Chapter 39
SAM
Sam comes back to the house like he owns half of it, which, in his head, he does. He’s spent the last hour going for a run around the Downs and back, sweat running down his face and in his hair.
He hums to himself as he opens the door, because if you are going to be a houseguest with free rein you might as well supply the soundtrack.
And with two cars not in the drive, this means he has the house to himself.
In the kitchen, Sam removes his headphones and peels off his sweat-drenched t-shirt, chucking it in the washing machine in a way that suggests he’s been doing this for years.
Sam knows the domestic rhythms of this household better than most. His role is flexible: occasional lover, regular nuisance, unpaid events manager, and unofficial surveillance tech.
He likes having a stake in something that has the texture of permanence.
It’s calming. He remembers darker places — hostel rooms with bedbugs, foster houses where the wallpaper peeling meant nobody cared — but this house is a refuge of linen and scented candles. He respects linen.
But then he hears it: a small, muffled sound. Somewhere between the house settling and the possibility of someone moving about in a way that is not scheduled and therefore alarming.
Sam tilts his head, listening.
Instinct — call it street-sense, call it having grown up in places where unexpected movement means you look over your shoulder twice — tells him to be careful.
Not anxious-careful, more practical-careful.
Check. Confirm. Prepare.
From the kitchen, he slides out a knife from the block — one of those long, dependable things with a black handle that makes everyone feel like Gordon Ramsey or Michael Myers, depending on your objective.
With the knife by his side, he moves around the house with the footed stealth of someone who has sneaked around places he shouldn’t be far too many times.
He checks the usual places: dining room, living room, before moving to the office. Its door is almost closed—the kind of almost where a gap exists like it’s keeping secrets. Strange. James leaves that door wide; it’s always been more of a show-office.
If the door’s ajar, someone’s been in there.
He pauses at the threshold.
Slowly bringing the knife up higher, he raises his hand to the door.
With a flip, he pushes the door wide open.
Empty.
He tightens his grip on the knife a fraction and steps forward, because the sensible thing to do is to check thoroughly.
Sam takes a slow step forward before something clamps over the back of his shoulder in lightning cold stillness.
He spins, reflex, and the blade is at a throat before his brain has time to narrate what’s happening.
“Jesus, Sam!” James shouts, his eyes wide as the tip of the blade touches his skin
“Fuck!” Sam shouts back, whipping the knife away.
“Christ, what the fuck are you doing wandering around the house with a knife?”
“I heard a noise. I thought someone was in the house. Your car’s not here.”
James rubs his throat where the knife pressed against him. “I had the car in the garage for a service,” he says. “I was just having a lie down.”
“A nap? On a weekday? You must have had a busy night,” Sam grins.
James doesn’t acknowledge the comment.
“If I’d have known you were still in, I wouldn’t have put the alarm on when I left for my run,” Sam says.
“Just make sure you put it on when you leave. I’m heading out,” he says, turning and heading down the corridor.
“Anywhere nice?”
“Post office.”
And then he’s gone.
With a final look in the office, Sam turns and heads to the bathroom. The sweat from his run is starting to dry into his skin and he needs a shower.
In the bathroom, he places the knife on the side and turns the shower on, stripping off the rest of his clothes.
The bathroom hums with the sound of running water, but Sam’s attention has already drifted. Steam ghosts up the mirror while his thumb flicks idly across his phone screen.
The CCTV feed from Tom’s place flickers to life.
A familiar rush hits him — the small, private thrill of seeing without being seen. He scrolls through the angles: Tom’s hallway, the kitchen, the lazy sprawl of the living room that looks too tidy for one man to live there. And then the study.
There he is again.
The same man. Always the same man.
He moves like he belongs there — confident, practised. His hands are in drawers, flipping through papers. The same laptop open on the desk, the same focused intensity.
Sam frowns. He’s seen this man twice before. Once late at night, once early morning. Always in the office, always digging.
He’s looking for something.
Sam leans closer to the screen, heart beating faster now.
Who the hell are you?
A friend? A nosey neighbour? An obsessed stalker? No, that’s far too Eastenders for Tom’s mundane life.
He has a key. That’s the thing. He uses it like he owns the place. Calm. Certain.
But one thing is clear: he shouldn’t be in there.
If this man’s in Tom’s life, that makes him part of Sam’s. By proxy. And Sam does not like unknown variables.
The shower hisses behind him, forgotten. Steam curls around the room like smoke.
On-screen, he watches as the man closes the laptop, smoothing everything back into place — every movement neat enough to make a forensics team cry.
Then the man pauses. Doesn’t leave. Turns, heads upstairs.
Sam flicks the feed. Bedroom cam.
The man appears in the main bedroom. Wanders. Not searching — lingering. Like he’s waiting for something to start.
What are you looking for now?
The man goes to the basket at the end of the bed. Reaches in. Pulls out something black. Presses it to his face. Holds. Breathes.
Sam raises an eyebrow. “Oh. Oh okay.”
Definitely underwear.
Sam brings the screen closer to his face, as the man wanders over to the bed and opens the bedside table, pulling out a chunky white block, along with a small bottle.
It takes a moment before it registers. A Fleshlight. Lube.
This is about to get interesting.
Climbing onto the bed on his knees, pulling his trousers down to his ankles, he stacks a few pillows together and rests the Fleshlight on top.
After fiddling with the lube bottle, it’s only a few moments before he’s inside the Fleshlight, slowly moving in and out while pressing the black underwear to his face.
Sam doesn’t flinch. He should. Any normal person would. But he’s somewhere between fascinated and wildly impressed by this sad car crash happening in front of him.
The man builds up speed, thrusting in and out of the Fleshlight, his face inhaling the underwear like he’s auditioning to be a Dyson, until he crashes forward onto the pillows in a moment of climax.
Sam exhales through a low whistle. “Tom, Tom, Tom… what have you got yourself mixed up in?”
Pushing himself off, the stranger stuffs the toy back in the drawer with not even a rinse under the tap.
Then the man wipes himself down with the same underwear, tosses it back into the basket, and leaves. Businesslike.
Sam exhales slowly, sets the phone down on the counter, and grins at his reflection in the fogged-up mirror: half amusement, half something colder.
Whoever this man is, he’s made himself very interesting.
By the time he’s finished, this stranger won’t be a stranger anymore.