Chapter 4
PETE
Pete takes the long way home.
Tesco, of all places. He’s still half-laughing at the absurdity of it. Out of the thousands of forgettable shopping trips in his life, this one gave him Tom.
Tom.
The name feels comfortable already, like something he’s said a hundred times before. There was something about him — something unpolished and open. Not the brittle smiles Pete usually encounters, not the performative charm. Tom seemed… real.
Pete parks outside the house but doesn’t go in straight away. He kills the engine, sits on the drive and watches the quiet street in his mirror.
It’s a nice house, on paper. Bigger than anything he grew up in. A facade of comfort, neat hedges, white shutters. But Pete knows better than to trust appearances. Houses can be prisons as easily as they can be sanctuaries.
He leans back, closing his eyes. A flicker of memory slips through: a boy lying awake in a damp bedroom, listening to arguments through thin walls.
The crash of plates. The drunken footsteps on the stairs.
He’s never shaken that sound, the heavy drag of boots coming closer.
It taught him early that safety is never guaranteed.
Inside, the house is dim. The curtains are drawn even though it’s still daylight. Pete drops his keys in the bowl by the door and kicks off his boots, careful not to make too much noise.
The silence is uneasy, the kind that comes from someone choosing not to speak rather than having nothing to say. He knows better than to break it.
He moves through the rooms quietly, like a guest in his own home. In the kitchen, he fills a glass of water, listening to the faint hum of the fridge. The normality of it feels ridiculous against the knot tightening in his stomach.
Pete runs a hand over his face. He doesn’t usually feel this restless after meeting someone. But Tom won’t leave his head.
At home, things are strained. Tense. He never knows if today will be calm or explosive. Sometimes he wonders how much longer he can keep juggling everything before it all topples.
Pete leans back against the kitchen counter, staring out at the garden.
Meeting Tom makes him think about the cracks in his life, the ones getting wider by the day. Maybe because Tom seemed like the kind of person who asks questions and actually listens to the answers. That’s dangerous, in a way. Comforting, but dangerous.
Pete lets out a slow breath.
On the countertop next to him, he notices a flash of red.
Blood.
Dried. From last night’s incident.
He must have missed a bit when he was frantically cleaning.
The smear is thin but unmistakable, a rusty line against the pale stone.
He stares at it too long, heart thudding, before grabbing a cloth and the strongest spray he can find.
He scrubs, hard, until the cloth turns pink.
The smell of chemicals fills the kitchen, sharp and acrid, masking the copper tang that still lingers in his head.
He presses harder. The cloth squeaks over the surface, the stain vanishing inch by inch. He keeps going long after it’s gone, polishing until the stone shines, until there’s no trace left—not of blood, not of last night, not of anything.
Because that’s the point. No traces.
Upstairs, a voice calls his name. Sharp. Cutting. The sound slices through the silence like glass.
Pete stiffens. The knot in his stomach coils tighter. He pushes himself upright and pockets his phone.
“Coming,” he says, forcing his tone to stay light.
But his hand is still damp from the cloth, and when he looks down, he swears he can see a smear of red along his skin.
He rubs it against his jeans, hard.
And then he climbs the stairs.