Chapter 25
TOM
I drive away from the house feeling like my brain has been put through a washing machine, tumble-dried on high, then folded badly.
Twenty-four hours ago, I was nervously convincing myself that meeting James would be fine, that this would be a wholesome, grown-up step.
But above everything, all I can think about is Chris.
Chris Christianson — God, what a name — blond hair, cheekbones, the way Sam described him like a missing person on a milk carton. Which, apparently, he kind of is. I can still see his sister Emma’s Facebook page, the posts pleading for information, the hashtags, the grainy pictures of them as kids.
Two years of searching.
Two years of silence.
He was in a relationship with Pete, who’s married to a man like James, possessive, abusive and who, as Sam was very honest about, didn’t exactly click with him. There is no universe where they don’t know more than they’re saying.
I shake my head, as I pull up outside my house. Buster needs feeding, and frankly, I need the normalcy of a grumpy cat and my own sofa to lie on.
When I get home, Buster greets me with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for tax inspectors — a disdainful look, a slow tail flick, and then he stalks off to sit with his back to me.
I fill his bowl, half expecting him to call the RSPCA.
He sniffs at it, looks at me, essentially does the cat equivalent of rolling his eyes with his stare and starts to eat.
My phone buzzes on the counter.
Evelyn.
Not again. I can’t keep ignoring this.
I can’t stop thinking about the blood.
Not now, I can’t deal with that right now.
I stare at it until it stops. She leaves a voicemail. I don’t listen.
I just need caffeine, so I grab my keys and leave the house.
Clifton is bustling, full of the kind of Saturday energy that feels personally offensive when you’re on the edge of an existential crisis. I grab a flat white from my local Spicer & Cole, and perch outside, trying to look like someone who has their life together.
I flick back into Facebook to Chris’s sister Emma. I scroll through her feed again. Post after post about Chris.
Missing. Vanished. Help.
I look at her friends. After a quick scroll, I find Pete. Does this mean they actually know each other? Or just Facebook friends?
What did Pete say to her about his disappearance?
I start to type a message to Emma—just a few words, nothing heavy—and then delete it.
Stupid. Too much. Not yet.
I take a sip of my coffee and look over my shoulder out the window.
And as I turn back, that’s when I see him.
Or rather — I think I see him.
Dark hair. Familiar walk. A flash of a jacket I swear I’ve seen before.
Daniel.
My stomach plummets. My hands start to shake so badly I nearly drop my coffee. He just walked past the window, I swear.
I turn to look again, and he’s gone. Just… gone. Like smoke.
That’s the second time I’ve seen him in as many days.
My breath goes short. My chest tightens like a fist is closing around it. I grip the edge of the table, counting in fours like every therapist I’ve ever had told me to, but my brain is screaming too loud to hear anything.
Inhale, two, three, four.
Exhale, two, three, four.
People are looking at me now. A woman with a pram gives me the kind of pitying look usually reserved for stray dogs in charity adverts.
Eventually, it passes. My heart slows. My breathing evens out. But I feel hollowed out, like I’ve been scooped from the inside.
Daniel was here again. That’s not a coincidence. Why is he hovering around here?
What does he want from me?
Again, another thing I don’t want to think about today
Pete. James. Sam, Chris. Evelyn. Daniel.
They start to blur, like names on a memorial.
Too many names. Too many people grasping at my life.
There’s only one I should be focusing on.
Pete.
Just Pete.
Heading home, I try to distract myself with chores. Laundry, hoovering, the ceremonial clearing out of the fridge (goodbye, three-week-old hummus). Anything to fill the hours until I see Pete again tonight.
By evening, my nerves have been wound so tight they hum. I shower, change into something casual-but-not-too-casual (the eternal gay dilemma), and drive over to Pete’s.
The house is dark when I pull up.
I knock.
Nothing.
I try Pete’s phone. Rings. Rings. Straight to voicemail.
I walk around to the back — not creepy at all, just a concerned boyfriend checking for signs of life — but the place is empty. Even the garden feels wrong, like it’s holding its breath.
I get back in the car and start to drive home, stomach knotted.
It’s halfway down the hill that I see it.
A car. Behind me.
Nothing unusual — it’s a public road — but the headlights sit too neatly in my rear-view mirror.
I turn left. It turns left.
I turn right. It turns right.
Paranoia, I tell myself. It must be.
I need to turn left, but turn right instead, just to see. It turns right.
My palms go slick on the steering wheel.
I pick up speed, heart hammering. I take the long way round the Downs, weaving through side streets, doubling back, the whole paranoid-thriller-movie routine.
As I pull up to my house, the car just drives straight past. Too dark to see the driver, but I can make out the car following me is a grey BMW 1 Series.
Or maybe it was never following me at all.
I sit in the car outside my house for a long moment, forehead against the wheel, breathing hard.
With everything going on, today is becoming all too much.
I want to call Craig, tell him what just happened, but my phone rings first.
Pete.
I answer so fast I almost drop the phone. “Pete? Where are you? Are you okay?”
His voice is low, strained. “Tom, I… we shouldn’t see each other anymore.”
“What?” The word comes out sharp.
“It’s James,” he says. “He’s not coping with this. With… us. It’s getting bad.”
“Then leave,” I say, too quickly. “Pete, you don’t have to stay there if he’s—”
“Tom.” His voice cuts through mine. Quiet, but final. “Please. Just… don’t come round again.”
“Pete—”
But the line clicks dead.
I sit frozen, phone still against my ear like the call is somehow still happening, like I can will him back onto the line if I just hold still enough.
Then I’m moving.
I don’t think. I just drive.
By the time I reach their house, the sky has gone from grey to black, the kind of cold darkness that feels like it’s watching you.
I park across the road and wait.
The house is still dark.
Minutes stretch.
Finally, headlights sweep across the driveway and Pete’s car pulls in. Relief floods me so hard I almost cry.
He gets out slowly, head bowed. Even from here, I can see the bruises.
Big, ugly marks across his cheek, down his jaw.
I’m out of the car before I’ve even thought it through.
“Pete!”
He freezes, like a child caught doing something wrong.
“What happened?” I demand, crossing the road. “Who did this to you?”
He looks past me, anywhere but at me. “Go home, Tom.”
“No,” I snap. “You can’t just show up looking like that and tell me nothing. Did James do this? Pete, tell me!”
He flinches at the name but doesn’t answer.
“Pete!”
Finally, he meets my eyes. And what I see there scares me more than the bruises.
Fear.
“Please,” he says, voice breaking. “Just go.”
I open my mouth to argue but he’s already turning, retreating into the house. The door shuts with a finality that makes my stomach turn.
I stand there, frozen on the doorstep, heart thundering so loud it drowns out the night.
Whatever is happening in that house, something is dangerously wrong.