Open

EPILOGUE

TOM

The kettle clicks on and fills the kitchen with a low mechanical hum. I take out two mugs, place them on the counter.

Buster sits at my feet, nosing at the edge of his bowl, oblivious. Lucky him. Two days have passed since I walked out of that house. Two days of silence, sleep in short bursts, and the constant feeling that I’m standing on a frozen lake and the ice is whispering warnings.

I look out the window over the sink. It’s grey outside, the kind of sky that makes the world feel unedited, unfinished. I breathe in slow, as if air will steady me.

I keep replaying the night, frame by frame. Not the violence — the aftermath. I thought about calling the police, confessing everything. How could I explain this all, everything that happened, my role in James’s death and not walk away from it unscathed?

I thought about calling Craig, but then I remembered about Phil and how getting him involved in something as insane as this was not a viable plan.

So, in a moment of potential insanity, I decided not to call the police.

I hung Pete’s body in the garage, the memory stick in his pocket with the footage of James hitting him, of Sam and James together, of James killing Chris: the crumbs of a story that leads everyone away from me.

Unlocking his phone with his Face ID, I typed out the message on it — suicide note, remorseful tone, vague enough to sound believable, detailed enough to stop questions.

James was abusive. Emma came to help. Things escalated.

James killed Emma. I killed James and Sam. I can’t live with what I’ve done.

A far-fetched story, but with the video evidence of continued abuse, it would be believable, right? My brain fuelled with adrenaline and panic decided that the answer would be yes.

After that, it was about the cover up. I searched the house to find Pete’s Apple Watch, found it in the drawer. Entered the laptop. Stopping the CCTV system. Deleted everything. Every file. Every backup. Then cleaned the house. Every last bit of evidence I could find that could tie me to the house.

In the moment, every step felt logical.

Except for Daniel’s body.

That didn’t fit the narrative.

But now I’m here. Making tea.

Waiting.

Waiting for the police to knock and say the one sentence I can’t unhear: We know what you did.

My leg is still sore from where Sam stabbed me with the pen. Fortunately, it wasn’t deep, no lasting damage. I couldn’t risk going to the hospital, so I cleaned it up myself that night, but it still twinges when I put weight on it.

I tell myself I planned well. That I thought of everything.

But doubt leaks through the cracks like cold air.

A hair on James. Skin under Sam’s nails.

A footprint in the garden. My phone left in the car — maybe it pinged off a cell tower nearby.

The texts on Pete’s phone — there weren’t many, we generally just called each other.

I couldn’t delete them, that would scream guilt.

My Facebook conversations with Emma, those were more incriminating.

All those pieces of evidence I hadn’t considered in the moment, but now it’s too late.

I just have to hope no one looks too closely.

I’d spent the morning checking the house again for cameras after Sam’s admission.

I’d found five so far in various rooms. The one in the corner of my bedroom distressed me the most, but anything Sam saw in there was the least of my worries.

I disposed of them earlier, not that that gives me any peace.

The kettle clicks off.

And before I can pour, there it is.

A knock at the door. Three sharp raps that feel like the end of everything.

Buster looks up. I freeze.

I already know who it is.

I open the door and two detectives stand there. Coats, badges, neutral faces. They say my name like it’s a formality, but in my head, it sounds like a verdict.

“Can we come in?”

I step aside. My pulse tries to punch its way through my throat.

In the hallway, they ask about Pete. They say they’ve seen the texts between us. The late-night calls. They ask how we knew each other.

I keep my voice as small and harmless as possible.

“We met a couple months ago. Just… met. He gave the impression he and his husband were in an open relationship, but I didn’t want to get involved in that. We talked sometimes. We’d meet for coffee occasionally. As friends.”

They don’t react. They don’t write anything down. That’s worse.

“Sorry, what’s this about?” I ask. Playing dumb is the only tactic I have right now.

Then: “He called you late Saturday night. What was that about?”

I swallow. Hard.

“He sounded… upset. Said he and James were fighting. I got the impression it wasn’t the first time. I told him to get help, or call someone.”

One of them watches me like he’s waiting for the lie to twitch on my face.

Then the other asks: “Where were you Saturday night?”

There it is. The question.

I open my mouth—

—and Craig’s voice comes from behind me.

“He was with me.”

I turn. Craig steps forward into view from the living room where he was waiting for his tea. Calm. Solid. Confident. He gives the detectives a polite nod.

“Oh, hello Sir,” the taller detective says.

Sir.

They recognise him—DCI Craig Hollis. Their superior. That softens something in them. A tiny shift. “Sorry, we didn’t know you were…friends.”

Craig doesn’t acknowledge this comment. “He was at the hospital with me. In A&E. My husband was knocked down in an accident the same night, you may have heard. Tom has been a great support.”

I don’t breathe.

“Right, yes we heard,” the shorter detective says, nervously. “I’m sorry to hear that. I hope he’s doing ok, Sir?”

Craig nods. “Yes, it was touch and go initially, but they’re confident he’s going to make a full recovery.”

Both detectives seem genuinely relieved. “Well, that’s excellent news,” one of them says.

There’s a pause.

“Um, I’m afraid we have some bad news,” the other detective says. “Pete Harris is dead. He took his own life two days ago.”

I let the shock hit my face like a slap.

“Oh my god,” I whisper, hand to my mouth. “No. I… I had no idea.”

They nod. They give me a sympathetic look. They say they may need to speak to me again. They may need me to come in and make a statement. Standard procedure.

“Let me see you out,” Craig says, leading them to the door.

Through the window, I watch him stand at the front gate with the two detectives. They talk. Craig gestures once, twice — calm, professional, completely in control. Five minutes. Maybe less. Feels like an hour.

And then—

They leave.

Silence sinks back into the house, thick and heavy. The only sound is Buster drinking from his bowl, the slow lap-lap-lap like nothing in the world is wrong.

I turn back to the counter.

Two mugs. Kettle cold.

Tea. I was making tea for us, like this was any other quiet morning, before that knock on the door.

I switch the kettle back on. Watch the water tremble to a boil. Keep my hands busy so my mind doesn’t spiral.

Craig comes back in. Closes the door softly, like he’s afraid even the latch might trigger something inside me.

“Well?” I ask. I hear the need in my own voice.

“They’re satisfied,” Craig says. “They’ve seen the videos on the memory stick.

The texts between Emma and Pete back up the ‘domestic incident gone wrong’ narrative.

They’re calling it a murder–suicide for now.

They haven’t dug into Emma’s background yet.

And I’ve already congratulated them on ‘quick work’, so they’ll be keen to close it down swiftly now. ”

He gives a half-smile. “Truth is, it is sloppy policing. But for once, sloppy works in our favour.”

I exhale. I didn’t realise I’d been holding my breath.

I hadn’t wanted Craig involved — after everything. But the second I learned Phil survived, instinct took over. I ran straight to him, and the whole truth spilled out. Craig did what Craig always does — stepped between me and the fire.

He hasn’t been to work since Phil was taken to hospital. But he’s been listening. Asking questions.

“Thank you for…” I start, but can’t quite say lying to the police for me. “For what you said.”

Craig nods, no pride in it, just certainty. “Let’s hope things stay quiet now.”

We stand there. Not quite looking at each other. Our last conversation ended with me hanging up on him, accusing him, not trusting him. And yet — here he is again, doing what he always does: protecting me, even when I make it near impossible to want to.

“You never told me,” I say finally. “Why you lied about James. About the police investigations. You made it sound like he was dangerous.”

“I just needed you to keep your distance,” Craig says. “When you showed me that picture, I recognised him. I’d seen him with Phil. I didn’t know what was going on with them, but I didn’t want you anywhere near it.”

“So, you knew Phil and James were meeting?”

“Phil never said a word. But I’m a detective. I know what it looks like when someone sneaks off thinking no one’s watching.” He pauses, breathes. “I followed him. Thought maybe they were… involved.”

“You didn’t ask him? I thought the whole point of your open relationship was honesty, communication — all that ‘evolved emotional maturity’ stuff you always preach.”

Craig huffs an almost laugh. “Yeah, well. I’m also human. And jealous. And completely capable of being an idiot.”

He looks at me then, properly. “I didn’t talk to him because I didn’t want to hear an answer I couldn’t handle yet. So instead, I tried to control everything else —including you.”

I nod slowly. I do understand. More than I want to admit.

“I should’ve known — Phil was just trying to be Phil.

Save the day, play the hero like always.

I know what connections he has. Getting a new identity, new accounts, helping him start afresh.

All illegal and all things I would have disapproved of, which is why he kept it from me.

They were old school friends. He just wanted to help James. I know that now.”

“Well, thank God he’s going to be okay,” I say, drifting toward the back doors, letting my eyes settle on the garden.

“Speaking of which, I need to get back to the hospital,” Craig says, grabbing his coat. “I’ll stay with him tonight.”

I nod. He pauses, turns to me.

“Just lie low now. Especially with the whole Daniel situation.”

“Right,” I say, keeping it flat, harmless.

Craig sighs. “I’m sorry I didn’t call the police like I said I would after Daniel attacked you. Phil was on the phone straight after, then he got hit, and… I just ran to the hospital.”

“No, I get it. Everything was chaos. I went straight over to Pete’s after it happened, so I didn’t really think about Daniel,” I lie, easily.

“And I’m sorry about sending Daniel those videos. Of you and Guy,” he says, and I know he means it.

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” I reply.

Craig studies me for a second, then lowers his voice. “It might not be smart to involve the police about Daniel now. We don’t want more attention on you. We’ll work out a plan to protect you if he turns up again. Just make sure you get those locks changed. Today.”

I look back out into the garden, hands resting on the cool glass of the door.

“I don’t think he’s going to bother me again,” I say quietly.

Outside, at the very back of the garden, the borders are tidy, freshly planted after a night of furious digging.

Foxgloves and lavender stand upright, still damp from yesterday’s watering. The soil is turned, rich, dark.

Anyone looking out would see a freshly planted bed — pleasant, ordinary, unremarkable.

They’d never know what really lies beneath.