some of them—”
“What did you see?” he asks.
“Him shouting at you. Hitting you. There was a folder with them all saved on there. I’ve got it all,” I confess.
“What do you mean, you’ve got it all?”
“I copied them onto a memory stick.”
“Tom, for fuck’s sake! You had no right to do that,” his voice solid but low against the hum from the café.
“I’m sorry, I just saw the memory sticks there and I grabbed one—”
“The sticks in the office? The silver ones.” His gaze bores into me. “Did you move them?”
“I—” I fumble. “I used one, yes. I… didn’t think—”
“James will notice,” he says, almost a whisper. The colour drains slightly from his face. “He notices everything. Remembers everything.” He swallows. “If he thinks anything’s missing, There will be hell to pay. He’ll check the CCTV—”
Guilt floods me hot. “I deleted the footage of me in the house, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think it would matter for a day.”
“It matters,” he says, not unkindly — just urgently. The way someone saysthere’s a fire.
“You can put it back,” I blurt. “Right now.” I pull out the memory stick from my pocket.
“Have you watched them?” he asks.
“A few,” I admit. I feel suddenly like a kid confessing to peeking at Christmas presents and finding a crime scene instead. “Enough to know…”
Pete’s mouth presses into a line. “Isaved those videos,” he says. “Sometimes I thought — if I ever needed to… you know.” He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t need to. Leave. Report. Survive.
I put my hand over his. It’s warm, tense. “Youcan.”
He shakes his head, quick, like a horse twitching off flies. “It’s not that simple.”
“Because you’re scared, I get that—”
“Because,” he says, a little sharper, “there are things you don’t know.” He squeezes his eyes shut, then opens them, staring past me. “I’ve made mistakes, Tom.” The words come out flat with self-disgust. “Things I’ve done. Things he could… use. Against me.” He meets my eyes again. “I’m not proud. I’m not… innocent.”
Something cold slides under my ribs. “Pete—”
“It was once,” he says quickly, seeing my face, misreading the direction of my fear. “Years ago. I thought I was protecting him. It doesn’t matter what now. He won’t let me forget it.” His voice frays. “I can’t just walk. He’ll bring me down too.”
I nod like I understand, because in a way, I do. The precise shape of the trap doesn’t matter; the teeth do. Shame is a padlock; fear is the key that keeps it locked.
“Okay,” I say softly. “Okay.” I squeeze his hand. “Then we do what we can, safely. We’ll make a plan. But first—if the missing stick puts you at risk—take it.” I slide the memory stick across the table. It looks ridiculous there beside the muffin crumbs. “Put it back before he notices.”
Pete exhales, shaky with relief and something like grief. He pockets it immediately, as if it’s radioactive and safer contained. “Thank you,” he mutters, and I can’t tell if he means for returning it or for not running away.
“I shouldn’t have taken it,” I say.
“No,” he says, quietly honest. “You shouldn’t.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “But I know why you did.”
He’s calmer now, but wired, like a man who’s walked away from the edge and only now registers how close he was. He glances at the door, then back to me. “I’ll go straight home and put it back.”
