He had killed them.
The words echoed in his brain, and he dropped the cigarette onto the bedsheets, clutching at his head. "I didn't kill them!" was the first thing he screamed, along with the next string of curses that left his mouth. No one would be around to witness the fancy house of the famous Hunter Rathinson burn down, because he had chosen a flat far away from the rest of the town. It was up on a cozy stretch of land, where he could easily hide his passion for art, his brains, and himself from the real world. Days later they found the body in a swimming pool, spots on his chest and lower left leg burnt, and words etched into his body that were probably made by the razor lying nearby. And they would assume that the famous Hunter Rathinson had set his house on fire, accidentally burning himself in the process, before going outside to make his last attempt at suicide. They had no reason for how his body ended up in the pool, perhaps he had fallen, or maybe he had let himself sink as he felt the life draining from his body. No matter, they would mourn him for sometime, and then they would forget.
Hunter- Peter, wouldn't.