As Good as Dead

by Holly Jackson

  Pip couldn’t believe it would really happen, that Fairview would ever let her get away.

  She nudged Cara back. “So, how’s Steph?” she asked.

  Steph: the new girlfriend. Although it had been almost two months now, so maybe Pip shouldn’t think of her as new anymore. The world moved on, even if she couldn’t. And Pip liked her; she was good for Cara, made her happy.

  “Yeah, she’s good. Training for a triathlon or something because she’s actually insane. Oh wait, you’d take her side now, wouldn’t you, Miss Runs-a-Lot.”

  “Yep.” Pip nodded. “Definitely Team Steph. She’d be a great asset in a zombie apocalypse.”

  “So would I,” Cara said.

  Pip pulled a face at her. “You would die within the first half hour of any apocalypse scenario, let’s be honest.”

  Ravi came over then, placing a tray down carrying their coffees and his sandwich. He’d already taken a massive bite before bringing it over, of course.

  “Oh, so,” Cara lowered her voice, “big drama here this morning.”

  “What?” Ravi asked between bites.

  “We suddenly had a bit of a rush, so there was a line, and I was at the register taking orders. And then,” her voice was a whisper now, “Max Hastings came in.”

  Pip’s shoulders arched and her jaw tensed. Why was he everywhere? Why could she never get away from him?

  “I know,” Cara said, reading Pip’s face. “And obviously I wasn’t going to serve him, so I told Jackie I’d clean the milk frother while she dealt with the customers. She took Max’s order, and then someone else came in.” She paused for dramatic effect. “Jason Bell.”

  “Oh, really?” Ravi said.

  “Yeah, he was standing in line behind Max. And even though I was trying to hide from them, I could see him kind of eyeballing the back of Max’s head.”

  “Understandably,” Pip said. Jason Bell had just as much reason to hate Max Hastings as she did. Whatever the outcome of the trial, Max had drugged and raped his youngest daughter, Becca. And as horrific and unspeakable as that was, it was even worse than that. Max’s actions were the catalyst for Andie Bell’s death. You might even say a direct cause. Everything came back to Max Hastings, when you really thought about it: Becca traumatized, letting Andie die in front of her and covering it up. Sal Singh dead, believed to be Andie’s killer. That poor woman in Elliot Ward’s attic. Pip’s project. Her dog, Barney, buried in the backyard. Howie Bowers in prison, sharing whispers about Child Brunswick. Charlie Green arriving in town. Layla Mead. Jamie Reynolds missing. Stanley Forbes dead and blood on Pip’s hands. She could trace it all back to Max Hastings. The origin. Her cornerstone. And maybe Jason Bell’s too.

  “I mean, yeah,” Cara said, “but I wasn’t expecting the next part. So, Jackie handed Max his drink, and as he was turning to walk away, Jason held out his elbow and nudged right into Max. Spilled coffee all down his T-shirt.”

  “No?” Ravi stared at Cara.

  “I know.” Her whispers strained into an excitable hiss. “And then Max was like, ‘Watch where you’re going’ and shoved him back. And Jason grabbed Max’s collar and said, ‘You stay out of my way,’ or something like that. But anyway, by this point, Jackie had inserted herself between them, and then this other customer escorted Max out of the café and apparently he was going on about ‘You’ll hear from my lawyer’ or something.”

  “Sounds like Max,” Pip said, pushing the words through her gritted teeth. She shivered. The air felt different now that she knew he’d been here too. Stuffy. Cold. Tainted. Fairview was just not big enough for both of them.

  “Naomi’s been wondering what to do about Max,” Cara continued, so quiet you couldn’t even call it a whisper anymore. “Whether she should go to the police, tell them about New Year 2014, you know, the hit-and-run. Even though she’ll get in trouble, she’s saying at least it will get Max in trouble too, as he was the one driving. Maybe it’s a way of putting him behind bars, at least for a short while, so he can’t hurt anyone else. And put an end to this ridiculous lawsuit thi—”

  “No,” Pip cut across her. “Naomi can’t go to the police. It won’t work. She’ll only be hurting herself and nothing will happen to him. Max will win again.”

  “But at least the truth will be out and Naomi—”

  “The truth doesn’t matter,” Pip said, digging her nails into her thigh. The Pip from last year wouldn’t recognize this one today. That lively-eyed girl and her school project, naively clinging to the truth, wrapping it around herself like a blanket. But the Pip sitting here was a different person and she knew better. The truth had burned her too many times; it couldn’t be trusted. “Tell her not to, Cara. She didn’t hit that man and she didn’t want to leave him, she was coerced. Tell her I promise I will get him. I don’t know how, but I will do it. Max will get exactly what he deserves.”

  Ravi stretched an arm around Pip’s shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Or, you know, instead of revenge plots, we could focus our energy on going off to college in a few weeks,” he said brightly. “You haven’t even picked out a new comforter; I’m told that’s a very important milestone.”

  Pip knew that Ravi and Cara had just flashed each other a look. “I’m fine,” she said.

  Cara looked like she was about to say something more, but her eyes drew up as the bell jangled above the café door. Pip turned to follow her gaze. If it was Max Hastings, she didn’t know what she might do, she—

  “Ah, hello, gang,” said a voice Pip knew well.

  Connor Reynolds. She smiled and waved at him. But it wasn’t just Connor; Jamie was here too, closing the café door with another chime of the bell. He spotted Pip a moment later and a grin split his face, wrinkling his freckled nose. Frecklier now, after the summer. And she would know; she’d spent that entire week he was missing studying photos of his face, searching his eyes for answers.

  “Fancy seeing you guys here,” Jamie said, overtaking Connor as he strolled over to their table. He placed a fleeting hand on Pip’s shoulder. “Hey, how’re you doing? Can I get you guys a drink or something?”

  Sometimes Pip saw that same look in Jamie’s eyes too, haunted by Stanley’s death and the parts they’d both played in it. A burden they would always share. But Jamie hadn’t been there when it happened, he didn’t have blood on his hands, not in the same way.

  “Why is it whenever I’m on shift, the whole frickin’ circus turns up?” Cara said. “Do you guys think I’m lonely or something?”

  “No, mate.” Connor flicked her topknot. “We think you need the practice.”

  “Connor Reynolds, I swear to god if you order one of those iced pumpkin macchiatos today, I will murder you dead.”

  “Cara,” Jackie called cheerily from behind the counter, “remember lesson number one: we don’t threaten to kill customers.”

  “Even if they’re ordering the most complicated thing just to annoy you?” Cara stood up, with an exaggerated side-eye at Connor.

  “Even then.”

  Cara growled, calling Connor a “basic white bitch” under her breath as she made her way toward the counter. “One iced pumpkin macchiato coming up,” she said with the fakest of enthusiasm.

  “Made with love, I hope,” Connor laughed.

  Cara glowered. “More like spite.”

  “Well, as long as it’s not spit.”

  “So,” Jamie said, taking Cara’s empty seat, “Nat told me about the mediation meeting.”

  Pip nodded. “It was…eventful.”

  “I can’t believe he’s suing you.” Jamie’s hand tightened into a fist. “It’s just…it’s not fair. You’ve been through enough.”

  She shrugged. “It’ll be fine, I’ll work it out.” Everything always came back to Max Hastings; he was on every side and every angle, pressing in on her. Crushing her. Filling her
head with the sound of Stanley’s cracking ribs. She wiped the blood off her hands and changed the subject. “How’s paramedic training going?”

  “Yeah, it’s going well,” he nodded, broke into a smile. “I’m actually really enjoying it. Who would have thought I would ever enjoy hard work?”

  “I think Pip’s disgusting work ethic might be contagious,” Ravi said. “You should stay back, for your own safety.”

  The bell clanged again, and from the sudden way Jamie’s eyes glowed, Pip knew exactly who had just walked in. Nat da Silva stood in the doorway, her silver hair tied up in a small, stubby ponytail, though most of the hair had made a break from the scrunchie, fanning around her long neck.

  Nat’s face lit up as she surveyed the room, rolling up the sleeves of her plaid shirt.

  “Pip!” Nat made a beeline straight for her. She bent down and wrapped a long arm around Pip’s shoulders, hugging her from behind. She smelled like summer. “Didn’t know you’d be here. How are you?”

  “Good,” Pip said, their cheeks pressed together, Nat’s skin cold and fresh from the breeze outside. “You?”

  “Yeah, we’re doing good, aren’t we?” Nat straightened up and walked over to Jamie. He stood up to offer her his chair, pulling over another for himself. They paused as they collided, Nat’s hand pressed to his chest.

  “Hey you,” she said, and kissed him quickly.

  “Hey you, yourself,” Jamie said, the color rising to his already red cheeks.

  Pip couldn’t help but smile, watching the two of them together. It was…what was the word?…nice, she supposed. Something pure, something good that no one could take away from her—to have known each of them at their lowest and to see how far they’d come. On their own and together. A part of their lives, and they a part of hers.

  Sometimes good things did happen in this town, Pip reminded herself, her gaze catching on Ravi, finding his hand under the table. Jamie’s glowing eyes and Nat’s fierce smile. Connor and Cara bickering over pumpkin spice. This was what she wanted, wasn’t it? Just this. Normal life. People you could count on your fingers who cared about you as much as you cared about them. The people who would look for you if you disappeared.

  Could she bottle this feeling, live off it for a while? Fill herself with something good and ignore the slick of blood on her hands, not think about the gun in the sound of that cup hitting the table or those dead eyes waiting for her in the darkness of a blink?

  Oh, too late.

  Pip couldn’t see, sweat stinging the corners of her eyes. She might have pushed herself a little too hard this time. Too fast. Like she’d been running away, not just running.

  At least she hadn’t seen Max out this time. She’d looked for him, ahead and over her shoulder, but he never appeared. The roads were hers.

  She lowered her headphones to her neck and walked home, catching her breath as she passed the empty house next door. She turned up her driveway and stopped. Rubbed her eyes.

  They were still here, those chalk figures. Five little stick people without their heads. Except, no, that couldn’t be right. It had rained yesterday, hard, and they definitely hadn’t been here when Pip left for her run. They hadn’t, she swore. And there was something else too.

  She bent to get a closer look. They had moved. On Sunday morning they’d been at the intersection between sidewalk and driveway. Now they had shuffled several inches over, down the brickwork, moving closer to the house.

  Pip was certain: these figures were new. Drawn in the hour she’d been out on her run. She closed her eyes to focus her ears, listening to the white-noise sound of trees dancing in the wind, the high whistle of a bird overhead, and the growling sound of a lawn mower somewhere close by. But she couldn’t hear the squawking sounds of the neighborhood kids. Not one peep.

  Eyes open, and yes, she hadn’t imagined them. Five small figures. She should ask her mom if she knew what they were. Maybe they weren’t supposed to be headless people; maybe they were something entirely innocent and her wrung-out head was twisting them into something sinister.

  She straightened up, the muscles in her calves aching and a sharper sensation in her left ankle. She stretched out her legs, and continued toward the house.

  But she only made it two steps.

  Her heart picked up, knocking against her ribs.

  There was a gray lump farther along the driveway. Near the front door. A feathered gray lump. She knew before she even got close what it was. Another dead pigeon. Pip approached it slowly, steps careful and silent, as though not to wake it, bring it crashing back to life. Her fingers fizzed with adrenaline as she towered over the pigeon, expecting to see herself again reflected in its glassy, dead eyes. But she wasn’t there. Because there were no dead eyes.

  Because there was no head.

  A clean, tufted stump where it should be, hardly any blood.

  Pip stared at it. Then up at the house, and back to the headless pigeon. She took herself back to last Monday morning, peeled away the week, sorting through her memories. There she was, rushing out the door in her smart suit, stopping as she caught sight of the dead bird, fixating on its eyes, thinking of Stanley.

  It had been here. Right here. Two dead pigeons in exactly the same place. And those strange, shifting chalk figures with arms and legs and no heads. This couldn’t be a coincidence, could it? Pip didn’t believe in those at the best of times.

  “Mom!” she called, pushing open the front door. “Mom!” Her voice rebounded down the hall, the echo mocking her.

  “Hi, sweetie,” her mom replied, leaning out of the kitchen doorway, a knife in her hands. “I’m not crying, I promise, it’s these damn onions.”

  “Mom, there’s a dead pigeon out on the drive,” Pip said, keeping her voice low and even.

  “Another one?” Her mom’s face fell. “For goodness sake. And, of course, your father’s out again, so I’m the one who has to do it.” She sighed. “Right, just let me get this stew on and then I’ll deal with it.”

  “N-no,” Pip stammered. “Mom, you’re not getting it. There’s a dead pigeon in exactly the same place as the one last week. Like someone put it there on purpose.” It sounded ridiculous even as she said it.

  “Oh, don’t be silly.” Her mom waved her off. “It’s just one of the neighbors’ cats.”

  “A cat?” Pip shook her head. “But it’s in exactly the same pl—”

  “Yes, probably this cat’s new favorite killing spot. The Williamses have a big tabby cat; I see it in our yard sometimes. Poops in my herb garden.” She mimed stabbing it with her knife.

  “This one doesn’t have a head.”

  “Huh?”

  “The pigeon.”

  Her mom’s mouth turned down at the corners. “Well, what can I say, cats are disgusting. Don’t you remember the cat we had before we got Barney? When you were very small?”

  “You mean Socks?” Pip said.

  “Yes. Socks was a vicious little killer. Brought dead things in the house almost every day. Mice, birds. Sometimes these great big rabbits. Would chew their heads off and leave them somewhere for me to find. Trails of guts. It was like coming home to a horror show.”

  “What you guys talking about?” Josh’s voice called down the stairs.

  “Nothing!” Pip’s mom yelled back. “You mind your own business!”

  “But, this…” Pip sighed. “Can you just come look?”

  “I’m in the middle of dinner, Pip.”

  “It will take two seconds.” She tilted her head. “Please?”

  “Uh, fine.” Her mom backtracked to place the knife on the counter. “Quietly, though. I don’t want Mr. Nosy coming down and getting involved.”

  “Who’s Mr. Nosy?” Josh’s small voice followed them out the front door.

  “I’m getting that kid some earplugs, I swear to god,
” Pip’s mom whispered as they walked out onto the drive. “Right, yes, I see it. A headless pigeon, exactly as I imagined it. Thanks for the preview.”

  “It’s not just that.” Pip grabbed her arm and walked her down the driveway. She pointed. “Look, those little chalk figures. They were here a couple of days ago too, nearer the sidewalk. The rain washed them away, but they’re back, and they’ve moved. They weren’t here when I left on my run.”

  Pip’s mom bent over, leaning on her knees. She screwed her eyes.

  “You see them, right?” Pip asked her, doubt stirring in her stomach, cold and heavy.

  “Er, yeah, I guess,” she said, squinting even harder. “There are some faded white lines.”

  “Yeah, exactly,” Pip said, relieved. “And what do they look like to you?”

  Her mom stepped closer, tipped her head to look at them from another angle.

  “I don’t know, maybe it’s a tire tread from my car or something. I did drive to a building site today, so there could have been dust or chalk around.”

  “No, look harder,” Pip said, her voice spiking with irritation. She narrowed her own eyes; they couldn’t just be tire treads, could they?

  “I don’t know, Pip, maybe it’s dust from the mortar joints.”

  “The…what?”

  “The lines between the bricks.” Her mom blew out a funneled breath, and one of the little figures all but disappeared. She straightened up, running her hands over her skirt to smooth out the creases.

  Pip pointed again. “You don’t see stick people? Five of them. Well, four now, thanks. Like someone has drawn them?”

  Pip’s mom shook her head. “Don’t look like stick people to me,” she said. “They don’t have he—”