As Good as Dead: The Finale to A Good Girl's Guide to Murder

Dead-eyed. That’s what they said, wasn’t it? Lifeless, glassy, empty. Dead eyes were a constant companion now, following her around, never more than a blink away. They hid in the back of her mind and escorted her into her dreams. His dead eyes, the very moment they crossed over from living to not. She saw them in the quickest of glances and the deepest of shadows, and sometimes in the mirror too, wearing her own face.

And Pip saw them right now, staring straight through her. Dead eyes encased in the head of a dead pigeon sprawled on the front drive. Glassy and lifeless, except for the movement of her own reflection within them, bending to her knees and reaching out. Not to touch it, but to get just close enough.

Ready to go, pickle? Pip’s dad said behind her. She flinched as he shut the front door with a sharp clack, the sound of a gun hiding in its reverberations. Pip’s other companion.

Y-yes, she said, straightening up and straightening out her voice. Breathe, just breathe through it. Look. She pointed needlessly. Dead pigeon.

He bent down for a look, his black skin creasing around his narrowed eyes, and his pristine three-piece suit creasing around his knees. And then the shift into a face she knew too well: he was about to say something witty and ridiculous, like—

Pigeon pie for dinner? he said. Yep, right on cue. Almost every other sentence from him was a joke now, like he was working that much harder to make her smile these days. Pip relented and gave him one.

Only if it comes with a side of mashed rat-ato, she quipped, finally letting go of the pigeon’s empty gaze, hoisting her bronze backpack onto one shoulder.

Ha! He clapped her on the back, beaming. My morbid daughter. Another face shift as he realized what he’d said, and all the other meanings that swirled inside those three simple words. Pip couldn’t escape death, even on this bright late-July morning in an unguarded moment with her dad. It seemed to be all she lived for now.

Her dad shook off the awkwardness, only ever a fleeting thing with him, and gestured to the car with his head. Come on, you can’t be late for this meeting.

Yep, Pip said, opening the door and taking her seat, unsure of what else to say, her mind left behind as they drove away, back there with the pigeon.

It caught up with her as they pulled into the parking lot for the Fairview train station. It was busy, the sun glinting off the regimented lines of commuter cars.

Her dad sighed. Ah, that fuckboy in the Porsche has taken my spot again. Fuckboy: another term Pip immediately regretted teaching him.

The only free spaces were down at the far end, near the chain-link fence where the cameras didn’t reach. Howie Bowers’s old stomping ground. Money in one pocket, small paper bags in the other. And before Pip could help herself, the unclicking of her seat belt became the tapping of Stanley Forbes’s shoes on the concrete behind her. It was night now, Howie not in prison but right there under the orange glow, downward shadows for eyes. Stanley reaches him, trading a handful of money for his life, for his secret. And as he turns to face Pip, dead-eyed, six holes split open inside him, spilling gore down his shirt and onto the concrete, and somehow it’s on her hands. It’s all over her hands and—

Coming, pickle? Her dad was holding the door open for her.

Coming, she replied, wiping her hands against her smartest pants.

The train into Grand Central was packed, and she stood shoulder to shoulder with other passengers, awkward closed-mouth smiles substituting sorrys as they bumped into one another. There were too many hands on the metal pole, so Pip was holding on to her dad’s bent arm instead, to keep her steady. If only it had worked.

She saw Charlie Green twice on the train. The first time in the back of a man’s head, before he shifted to better read his newspaper. The second time, he was a man waiting on the platform, cradling a gun. But as he boarded their car, his face rearranged, lost all its resemblance to Charlie, and the gun was just an umbrella.

It had been three months and the police still hadn’t found him. His wife, Flora, had turned herself in to a police station in Duluth, Minnesota four weeks ago; they had somehow gotten separated while on the run. She didn’t know where her husband was, but the rumors circulating online were that he’d managed to make it across the border to Canada. Pip looked out for him anyway, not because she wanted him caught, but because she needed him found. And that difference was everything, why things could never go back to normal again.

Her dad caught her eye. You nervous about the meeting? he asked over the screeching of the train’s wheels as it slowed into Grand Central. It will be fine. Just listen to Roger, OK? He’s an excellent lawyer. Knows what he’s talking about.

Roger Turner was an attorney at her dad’s firm who was the best at defamation cases, apparently. They found him a few minutes later, waiting outside the old redbrick conference center, where the meeting room was booked.

Hello again, Pip, Roger said, holding out his hand to her. Pip quickly checked her hand for blood before shaking his. Nice weekend, Victor?

It was, thank you, Roger. And I have leftovers for lunch today, so it’s going to be an excellent Monday too.

I suppose we better head in, then, if you’re ready? Roger asked Pip, checking his watch, his other hand gripping a shining briefcase.

Pip nodded. Her hands felt wet again, but it was sweat. It was only sweat.

You’ll be fine, darling, her dad told her, straightening out her collar.

Yes, I’ve done thousands of mediations. Roger grinned, swiping back his gray hair. No need to worry.

Call me when it’s done. Pip’s dad leaned down to bury a kiss in the top of her hair. I’ll see you at home tonight. Roger, I’ll see you in the office later.

Yes, see you, Victor. After you, Pip.

—

They were in meeting room 4E, on the top floor. Pip asked to take the stairs because if her heart was hammering for that reason, it wasn’t hammering for any other reason. That’s how she rationalized it, why she now went running anytime she felt her chest tighten. Run until there was a different kind of hurt.

They reached the top, old Roger puffing several steps behind her. A smartly dressed man stood in the corridor outside 4E, smiling when he saw them.

Ah, you must be Pippa Fitz-Amobi, he said. Another outstretched hand, another quick blood check. And you, her counsel, Roger Turner. I’m Hassan Bashir, and for today I am your independent mediator.

He smiled, pushing his glasses up his thin nose. He looked kind, and so eager he was almost bouncing. Pip hated to ruin his day, which she undoubtedly would.

Nice to meet you, she said, clearing her throat.

And you. He clapped his hands together, surprising Pip. So, the other party is in the meeting room, all ready to go. Unless you have any questions beforehand. He glanced at Roger. I think we should probably get started.

Yes. All good. Roger sidestepped in front of Pip to take charge as Hassan ducked back to hold open the door to 4E. It was silent inside. Roger walked through, nodding thanks to Hassan. And then it was Pip’s turn. She took a breath, arching her shoulders, and then let it out through gritted teeth.

Ready.

She stepped into the room and his face was the first thing she saw. Sitting on the opposite side of the long table, his angular cheekbones in a downward point to his mouth, his messy swept-back blond hair. He glanced up and met her eyes, a hint of something dark and gloating in his.

Max Hastings.

Pip’s feet stopped moving. She didn’t tell them to; it was like some primal, unspoken knowledge, that even one more step would be too close to him.

Here, Pip, Roger said, pulling out the chair directly opposite Max, gesturing her down into it. Beside Max, across from Roger, was Christopher Epps, the same attorney who’d represented Max in his trial. Pip had last come face to face with this man on the witness stand; she’d been wearing this exact same suit while he hounded her with that clipped bark of a voice. She hated him too, but the feeling was lost, subsumed by her hatred for the person sitting opposite her. Only the width of a table between them.

Right. Hello, everyone, Hassan said brightly, taking his assigned chair at the head of the table, in between the two parties. Let’s get the introductory bits out of the way. My role as mediator means I’m here to help you reach an agreement and a settlement that is acceptable to both parties. My only interest is to keep everyone here happy, OK?

Clearly Hassan had not read the room.

The purpose of a mediation is essentially to avoid litigation. A court case is a lot of hassle, and very expensive for all involved, so it’s always better to see if we can come to some arrangement before a lawsuit is even filed. He grinned, first to Pip’s side of the room, and then to Max’s. A shared and equal smile.

If we cannot reach an agreement, Mr. Hastings and his counsel intend to bring a libel lawsuit against Miss Fitz-Amobi, for a tweet and a blog post shared on April thirtieth of this year, which they claim consisted of a defamatory statement and audio file. Hassan glanced at his notes. Mr. Epps, on behalf of the claimant, Mr. Hastings, says the defamatory statement has had a very serious effect on his client, both in terms of mental well-being and irreparable reputational damage. This has, in turn, led to financial hardship, for which he is seeking damages.

Pip’s hands balled into fists on her lap, knuckles erupting out of her skin like a prehistoric backbone. She didn’t know if she could sit here and listen to all this, she didn’t fucking know if she could do it. But she breathed and she tried, for her dad and Roger, and for poor Hassan over there.

On the table, in front of Max, was his obnoxious water bottle, of course. Cloudy dark-blue plastic with a flick-up rubber spout. Not the first time Pip had seen him with it; turns out that in a town as small as Fairview, running routes tended to converge and intersect. She’d come to expect it now, seeing Max out on his run when she was on hers, almost like he was doing it on purpose somehow. And always with that fucking blue bottle.

Max saw her looking at it. He reached for it, clicked the button to release the spout with a snap, and took a long, loud sip from it, swilling it around his mouth. His eyes on her the entire time.

Hassan loosened his tie a little. So, Mr. Epps, if you would like to kick things off here with your opening statement.

Certainly, Epps said, shuffling his papers, his voice just as sharp as Pip remembered. My client has suffered terribly since the libelous statement Miss Fitz-Amobi put out on the evening of April thirtieth, especially since Miss Fitz-Amobi has a significant online presence, amounting to more than 300,000 followers at the time. My client has a top-tier education from a very reputable college, meaning, he should be a very attractive candidate for graduate jobs.

Max sucked from his water bottle again, like he was doing it to punctuate the point.

However, these last few months, Mr. Hastings has struggled to find employment at the level to which he deserves. This is directly due to the reputational harm that Miss Fitz-Amobi’s libelous statement has caused. Consequently, my client still has to live at home with his parents, because he cannot find an appropriate job and therefore cannot pay rent to live in New York.

Oh, poor little serial rapist, Pip thought, speaking the words with her eyes.

But the harm has not been my client’s alone, Epps continued. His parents, Mr. and Mrs. Hastings, have also suffered from the stress, and have even recently had to leave town to stay at their second home in Santa Barbara for a couple of months. Their house was vandalized the very same night Miss Fitz-Amobi published the defamatory statement; someone graffitied the front of their home with the words ‘Rapist, I will get you—’

Mr. Epps, Roger interrupted, I hope you are not suggesting that my client had anything to do with that vandalism. The police have never even spoken to her in connection with it.

Not at all, Mr. Turner. Epps nodded back. I mention it because we can surmise a causal link between Miss Fitz-Amobi’s libelous statement and the vandalism, as it occurred in the hours proceeding that statement. Consequently, the Hastings family does not feel safe in their own home and have had to fit security cameras to the front of the house. I hope this goes some way in explaining not only the financial hardship Mr. Hastings has suffered, but also the extreme pain and suffering felt by him and his family in the wake of Miss Fitz-Amobi’s malicious, defamatory statement.

Malicious? Pip said, heat rising to her cheeks. "I called him a rapist and he is a rapist, so—"

Mr. Turner, Epps barked, voice rising, I suggest you advise your client to keep quiet and remind her that any defamatory statements she makes now could be classified as slander.

Hassan held up his hands. Yes, yes, let’s just everyone take a breather. Miss Fitz-Amobi, your side will have the chance to speak later. He loosened his tie again.

It’s all right, Pip, I’ve got this, Roger said quietly to her.

I will remind Miss Fitz-Amobi, Epps said, not even looking at her, his gaze on Roger instead, "that three months ago my client faced trial in court and was found not guilty on all charges. Which is all the proof you need that the statement made on April thirtieth was, in fact, defamatory."

All that being said—Roger now stepped in, shuffling his own papers—"a statement can only be libelous if it is presented as fact. My client’s tweet reads as follows: Max Hastings trial final update. I don’t care what the jury believes: he is guilty. He cleared his throat. Now, the phrase I don’t care clearly places the following statement as a subjective one, an opinion, not fact—"

Oh, don’t give me that, Epps cut in. You’re trying to fall back on the opinion privilege? Really? Please. The statement was clearly worded as fact, and the audio file presented as though it were actually real.

It is real, Pip said. Wanna hear it?

Pip, please—

Mr. Turner—

It’s clearly doctored, Max spoke up for the first time, maddeningly calm, folding his hands in front of him. His eyes focused only on the mediator. I don’t even sound like that.

What, like a rapist? Pip spat across at him.

MR. TURNER—

Pip—

OK, everyone! Hassan stood up. Let’s take this down a notch. We will all get our chance to speak. Remember, we are here to make sure everyone is happy with the outcome. Mr. Epps, could you take us through the damages your client is seeking?

Epps bowed his head, pulling out a sheet of paper from the bottom of the pile. For special damages, considering my client should have been in employment for the last three months, at a monthly salary level we would expect for someone in his position, this would have been at least five thousand dollars. This places the financial loss at fifteen thousand dollars.

Max sucked at his water bottle again, the water sloshing around his throat. Pip would have liked to take that fucking water bottle and smash it into his face. If there was to be blood on her hands, it should be his.

Of course, no monetary figure can be put on the pain and mental anguish suffered by my client and his family. But we feel a sum of eight thousand dollars should be adequate, bringing the total to twenty-three thousand dollars.

Ridiculous, Roger said, shaking his head. My client is only eighteen years old.

Mr. Turner, you should allow me to finish, Epps sneered, licking his finger to turn the page. However, in discussion with my client, it is his opinion that his ongoing suffering is caused by the fact that the libelous statement has not been retracted and no apology issued, which would actually be of greater value to him than any monetary damages.

Miss Fitz-Amobi deleted the post weeks ago, when your initial letter of demand was sent, said Roger.

Mr. Turner, please, Epps replied. If Pip had to hear him say please like that one more time, she might just smash his face in too. Deleting the tweet after the fact does not mitigate the reputational harm done. So, our proposal is thus: Miss Fitz-Amobi releases a statement on the same public account, in which she retracts her original defamatory statement with an admission of wrongdoing and apologizes for any hurt her words have caused my client. In addition, and this is the most important sticking point, so do pay close attention: in this statement, she must fully admit that she doctored the audio clip in question and that my client never said those words.

Fuck off.

Pip—

Miss Fitz-Amobi, Hassan pleaded, struggling with his tie like it was tightening around his neck, chasing its own tail.

I will ignore your client’s outburst, Mr. Turner, said Epps. If those demands are met, we shall apply a discount, as it were, to the monetary damages, bringing them down to thirteen thousand dollars.

OK, that’s a good starting point, Hassan nodded, trying to regain control. Mr. Turner, would you like to respond to the proposal?

Thank you, Mr. Bashir, Roger said, taking the floor. The proposed damages are still too high. You make great assumptions about your client’s potential employment status. I don’t see him as a particularly spectacular candidate, especially in the current jobs market. My client is just eighteen. Her only income is from ad revenue from her true crime podcast, and she starts college in a few weeks, where she will incur large student debt. In light of this, the demand is unreasonable.

OK, ten thousand, Epps said, narrowing his eyes.

Five thousand, Roger countered.

Epps glanced quickly at Max, who gave an ever-so-slight nod, slouching sideways in his chair. Seven thousand would be agreeable to us, Epps said, in conjuncture with the retraction and apology.

OK, we seem to be getting somewhere. A cautious smile returned to Hassan’s face. Mr. Turner, Miss Fitz-Amobi, could we get your thoughts on those terms?

Well, Roger began, I think the—

No deal, Pip said, pushing her chair back from the table, the legs screaming against the polished floor.

Pip. Roger turned to her before she could get to her feet. Why don’t we go discuss this somewhere and—

I will not retract my statement and I will not lie and say the audio file was doctored. I called him a rapist because he is a rapist. I will be dead before I ever apologize to you. She bared her teeth at Max, the rage curling her spine, coating her skin.

MR. TURNER! Control your client, please! Epps slapped the table.

Hassan flapped, unsure what to do.

Pip stood up. Here’s the thing about you suing me, Max. She spat out his name, unable to bear it on her tongue. I have the ultimate defense: the truth. So go on, then, file the lawsuit. I dare you. I’ll see you in court. And you know how that goes, don’t you? It will have to prove whether my statement was true, which means we get to redo your rape trial. All the same witnesses, the victim testimonies, the evidence. There won’t be any criminal charges, but at least everyone will know what you are, forever. Rapist.

Miss Fitz-Amobi!

Pip—

She planted her hands and leaned across the table, her eyes ablaze, boring into Max’s. If only they could start a fire in his, burn up his face while she watched. Do you really think you can pull it off a second time? Convince another jury of twelve peers that you’re not a monster?

His gaze cut back into hers. You’ve lost your mind, he sneered.

Maybe. So you should be terrified.

Right! Hassan stood and clapped his hands. Perhaps we should have a break for some coffee and cake.

I’m done, Pip said, shouldering her backpack, opening the door so hard it ricocheted into the wall.

Miss Fitz-Amobi, please come back. Hassan’s desperate voice followed her out into the corridor. Footsteps too. Pip turned. It was only Roger, fumbling his papers back into his briefcase.

Pip, he said, breathlessly, I really think we should—

I’m not negotiating with him.

Wait a moment! Epps’s bark filled the corridor as he hurried over to join them. Just give me one minute, please, he said, re-neatening his gray hair. "We won’t file for another month or so, OK? Avoiding a court case is really in everyone’s best interest. So, have a few weeks to think it over, when things aren’t so emotional." He looked down at her.

I don’t need to think it over, Pip said.

Please, just… Epps fumbled in his suit pocket, pulling out two crisp ivory-colored business cards. My card, he said offering them to her and Roger. My cell phone number is on there too. Have a little think, and if you change your mind, call me anytime.

I won’t, she said, reluctantly taking his card, stuffing it into the unused pocket of her jacket.

Christopher Epps studied her for a moment, eyebrows lowered in an approximation of concern. Pip held his gaze; to look away was to let him win.

And maybe just one word of advice, Epps said. Take it or leave it. But I’ve seen people in a self-destructive spiral before. Hell, I’ve represented many of them. In the end, you’ll only end up hurting everyone around you, and yourself. You won’t be able to help it. I urge you to turn back before you lose everything.

Thank you for your unbiased advice, Mr. Epps, she said. But it appears you have underestimated me. I would be willing to lose everything, destroy myself, if it also meant destroying your client. That seems a fair trade. Now you have a good day, Mr. Epps.

She shot him a smile, sweet and acidic, as she turned on her heels. She quickened her pace, the clicking of her shoes beating almost in time with her turbulent heart. And there, just beneath her heartbeat, under layers of muscle and sinew, was the sound of a gun going off six times.

He caught her staring: at the fall of his dark hair, at the dimpled line in his chin where her little finger fit, at his dark eyes and the flame dancing inside them from her mom’s new Autumn Spice candle. His eyes were always bright somehow, dazzling, like they were lit from within. Ravi Singh was the opposite of dead-eyed. The antidote. Pip needed to remind herself of that sometimes. So she watched him, took him all in, left none of him behind.

Hey, perve. Ravi grinned across the sofa. What are you staring at?

Nothing. She shrugged, not looking away.

"What does perve actually mean? Josh’s small voice chirped up from the rug, where he was assembling some unidentifiable shape out of Lego. Someone called me that on Fortnite. Is it worse than, you know, the f-word?"

Pip snorted, watching Ravi’s face unroll into panic, his lips pursed, eyebrows disappearing beneath his hair. He checked over his shoulder toward the kitchen door, where Pip’s parents were clattering about, clearing up the dinner she and Ravi had made.

Um, no, it’s not that bad, he said as casually as he could. Maybe don’t say it, though, yeah? Especially not in front of your mom.

But what do perves do? Josh stared up at Ravi, and for a fleeting moment, Pip wondered whether Josh knew exactly what he was doing, enjoying watching Ravi squirm on the spot.

They, um… Ravi broke off. They watch people, in a creepy way.

Oh. Josh nodded, seeming to accept the explanation. Like the guy who’s been watching our house?

Yes. Wait…no, said Ravi. There isn’t a perve watching your house. He glanced toward Pip for help.

Can’t help you, Pip whispered back with a smirk. Dug your own grave.

Thanks, Pippus Maximus.

Yeah, can we actually retire that new nickname? she said, launching a cushion at him. Not a fan. Can we go back to just Sarge? I like Sarge.

I call her Hippo Pippo. Josh again. She also hates that one.

But it suits you so well, Ravi said, prodding her in the ribs with his toes. You are the maximum amount of Pipness that any Pip could be. The Ultra-Pip. I’m going to introduce you to my family this weekend as Pippus Maximus.

She rolled her eyes and jabbed him back with her toe, in a place that made him squeal.

Pip’s already met your family loads of times. Josh looked up, confused. He seemed to be going through a new pre-eleven stage, where he had to insert himself into every single conversation going on in the house. Even had an opinion on tampons yesterday.

"Ah, this is the extended family, Josh. Much more scary. Cousins and even, dare I say it, the aunties," Ravi said dramatically, haunting the word with his waggling fingers.

That’s OK, Pip said. I’m well prepared. Just got to read over my spreadsheet a couple more times and I’ll be fine.

And also it’s…Wait. Ravi stalled, eyebrows eclipsing his eyes. "What did you just say? Did you just say spreadsheet?"

Y-yeah. She shifted, cheeks growing warm. She hadn’t intended to tell him about that. Ravi’s favorite hobby in the whole world was winding her up; she didn’t need to give him any more ammunition. It’s nothing.

No, it’s not. What spreadsheet? He sat up straight. If his smile were any wider it might actually split his face.

Nothing. She crossed her arms.

He darted forward before she could defend herself, got her right in the place she was most ticklish: where her neck met her shoulder.

Ow, stop. Pip laughed; she couldn’t help it. Ravi, stop. I have a headache.

Tell me about the spreadsheet, then, he said, refusing to relent.

Fine, she choked breathlessly, and finally Ravi stopped. It’s…I’ve just been making a spreadsheet, to keep a record of the things you’ve told me about your family. Just little details, so I remember. And so when I meet them, they might, you know, like me. She refused to look at his face, knowing what expression would await her there.

Details like what? he said, voice brimming with hardly contained amusement.

Things like, um…oh, your auntie Priya—who is your mom’s younger sister—she also really likes true crime documentaries, so it would be good to talk to her about those. And your cousin Deeva, she’s really into running and fitness, if I’m remembering right. She hugged her knees. Oh, and your auntie Zara won’t like me no matter what I do, so not to get too disappointed by that.

It’s true, Ravi laughed, she hates everybody.

I know, you said.

He studied her for a lingering moment, the laugh playing silently across his face. I can’t believe you’ve been secretly taking notes. And in one fluid movement, Ravi stood up, scooped his arms under her, and lifted her up. He swung her around while she protested, saying, Under that big, tough exterior we’ve got ourselves a cute little weirdo over here.

Pip’s not cute. Josh’s necessary input.

Ravi let her go, delivering her back to the sofa. Right, he said with an upward stretch. I should head off. Not everyone has to get up at disgusting o’clock tomorrow morning for their internship at a law firm. But my girlfriend’s probably going to need a good lawyer one day, so… He winked at her. The very same thing he’d said after she told him how the mediation went.

It was his third week at the summer internship, and Pip could already tell he loved it, despite his protestations about the early wake-up. For his first day, she’d given him a T-shirt that said Lawyer Loading…

Right, goodbye, Joshua, he said, nudging him with his foot. My favorite human being.

Really? Josh beamed up at him. What’s Pip, then?

Ah, she’s a close second, Ravi said, returning to her. He kissed her on the forehead, his breath in her hair and—when Josh wasn’t looking—moved down to press his lips against hers.

I heard that, Josh said anyway.

I’ll just go say bye to your mom and dad, Ravi said. But then he paused and pivoted, came back to whisper in Pip’s ear: And let your mother know that, unfortunately, you are the reason your ten-year-old brother now thinks a pervert is watching your house. Nothing to do with me.

Pip squeezed Ravi’s elbow, one of their secret I love yous, laughing to herself as he walked away.

The smile stayed a little longer this time, after Ravi was gone. It did. But when Pip walked upstairs, standing alone in her bedroom, she realized it had already left her without saying its goodbyes. She never knew how to bring it back.

The headache was starting to pinch at her temples now, as her eyes focused beyond the window, at the thickening darkness outside. The clouds amassing into one dark, lurking shape. Nighttime. Pip checked the time on her phone; it had just passed nine. Wouldn’t be long now until everyone was in bed, lost to sleep. Everyone but her. The lone pair of eyes in a sleeping town, begging the night to pass on by.

She’d promised herself no more. Last time was the last time. She’d repeated it in her head like a mantra. But even as she tried to tell herself that now, even as she balled her fists against her temples to out-hurt the pain, she knew it was hopeless, that she would lose. She always lost. And she was tired, so tired of fighting it.

Pip crossed to her door and gently closed it, in case anyone walked by. Her family could never know. And not Ravi. Especially not Ravi.

At her desk, she placed her iPhone between her notebook and her bulky black headphones. She opened the drawer, the second one down on the right, and began to pull out the contents: the pot of pins, her rewound red string, an old pair of white earphones, a glue stick.

She removed the pad of lined paper and reached the bottom of the drawer. The false bottom she’d made out of white cardboard. She dug her fingertips in at one side and pried it up.

There, hidden below, were the burner phones. All six of them, arranged in a neat line. Six prepaid phones bought with cash, each from a different store, a cap pulled low over Pip’s face as she’d handed over the money.

The phones stared blankly up at her.

Just one more time, and then she was done. She promised.

Pip reached in and took out the one on the left, an old gray Nokia. She held the power button down to turn it on, her fingers shaking with the pressure. There was a familiar sound hiding in the beat of her heart. The phone lit up with a greenish backlight, welcoming her back. In the simple menu, Pip clicked onto her messages, to the only contact saved in this phone. In any of them.

Her thumbs worked against the buttons, clicking number one three times to get to C.

Can I come over now? she wrote. She pressed send with one last promise to herself: this was the very last time.

She waited, watching the empty screen below her message. She willed the response to appear, concentrated only on that, not on the growing sound inside her chest. But now that she’d thought about it, she couldn’t unthink it, couldn’t unhear it. She held her breath and willed even harder.

It worked.

Yes, he replied.

It was a race between her ticking heart and the pounding of her sneakers on the sidewalk. Her body alive with sound, from her chest to her feet, dulled only by the noise cancellation of her headphones. But Pip couldn’t lie to herself that one was caused by the other; she’d been running for only four minutes and already she was here, turning onto Beacon Close. The heart had preceded the feet.

She’d told her parents she was going out on a quick run, as she always did—dressed in her navy leggings and a white sports top—so at least running here left her with a shred of honesty. Shreds and scraps were all she could hope for. Sometimes running itself was enough, but not tonight. No, tonight there was only one thing that could help her.

Pip slowed as she approached number thirteen, lowering her headphones to cradle her neck. She planted her heels and stood still for a moment, checking whether she really needed to do this. If she took one more step—there was no going back.

She walked up the drive to the terraced house, past the gleaming white BMW parked at an angle. At the dark red door, Pip’s fingers passed over the doorbell, balling into a fist to knock on the wood. The doorbell wasn’t allowed; it made too much noise and the neighbors might notice.

Pip knocked again until she could see his outline in the frosted glass, growing taller and taller. The sound of the sliding bolt and then the door opening inward, Luke Eaton’s face in the crack. In the darkness, the tattoos climbing up his neck and the side of his face looked like his skin had come apart, strips of flesh rebuilding to form a net.

He pulled the door just wide enough for her to fit through.

Come on, quickly, he said gruffly, turning to walk down the hall. Got someone coming over soon.

Pip closed the front door behind her and followed Luke around the bend into the small, square kitchen. Luke was wearing the exact same pair of dark basketball shorts he’d been wearing the first time Pip met him, when she’d come here to talk to Nat da Silva about the missing Jamie Reynolds. Thank god Nat had gotten away from Luke; the house was empty now, just the two of them.

Luke bent down to open one of the kitchen cabinets. Thought you said last time was it. That you wouldn’t be back again.

I did say that, didn’t I? Pip replied flatly, picking at her fingernails. I just need to sleep. That’s all.

Luke rustled around in the cupboard, coming back up with a paper bag clenched in his fist. He opened the top and held it out so Pip could see inside.

They’re two-milligram pills this time, Luke said, shaking the bag. That’s why there aren’t as many.

Yeah, that’s fine, Pip said, glancing up at Luke. She wished she hadn’t. She always found herself studying the geography of his face, searching for the ways he was similar to Stanley Forbes. Both of them had been Charlie Green’s final suspects for Child Brunswick, narrowed down from all the men in Fairview. But Luke had been a wrong turn, the wrong man, and lucky for him because he was still alive. Pip had never seen his blood, never worn it the way she’d worn Stanley’s. It was on her hands now, the feel of cracking ribs below the pads of her fingers. Dripping onto the linoleum floor.

No, it was just sweat, just a tremor in her hands.

Pip gave her hands something to do to distract them. She reached into the waistband of her leggings and pulled out the cash, flicking through the notes in front of Luke until he nodded. She passed the money over and then held out her other hand. The paper bag went into it, crinkling under her grip.

Luke nodded again, but then he stalled, a new look in his eyes. One that seemed dangerously close to pity. You know, he said, doubling back to the cupboard, returning with a small, clear baggie. If you’re struggling, I have something stronger than Xanax. Will completely knock you out. He held up the baggie and shook it; it was filled with oblong tablets of a light mossy-green hue.

Pip stared at them, bit her lip. Stronger? she asked.

Definitely.

Wh-what is it? she asked, her eyes transfixed.

This—Luke gave it another shake—is Rohypnol. Stuff puts you right out.

Pip’s gut tightened. No thanks. She dropped her eyes. I’ve had experience. By which she meant she’d had it pumped out of her stomach when Becca Bell had slipped it into her drink nine months ago. Pills that Becca’s sister, Andie, had been selling to Max Hastings before she died.

Suit yourself, he said, pocketing the small bag. Offer’s there if you want it. More expensive, though. Obviously.

Obviously, she parroted him, her mind elsewhere.

She turned to the door to see herself out. Luke Eaton didn’t do goodbyes, or hellos for that matter. Maybe she should turn back, though; maybe she should tell him that actually this was the last time and he’d never see her again. How else would she stick to it? But then her mind came back to her with a new thought and she followed it, spinning on her heels to return to the kitchen, and something else came out of her mouth instead.

Luke, she said, sharper than she’d meant. Those pills—the Rohypnol—are you selling them to someone in town? Does someone here buy them from you?

He blinked at her.

Is it Max Hastings? Does he buy those from you? He’s tall, longish blond hair, well-spoken. Is it him? Is he the one buying those pills from you?

He didn’t answer.

Is it Max? Pip said, the urgency cracking her voice.

Luke’s eyes hardened, the pity a thing of the past. You know the rules by now. I don’t answer questions. I don’t ask ’em and I don’t answer ’em. There was the slightest smirk on his face. Rules apply to you too. I know you think you’re special, but you’re not. See you next time.

Pip crushed the bag in her hand as she walked out of the house. She thought to slam the door behind her, a flash of rage beneath her skin, but then thought better of it. Her heart beat even faster now, battering against her chest, filling her head with the sound of cracking ribs. And those dead eyes, they were hiding just over there in the shadows from the streetlamps. If Pip blinked, they’d be waiting for her in the darkness there too.

Was Max the one buying those pills from Luke? He used to buy them from Andie Bell, who got them from Howie Bowers. But Luke had always been the one supplying Howie, and he was all that was left, the two lower links in the chain now gone. If Max was still buying, it would