Chapter 26
PETE
Pete closes the door and stands there for a moment, forehead pressed to the wood, breath coming in short, shallow bursts. The house is quiet again — too quiet — and in the silence, guilt floods in, cold and heavy.
He can almost picture Tom still on the doorstep, wide-eyed, heart cracked open.
He needed to do that, though. As this is where Tom is now — past the line. Emotionally entwined. Connected to Pete.
This is what Pete wanted from the start. He knew Tom could be an important person in his life. So much empathy, understanding, a natural instinct to protect.
But now they’re past the point where Pete can keep pretending this is all casual and easy. Tom cares too much, feels too much, and that is dangerous.
Because James is getting worse.
Tonight’s blows still ring in Pete’s head — the sharp crack of knuckles against cheekbone, one after the next, like punctuation marks. James doesn’t just shout anymore; he hits harder.
Deliberate. Controlled.
Pete touches his face and winces at the swelling that’s already blooming under his skin.
He never expected it to escalate like this. Despite everything, he always thought he had a certain degree of control over James. A feeling of understanding. Compromise.
But the dial of power has shifted rapidly in recent weeks.
So has the degree of violence.
He’s been here before. Different man, same pattern. He fought then, too — survived it. That’s what he does. But tonight, he feels the edges fraying. Feels how much closer the walls are pressing in.
Pete wonders if he has the strength to get through this again.
The house feels hostile now. Every room is wired with tension, every floorboard ready to creak at the wrong time. Pete moves through it quietly, checking locks, double-checking. James is out for the evening, but that doesn’t mean safety — it only means time.
He showers quickly, water scalding, scrubbing until his skin is raw. When he steps into the spare bedroom and closes the door, he pulls the chair up under the handle, makes sure it’s wedged tightly.
Then he lifts the pillow.
The knife is still there, cool against his fingers, reassuring and terrifying all at once.
Pete slides into bed, muscles aching, every sound in the house amplified — tick of the clock, hum of the pipes, the faintest shift of wind outside. He stares at the ceiling, listening, waiting.
Because he knows something is coming.
And he isn’t sure how much longer he can hold everything together before it finally breaks.