Chapter 19
TOM
We’re on the sofa, plates from dinner still abandoned on the table, when the front door clicks open.
Great. Company.
Just what my anxiety ordered.
Sam’s voice hits first—loud, cheerful, like someone’s turned the volume up to eleven. “We’re back!”
I sit up a little straighter, instantly feeling like I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t, even though the most scandalous thing happening is Pete showing me a video of a dog that can moonwalk.
James appears behind Sam, cool as ever, jacket over one arm, that unreadable expression still fixed to his face. Pete smiles, stands, says something like “Hey! You’re back early,” in that breezy tone people use when they mean the opposite.
Sam drops into the armchair like he owns the place. “Date night was fab. You’d have loved it, Tom. Italian place, all candles and carbs. I’m telling you, nothing says romance like a bread basket refill.”
“Sounds nice,” I say politely, because that’s what you say, even though what I want to say is: “Cool, thanks for crashing my evening, could you maybe vanish now so I can get back to pretending this is a normal relationship?”
Pete claps his hands together softly. “I’ll grab more wine.”
“Good idea,” James says, his voice low. Then he follows Pete out of the room.
And now it’s just me and Sam.
He grins, wide and wolfish.
“So,” I say, sitting up a little straighter. “Do you, um… live here too?”
He smirks. “Not officially. More of a frequent flyer. I have my own place, but it’s boring. And who wants to be boring when you can be here?”
I glance around at the house, which is admittedly gorgeous but currently feels like the setting of a psychological thriller. “Sure. And you do… what, exactly?”
“I run a CCTV installation business,” he says, picking at his nails like he’s just told me he works in retail. “Keeps me busy. Plus, you’d be amazed at the stuff you see when you’re setting up cameras around other people’s houses.”
I smile weakly. I don’t know whether to laugh or be slightly afraid. “Well, it’s best to be safe. That said, I don’t even have a Ring doorbell to my name.”
“Oh, I’ve thrown up CCTV all over the place here. Because you never know,” he says, with raised eyebrows.
I just nod.
Sam suddenly snorts with laughter for no reason. “So, I went to an installation job today for this guy, and his actual name was Wayne Kerr. And no, it wasn’t a fake name. His driving licence confirmed it.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “That’s tragic.”
“I mean, who in their right mind calls a baby Wayne in the first place. But with that surname too; were the parents drinking or just high on coke?”
I laugh despite myself. “I went to school with a girl called Fanny Tucker.”
Sam cackles so hard he almost spills his wine. “No! That’s not a name, that’s a warning label!”
“Swear on my life,” I say. “Her parents apparently didn’t think it through until she hit Year Seven and everyone discovered euphemisms.”
“Poor thing, that’s just child abuse,” Sam says, grinning.
“Isn’t it?!”
“So, Pete’s ex…” Sam leans forward, conspiratorial. And my heart jumps out of my chest.
Pete’s ex.
“I still can’t believe his name was Chris Christianson. Like, who does that to a baby? That’s not a name, that’s a witness protection identity.”
I feel my face going red, but try to keep it cool. “Chris… Christianson? Wow…yeah… funny name.”
“I mean, it’s no Fanny Tucker, granted,” Sam adds.
I nod and smile.
There’s a momentary pause in conversation.
Don’t ask about Chris.
Don’t ask about Chris.
Don’t ask about—
“So…Chris,” I ask, as casually as I can. “What happened there then?”
Sam lies back into the sofa. “Well, I mean, he was lovely. A right doll. Blond hair, cheekbones, the works. Proper catalogue model energy.” Sam grins wickedly. “And completely allergic to this house. Couldn’t cope with James. Couldn’t cope with Pete, in the end. One day he just… poof. Gone.”
“Gone?”
Sam shrugs. “Vanished. Not a text, not a note, nada. Pete was heartbroken for weeks, cried into his cereal. It was very sad—and also very boring. Don’t recommend.”
“And you never heard from him again?”
“Never, no. Just like that, he disappeared off the planet.” There’s a moment of silence, before Sam just waves his hands dismissing the mystery which is now playing out tenfold in my head. “But that was two years ago now, so Pete’s moved on.”
Sam stretches, clearly done with the topic of Chris like he’s flicking ash off a cigarette, and grabs his wine. “Anyway. Enough ghost stories.”
James walks back into the room, glass of red wine in hand. His handsome face stern. Unreadable.
“Right,” Sam jumps up. “Need a wee. Back in a second,” he says, scuttling out of the room.
No, no, no.
And then, just like that, I’m alone with James.
The silence is immediate and so heavy it’s practically visible. I can hear the clock in the hallway, each tick feeling like someone is flicking my forehead. He sits opposite me, crosses his legs with calm precision, and just… stares.
My brain starts screaming at me to say something. Anything. “Nice… wine?” I manage, gesturing vaguely at his glass like an idiot.
“Yes,” James says evenly. “We have a subscription.”
A subscription. For wine. Of course they do. Probably artisan, ethically sourced, pressed between the thighs of French virgins.
“That’s… efficient,” I say, nodding like he’s just told me he has solar panels.
“Mm.”
I can feel sweat prickling the back of my neck. I glance around desperately for conversation topics like they’re fire exits. “And… lovely house.”
He inclines his head slightly, almost like I’ve complimented him personally. “Thank you. We’ve put a lot of work into it.”
“Yes, you can tell,” I babble. “It’s very… symmetrical. Like if you filmed a murder mystery in here, the detective would definitely find a secret panel behind one of the bookcases.”
He nods. “Well, Pete had a clear vision of how he wanted it when he moved in.”
For a split second, I think I see his mouth twitch — not quite a smile, more like a private joke I’m not invited to.
“You and Pete seem… close,” James says finally, voice smooth as glass.
My laugh comes out too loud. “Yeah, we, um, get on. Really well. I mean, quite well—”
He just looks at me until my words shrivel up and die.
“Pete’s very good at making people feel seen,” James says. “It’s one of the things I always loved about him.”
“Yeah,” I say, my voice about an octave too high. “He’s great.”
Another silence stretches, thicker this time. My brain kicks into overdrive: compliment his shoes? Too weird. Ask about his job? Too personal. Pretend to choke and run out of the house? Not practical, though dramatic.
James leans forward just slightly, enough to make my stomach clench. “You should know this isn’t… simple. Being with Pete means being part of this house. This life. It’s not for everyone.”
I try for a casual shrug and probably look like I’m having a small stroke. “Right. Yeah. Sure.”
“It can be intense,” he adds, almost kindly, though there’s a weight behind his words that makes the room feel smaller. “You’d be wise to think about whether you’re prepared for that.”
Prepared. Like this is a storm I need to stockpile tins of beans for.
“Intense, in what way?” I ask before my brain can stop my mouth.
James smiles faintly, which is somehow worse than if he’d scowled. “Living here isn’t quiet. Multiple personalities. Lots of feelings. It’s like gravity. And when people get pulled in, they don’t always stick the landing.”
I nod like this is a perfectly normal sentence. “Right. Love gravity. Big fan. And… landing?” My voice cracks halfway through like I’m re-entering puberty.
He doesn’t bite. “This house has a rhythm. It can feel… consuming. All-encompassing. Not everyone’s built for that.”
I laugh nervously. “Oh, I’m very giving. Too giving, probably. Ask my ex — actually don’t ask my ex —”
James doesn’t smile. His stillness is unnerving. “You’ll find that the people who last here,” he says, “are the ones who know what they’re signing up for. Some think they do. At first. Then they discover what it really takes. Some get overwhelmed. Some leave.”
I grip my wine glass tighter than is strictly safe. “Leave?”
James shrugs one shoulder, casual, like he’s discussing bin day. “Sometimes quickly. Sometimes not quickly enough.”
A prickle runs down my spine. My brain is screaming what does that mean but my mouth, traitor that it is, blurts out: “Like Chris?”
James’s head turns sharply, his jaw tight. The silence that follows could freeze wine.
His eyes narrow just slightly.
“Chris is…in the past,” he says finally, and his tone is soft — too soft — the kind of soft that makes my stomach drop.
Before adding a final blow.
“Where he belongs.”
Before I can recover or dig myself in deeper, Sam’s voice booms cheerfully from the hall, followed by Pete’s laugh. James leans back again, face smoothing back into polite neutrality, as though the last thirty seconds didn’t happen at all.
Pete re-enters, holding the wine like a peace offering, and my chest feels tight enough to snap.