Chapter 38
TOM
I shouldn’t be here.
I know I shouldn’t be here.
But here I am, parked halfway up a quiet suburban road like the world’s most incompetent private investigator. If anyone looks out of their window right now, I look less like a man on a noble mission and more like a divorced uncle waiting to kidnap the family barbecue set.
I try Craig’s number again, because he’s the voice of reason, the human equivalent of a safety instruction leaflet.
It rings once, then goes to voicemail. Perfect.
My one sensible adult friend, unavailable.
Again. Probably off colour-coding case files or telling someone to stop parking on double yellows.
His voicemail tone clicks. “You’ve reached Craig—”
I hang up.
Right. Without Craig, I have two options:
Go home, have a bath, and admit I’ve already gone further than any sane person should.
Break into James and Pete’s house.
I sigh and open the car door. Option two it is.
The street is unnervingly quiet. Daylight, but hushed, like the houses know something’s about to happen and they don’t want to get involved.
Both cars are gone — James’s hulking black SUV and Pete’s smaller, neater Audi.
Hopefully they’re off somewhere long enough for me to play junior burglar.
Hopefully Sam isn’t home either. Sam unsettles me in the way feral cats do: watchful, unpredictable, probably prone to scratching if cornered.
I cut through the side path, through overgrown bushes that make me feel like I’m in a low-budget spy film and appear by the back door, the route Pete told me wasn’t covered by the cameras.
The back door waits. I crouch and peer behind the plant pot. There it is. The spare key, just as James had said it would be for the cleaner a few days ago. I shouldn’t be pleased at how cliché this is, but honestly, if all crimes were this simple the prisons would need bunk beds.
I slide the key into the lock, heart hammering like I’ve swallowed a bass drum. The alarm pad blinks at me, smug and red.
I punch in the code. The same code I’ve seen Pete punch in before.
2020
The pad beeps, then goes blank. Relief washes over me. Step one: successful illegal entry.
Inside, the house is too quiet. The kind of silence that makes you hear your own body like it’s an instrument you never learned to play. My breath is too loud. My shoes creak. Even my heartbeat sounds suspicious.
I move through the kitchen first, trying to look casual, like maybe I just live here.
I look through a few drawers, the kind of kitchen drawers where you chuck unwanted mail and knick knacks.
Nothing incriminating. Shiny surfaces. A fruit bowl so polished the bananas look contractually obliged to stay bright yellow.
The dining room? Nothing except chairs that probably cost more than my car. The living room? Cushions aggressively plumped, magazines on the coffee table lined up like they’re auditioning for a catalogue. Nothing damning yet.
Okay. The office.
It’s tidy, of course, in that way that feels both sterile and threatening. A desk. Shelves. Files stacked neatly. And there it is: a sleek closed MacBook, gleaming like the crown jewels
I open it up. The login screen slides up, demanding a password like an offended ma?tre d’. Of course it does, hardly a surprise.
But I had planned for this.
The bedroom is two doors down, and I step inside like I’m entering a museum I can’t afford. Bed made. Wardrobe shut. On the bedside table, an Apple Watch sits on its charging stand.
Bingo.
Pete doesn’t always wear it — he told me once it annoyed him when it buzzed with every email, so often he leaves it at home.
I lift it carefully. It comes to life, bright screen glowing, and prompts for a passcode.
Again, it’s a code I’ve seen Pete type in before.
2020.
The watch unlocks instantly. Relief makes me want to sit on the bed and cry. Instead, I strap it to my wrist, feel faintly ridiculous, and hurry back to the office.
I tap the Mac’s spacebar. The login screen pops up again. I raise my wrist. The watch buzzes. And like magic, the Mac unlocks.
“Oh my god,” I whisper. “I’m a genius hacker.”
Thank you, Tim Cook.
No, I’m not. I’m a man in someone else’s house, breaking several laws simultaneously, but still — the thrill is real.
The desktop is ordinary enough at first: bland wallpaper, neat folders. But then I see an icon marked SecureTech.
I click.
A program opens, displaying the cameras across the house.
I vaguely remember Pete whizzing through this yesterday.
I go to the video history, which contains rows of videos, labelled with dates and times.
My stomach drops. This is it. This is what Emma was talking about. The house is riddled with cameras.
I open one at random — two days ago, kitchen. The video plays in eerie silence. Pete is there, standing by the counter, shoulders tight. James is making a cup of coffee. A simple daily task. There’s no audio, but the body language is clear.
I open another. Empty dining room, then Pete wanders in to set the table. I flip through a few more. Same story. Mundane life at the house. So many files, this could take forever.
And I don’t have time.
What else is on this laptop?
I pull up a Finder window and search “Video”.
Reams of videos files pop up. I can see from the thumbnails a lot are from the CCTV files.
I click on one. A video pops up and starts playing.
It’s from the kitchen: James is screaming at Pete, his arms flying around in the air in anger.
I click back to the file, select it and select Show in Enclosing Folder.
A folder pops up full of video files, just simply called Saved Files.
There must be 25 videos in here. I click on another.
A video of James in the dining room; this time he hurls a plate across the room at Pete which nearly hits him.
These have been saved for a reason. I’ve got no time to look at them all, but this is evidence. Real evidence. Emma was right.
I need to save them.
In preparation for this, I had come armed with a small USB stick, which I whip out of my pocket like some criminal mastermind. I go to slot it, but after several attempts, I deflate.
There are no fucking USB ports in this stupid MacBook.
Fuck you, Tim Cook.
I panic-look around the desk, in a few drawers and to my delight, like a ray of sunshine, there’s a Mac-compatible memory stick.
This will do nicely.
I slot it in, copy the folder of saved videos. The progress bar creeps across the screen with agonising slowness, like it’s mocking me.
Every second feels like a countdown.
In the meantime, I flip back to the SecureTech UI and delete the most recent recordings, me rummaging around the kitchen and dining room. Gone.
I can slide out the back again without being noticed.
I truly am an actual lawless virtuoso.
And then—
A sound.
The faintest click. A door shutting?
My whole body locks up. The progress bar crawls. 47%. 52%.
Footsteps. Definite footsteps.
No. No no no.
64%
I glance at the watch on my wrist, the Mac glowing in front of me, the files still copying. Every instinct in me screams to run, but the transfer isn’t done. If I pull it out now, the files might be useless.
76%
The footsteps grow closer.
I clamp a hand over my mouth, heart battering like it’s trying to escape. Whoever’s here, they’re inside the house.
And I’m trapped.