Chapter 66
TOM
I don’t think. I just run.
My legs move before my mind catches up, slipping in blood, skidding across the tiles, lungs full of the metallic stink of gunpowder and death.
Sam’s body is still warm on the floor behind me, but I can’t look back — I can’t process any of it — not Emma, not James, not the fact that the house is just a maze of corpses now. I just need to get out.
The back door. The garden. The street. Freedom.
I’m two steps from the kitchen door when the first gunshot cracks behind me—deafening, ripping through the air, splintering the wood frame inches from my hand.
I drop. Pure instinct. The second shot hits the counter I was just beside. Plates explode. Glass rains. Pete’s voice tears through the room:
“You killed him! You killed him!”
He sounds broken — but the strength in it is terrifying. Rage sharpens him. I can feel it like heat on my back.
I crawl, fingers slipping on the floor, reaching for the handle, pushing the door— but another shot forces me the opposite direction, away from the exit. He’s herding me like prey.
The only path left is the side door—the one that leads to the garage.
I sprint.
Another shot echoes. No time. I slam into the door, burst through, and my feet hit concrete. The smell changes — cold, oil, dust, and—
Daniel.
He’s on the floor, propped against the wall like a puppet with its strings cut. His throat is a gaping red smile, eyes open but unseeing. Horror hits me, but only for a second — I don’t get the luxury of grief anymore. I don’t get to feel anything.
I step over him.
The garage is a shrine to disorder — half storage space, half graveyard of abandoned DIY projects. The only light comes from a single flickering bulb overhead, throwing everything into jerky shadows like the room’s breathing with me.
Behind me, Pete kicks the door open, rage boiled down to something animal.
“You should’ve just loved me, Tom!”
All I can do is stop and hold up my hands.
He points the gun at me. “We could have all been happy together.”
I shake my head, scanning the room for an escape, but I’m acutely aware that my time is coming to an end. I breathe.
“You know I would have given you everything,” I say.
Pete, chest heaving, pauses.
“I wanted to be with you, get you away from James and start a proper life with you,” I say, earnestly. “I would have done anything for you, given you everything. You wouldn’t have needed to blackmail into staying.”
Pete shakes his head. “That’s what they all say. They promise me the world at first, before they take it away! They never stay! Nobody ever stays.”
“I would have!” I cry, and part of me believes that completely.
“Well, it’s nice that you look back on our time so fondly,” Pete says, focusing the gun at me. “But it’s too late for that.”
The gun clicks.
Empty.
He looks at it like it betrayed him, then throws it to the floor with a scream. And then he comes at me — fast. Faster than I’m ready for.
We crash into the metal shelving — paint tins fall, tools slam to the ground, something sharp slices my arm.
He’s on me with fists, nails, teeth — all desperation and fury.
I shove him back, but he’s relentless. The sweet, charming boy who once held my face in his hands is gone.
This is something else entirely. Hunger. Survival. Madness.
He lunges again and we tumble, knees and elbows cracking against concrete. I try to get up, but he tackles me, hands clawing for my eyes, my throat.
He wants to kill me with his bare hands.
I manage to flip him just long enough to crawl away. My fingers scrape cold metal — a wrench — but he kicks it away before I can grab it.
I back up wildly, scanning for anything, anything, and then I see it —
A coil of rope hanging from a hook.
I snatch it down just as Pete slams into me again, his hands around my throat. He squeezes. Hard. My vision sparks white. My legs kick uselessly. He’s stronger than he looks. His weight is crushing my chest.
The world is fading, the air disappearing, my heartbeat a wild drum in my skull—
And I swing the rope.
It hits him across the face. He flinches just long enough for me to loop it around his neck. He claws at it, eyes wide, but I pull. I pull with every ounce of terror and fury and grief left in me.
He thrashes. He makes these awful choking sounds—half-human, half-feral—but I don’t let go.
I can’t.
Not after Emma.
Not after Phil.
Not after Guy.
Not after everything.
His face goes red, then purple, then slack. His body twitches once, twice—then drops still.
I don’t stop pulling right away.
I can’t trust stillness anymore.
When I finally let go, my arms are shaking, my fingers numb. I stumble backward, gasping, coughing, the rope still in my hands like a dead snake.
Pete’s body lies crumpled on the concrete, eyes open but empty, tongue swollen, rope mark embedded deep into his skin.
The silence that follows is too big. Too heavy. Too final.
Four bodies.
Four lives gone in one night.
And I am still breathing.
My chest heaves. The rest of me is a blur. I’m covered in blood that isn’t mine. My heart isn’t beating normally — it’s vibrating, like it’s trying to break its way out.
I look at Daniel.
I look at Pete.
And I think:
What have I done?
And more terrifying:
What do I do now?