Chapter 49
TOM
I don’t move for a long time after the video ends.
The screen goes dark, and I just sit there, staring at my own reflection in it. The ghost of me looks pale and wrong, like a man who’s seen something that should not exist.
Chris is dead.
James killed him.
And I’ve just watched it happen.
Every instinct tells me to rewind, to watch it again—to confirm, as if confirmation would make it more bearable. I don’t. My stomach already feels like I’ve swallowed glass.
The house feels too quiet. Even the hum of the fridge sounds accusatory, like it knows what I’ve just seen. I get up, pace the living room, then sit back down again. I can’t stay still. My mind keeps flicking between thoughts like faulty Christmas lights.
James did it. James murdered Chris.
Pete lives with him.
Pete sleeps next to him.
The thought makes me nauseous. My hands are shaking, so I clasp them together like I’m praying, but prayer feels too hopeful for this moment.
I have to do something.
The obvious answer screams in my head: go to the police. It’s the one rational thought trying to push through the storm. I’ve got the proof — every horrible second of it. But I can’t just walk in alone. They’ll want context. They’ll want details. And I can’t do any of that without Pete.
Me having this video alone is a huge invasion of Pete’s privacy. But one in hindsight I’m comfortable with based on what I’ve just found. However, I need to talk this through with Pete before we go to the police. I can’t go behind his back.
I need to do this with support. Together.
It sounds almost reasonable in my head. Something Craig would say — “Don’t do anything rash, Tom. Keep your head.”
Craig.
God. I should call him.
He’d know what to do. He is the police. But the idea of explaining how I got this footage—how I broke into James’s house and stole it—well, that would go down about as well as an arson confession at a fire station.
And then it would be out of my hands I’m sure.
Craig would call his murder squad pals and it would all snowball before I could speak to Pete.
No.
Pete first.
Then the police.
I want to shoot over to Pete’s place right now.
I look at the clock. It’s 9.30pm. James will be home and I need to get Pete alone.
I think about calling him now, but I stop myself.
No, James might be there when I call and this needs to be a face-to-face conversation.
Waiting until first thing in the morning is the best course of action, I assure myself.
I breathe, trying to slow the panic, but the adrenaline doesn’t fade. I keep picturing Chris’s final moments, that frantic blur of limbs and noise, the knife flashing like lightning. My body feels charged, electric with disgust and fear.
The laptop screen still glows faintly. I snap it shut and push it away like it’s contagious.
I’m about to go to bed when my phone buzzes. Facebook Messenger.
Emma Christianson.
I just stare at the name for a full ten seconds before opening it.
“Hey Tom. What did you find out? Can we meet? Tomorrow maybe?”
The message feels almost harmless, ordinary. But knowing what I know — what she doesn’t — it lands like a bullet to the chest.
Her brother isn’t missing.
He’s dead.
And the man who did it is still walking around free, sleeping next to Pete, eating toast in the same kitchen where he bled out.
I grip my phone tighter. I can’t tell her. Not yet. She deserves the truth, but not through a screen. Not like this. And not until I speak to Pete.
Still, ignoring her feels cruel.
I type:
“Nothing new to report, but let’s catch up soon. Will message you tomorrow.”
Then I hit send and instantly regret even that much. My thumbs hover like I’ve sent a confession.
When I finally crawl into bed, exhaustion crashes over me like a wave, but sleep doesn’t come easy. Every time I start to drift, I see flashes—Chris’s face, the blood, James’s blank expression after it’s done.
I don’t know what time I fall asleep. Sometime after two, I think. The house is quiet, the kind of quiet that feels heavy, like it’s waiting for something.
Then there’s movement.
It’s faint at first—a sound like a shoe brushing carpet. I think it’s part of a dream until I open my eyes.
Someone is standing at the end of my bed.
For a split second, I freeze. My brain can’t make sense of it. The figure is dark, half-silhouetted by the streetlight leaking through the curtains. Male. Still. Watching me.
My heart lurches so violently it hurts. I sit up too fast, the duvet tangling around my legs.
“What the fuck—”
“It’s me,” the voice says, low and urgent. “Tom, it’s me.”
Daniel.
My breath catches. He takes a small step forward, hands raised like he’s warding off panic.
“I just want to talk,” he says.
“What are you doing in my house?!” My voice sounds wrong, too loud in the stillness.
Of course, I know how he got in the house. The spare key. I was adamant that I needed to change the locks. Just my luck that I got distracted watching a CCTV murder video of my boyfriend’s ex.
How is this my life?
“Can we just talk?” he says simply.
“I should call the police.” I reach for my phone on the bedside table.
Daniel moves fast—too fast. “Don’t.”
“Get out of my house.”
“Just listen—”
He grabs for my arm. It’s not rough, not at first, but it’s firm. I yank away, stumble half-off the bed, reaching for the phone again. This time, he catches my wrist—hard.
“Daniel, stop!”
He pushes forward — maybe trying to stop me, maybe just panicking.
“Tom!” he says, breathless, almost pleading. “Don’t do this.”
The weight of him knocks me back and my head slams against the wall with a dull crack. Pain bursts behind my eyes.
The words blur. The room tilts, warps, spins.
I don’t remember falling to the floor, but I see his face above me, too close, a mix of desperation and fear, and then everything goes black.