Pip glanced at her computer screen again, at the page asking her to name Andie Bell’s first hamster, and it was almost funny, just how ridiculous it was. Just as funny, as ridiculous, as the notion of decomposing bodies and the way we all become one. Disappearing wasn’t mysterious, it wasn’t thrilling; it was cold bodies with stiff limbs and purpling patches as the blood inside pooled. What Billy Karras must have seen when he found Tara Yates. What Stanley Forbes must have looked like in the morgue, though how could he have had any blood left in him when it was all over her hands? Sal Singh too, dead in the woods outside her house. Not Andie Bell, though; she was found too late, when she was almost entirely gone, disintegrated. That was the closest thing to disappearing, Pip supposed.
And yet, Andie hadn’t disappeared, not at all. Here she was again, six and a half years after she died, and she was Pip’s only remaining lead. No, not a lead, a lifeline: some strange unknowable force connecting them across time, though they’d never met. Pip wasn’t there to save Andie, but maybe Andie was there to save her.
Maybe.
But still, Pip had to wait. And Andie Bell would remain a mystery at least for the next twenty-four and a half hours.
“This is a Tel-Co Link prepaid call from…Becca Bell…an inmate at FCI Danbury. Please note, this call will be recorded and is subject to monitoring at any time. To accept this call, press one. To block all futu—”
Pip pressed 1 so fast, she almost pushed the phone right out of her hands.
“Hello?” She raised it to her ear again, her leg bouncing uncontrollably against her desk, rattling the cup of pens on top. “Becca?”
“Hey,” Becca’s voice came through, faint at first. “Hey, Pip, yeah, I’m here. Sorry, there was a bit of a line. How’re you doing?”
“Yeah, good,” Pip said, her chest constricting uncomfortably with every breath. “Good, yeah, fine.”
“You sure?” Becca said, a hint of concern pulling up her voice. “You sound a bit jittery.”
“Oh, too much coffee, you know me,” Pip said with a hollow laugh. “How are you? How’s French going?”
“Good, yeah,” she said, then added, “Très bon,” with an amused sniff. “And they just started up yoga classes this week.”
“Oh, that’s fun.”
“Yeah, and I went with my friend, remember I told you about Nell?” Becca said. “So yeah, that was fun, although it’s made me realize how incredibly not-bendy I am. Something to work on, I suppose.”
Becca’s voice was bright; it always was. Pip might even describe it as close to happy. She found it strange, the idea that Becca might be happier in there than she would be out. Because she had chosen to be there, in a way: she’d pleaded guilty even though her defense team had been confident that if they went to trial, they could have avoided jail time. It always struck Pip as odd that someone would choose to be there, as Becca had. Maybe it wasn’t a cage, not to her.
“So,” Becca continued, “how is everyone? How’s Nat?”
“Yes, good,” Pip said. “I saw her a week and a bit ago. Her and Jamie Reynolds. They seem to be doing really well, actually. Happy.”
“That’s good,” Becca said, and Pip could hear the smile accompanying her words. “I’m glad she’s happy. And have you made any decision about the libel lawsuit yet?”
Truthfully, she’d almost forgotten about it. DT taking up too much of her brain, winding round and round it like tape. Christopher Epps’s card was still sitting, ignored, in that same jacket pocket.
“Well,” Pip said, “I haven’t spoken to my lawyer since, or Max’s. I’ve been a bit distracted. But I already told them my answer. I’m not recanting and I’m not apologizing to him. If Max wants to go to a full trial, that’s on him. But he won’t get away with it twice; I won’t let him.”
“I’ll testify,” Becca said, “if it happens. I know I already told you that. People need to know what he is, even if it’s not a criminal trial, not real justice.”
Justice. The word that always tripped Pip up, brought the blood out on her hands. That word was her prison, her cage. One glance down and yes, there Stanley was, bleeding out across her hands. She could talk to Becca about him if she wanted to, someone else who knew him as more than Child Brunswick. Becca and Stanley had even gone out twice before deciding to just be friends. Becca could listen, even if she couldn’t understand. But, no, Pip didn’t have time for that, not now.
“Becca, um, I’m…,” she began unsteadily. “I actually needed to ask you something. Quite urgent. I mean, it’s not going to sound urgent. But it is. It’s important but I can’t really explain why to you, not on the phone.”
“OK,” Becca said, some of the shine now gone from her voice. “Are you OK?”
“Yes, fine,” Pip replied. “It’s just, well, I need to know what Andie called her first hamster.”
Becca snorted, taken aback. “What?”
“It’s…it’s a security question. Do you remember what she called her first hamster?”
“A security question for what?” Becca asked.
“I think Andie had an email account. A secret one. One the police never found.”
“AndieBell94,” Becca said the words in one quick stream. “That was her email address. The police definitely asked about it at the time.”
“This is another account she used. And I can’t get on it unless I answer the security question.”
“Another account?” Becca hesitated. “Why are you looking into Andie again? Wha…why? What’s going on?”
“I don’t think I can say,” Pip said, holding down her knee to stop her leg from rattling. “This call is being recorded. But it might be something…important to me.” She paused, listening to the light swell of Becca’s breathing. “Life or death,” she added.
“Roadie.”
“What?” Pip said.
“Roadie, that was Andie’s first hamster.” Becca sniffed. “I don’t know where she got that name from. She got him for her sixth birthday, I think. Maybe seventh. I got one a year later and called him Toadie. Then we got our cat, Monty, who ate Toadie. But her hamster, he was Roadie.”
Pip’s fingers thrummed, ready.
“R-O-A-D-Y?” she asked.
“No. I-E,” Becca said. “Is this…is everything OK? Really?”
“It will be,” Pip said. “I hope. D-did Andie ever mention someone called Harriet Hunter to you? A friend?”
Silence down the line, the background hum of nearby voices. “No,” Becca said eventually. “I don’t think she did. I never met anyone called Harriet. Not that Andie ever really had people over at the house. Why? Who is she?”
“Becca, listen,” Pip said, her fingers fidgeting against the phone. “I’m going to have to go, I’m sorry. There’s something…and I might not have much time. But I will explain everything to you when it’s over, I promise.”
“Oh, yeah…that’s OK,” she said, her voice less close to happy now. “Are you still coming to visit, next Saturday? I’ve put you down on the log.”
“Yes,” Pip said, her mind already straying away from Becca, back to the computer screen and the security question waiting for her. “Yep, I’ll be there,” she said, absently.
“Good luck,” Becca said, “with…and, let me know you’re OK. When you can.”
“I will,” Pip said, and she could hear it now too, the jittering edge in her own voice. “Thanks, Becca. Bye.”
She did drop the phone this time, pushing the button too hard, the phone sliding right off her blood-slick palm. Pip left it there, on the floor, her fingers finding their way to the keyboard. To R and then O and on. Roadie. Andie Bell’s first hamster.
Invisible blood smears across the trackpad as Pip guided the onscreen arrow to the Next button.
A page loaded, telling her to create a new password, and to retype it in t
he box below to confirm. The feeling in her chest changed again, fizzing as it came into contact with her skin. What password should she use? Anything. Anything, just hurry up.
The first thing that came into her mind was DTKiller6.
At least she wouldn’t forget it.
She retyped it and clicked to confirm.
An inbox opened up, not enough emails to even fill the screen.
Pip exhaled. Here it was. Andie Bell’s secret email account. Preserved after all this time. Untouched, except by her. Pip had that feeling again in her spine, like she was out of her own time, untethered.
It was immediately clear why Andie had made this account. The only emails she’d ever sent and received were to and from Harriet Hunter. That must have been the reason Andie made the account, but it still wasn’t clear why, what her connection to Harriet and DT was.
Pip clicked through the emails, reading the same messages Harriet had showed her, from Andie’s side this time. Nothing new here. No explanations. No lifelines. There were only eight messages back and forth, all under that same subject line: Hi.
There had to be something else here. Anything. Andie had to help her, she had to. That’s why everything was leading back to her, coming full circle.
Pip clicked out of the primary inbox, into social. There was nothing here, just a blank page. She tried the third option—promotions—and the page filled with lines and lines of emails. All from the same sender: Self-Defense Tips. Andie must have subscribed to their email list at some point. She’d been getting the emails, one every week, long after she was already dead. Why was Andie looking at a self-defense newsletter? Pip shivered. Had Andie believed she was in danger? Had part of her known she wouldn’t make it past seventeen? That same inevitable feeling that lived inside Pip’s gut.
Pip checked down the side bar. There was nothing in the trash: no deleted emails. Damn. Come on, Andie. There had to be something here. Had to be. There was a connection here, and Pip was the person supposed to find it. She knew it, that unknowable thing. Things falling in line the way they were always supposed to.
Her hand drew up suddenly as her eyes caught on a number in the side bar. A small 1 hiding next to the Drafts folder. So small and slight, like it had been trying to hide from Pip’s prying eyes.
An unsent draft. Something Andie wrote. What was it—an unfinished message to HH? Maybe nothing at all, maybe just blank. Pip clicked to open the Drafts folder, and there it was, waiting for her at the top. One unsent email and she could already see it wasn’t blank. The date on the right-hand side marked it as being saved on February 19, 2014. The subject line said: from anon.
Pip’s chest constricted, and there was a strange rattling in her breath now, as she wiped away the blood from one hand and opened the draft.
To whom it may concern,
I know who the DT Killer is.
I’ve never said it out loud, not to anyone, not even just to myself. It’s only been a thought in my head, growing and growing, taking up more space until it’s all I can think about. Even writing it out here feels like a big step, makes me feel slightly less alone in this. But I am alone in this. All alone.
I know who the DT Killer is.
Or the Stratford Strangler. Whatever the name, I know who he is.
And I wish I could actually send this email. Send in an anonymous tip to the police with his name—don’t even know if police stations have email addresses. I could never call. I could never say it. I’m so scared. Every single second that I’m awake, and when I’m asleep too. It’s getting harder to pretend, when he’s inside the house, talking with us all like everything is normal, around the dinner table. But I know I can’t send this. How could I ever send this? Who would believe me? The police won’t. And if he found out what I said, he would kill me, just like he killed them. Of course he’d find out. He’s practically one of them.
This is just a practice, and maybe it will make me feel better, knowing that I could send this, even though I can’t. Talking it through with myself, outside of my head.
I know who the DT Killer is.
I saw him. I saw him with Julia Hunter. I know it was her, 100%. They were holding hands. I saw him kiss her cheek too. He doesn’t know I saw them. And I wasn’t that surprised to see them together. But then, six days later, she’s dead. He killed her. I know he did. I knew it as soon as I saw her face on the news. Everything fits now, all of those other details. I should have worked it out before this.
I don’t know why I contacted HH. I thought maybe she might know too, or have suspicions about who killed her sister, and I could have someone to talk about it with. Work out what to do together. But she doesn’t know. She doesn’t know anything. And, I don’t know why, but I feel like I have a responsibility to her, to make sure she’s OK. Because I know who killed her sister and I don’t know how to tell her. If someone touched Becca, I would be broken.
I can’t tell Sal. He probably already thinks I’m fucked-up enough. There’s so much I have to hide from him, because he’s one of the only good things I have left, and he has to be protected. He can never come over, just in case.
I have this overwhelming sense of dread all the time, that if I don’t escape this town, it’s going to kill me. He’s going to kill me. He’s already started looking at me differently, or maybe that started years ago. I hope he doesn’t look at Becca like that. But I have a plan, have had a plan for a while now, just need to keep my head down. I’ve been saving up all the cash from Howie for almost a year. It’s hidden, no one will find it. I fucked up school, though, so fucking stupid of me. That would have been the easiest way to escape, a college far away. No one would suspect a thing. But the only one I got into is here, and I’d have to stay in Fairview. I can’t stay at home.
Sal got into Yale. I wish I could go with him. It’s not so far away, but it’s far enough. Maybe there’s something I can do to go too. If it’s not too late. I have to do anything to get out of here. Anything. I know Mr. Ward helped him get his place, maybe he can help me too. Anything. At all costs.
And when I’m away and I’m safe, I’ll come back for Becca. She has to finish school first, she has to, she’s smart. But if I’m set up somewhere far away from here, she can come live with me, and when we are away and safe, maybe that’s when I tell the police who he is. Maybe that’s when I finally send this email, from anon, when he can no longer get to us, doesn’t know where we are.
That’s the plan, at least. I have no one to talk it through with, except myself, but it’s the best I can do. I’ll have to delete this now, just in case.
This feels too big for me, but I think I can do it. Save us. Keep Becca safe. Survive.
I just have to m
Ravi scrolled up and down again, shaking his head, and Pip could see the reflection of Andie’s words in the dark of his eyes. Even clearer now that they were filling with tears. The weight of her ghost inside him too, not just in her. A dead girl shared, a dead girl halved, and they were the only two people in the word who knew. These weren’t Andie Bell’s final words, but they sure felt like it.
“I don’t believe it,” he said finally, cupping his hands around his face. “I can’t believe it. Andie, she…This changes everything. Everything.”
Pip sighed. There was an unutterable sadness in her gut, and still she was sinking through the floor, dragging Andie’s ghost with her. But she took Ravi’s hand, holding tight to anchor them all together. “I mean, it changes everything, and it changes nothing,” she said. “Andie didn’t survive. It wasn’t DT who killed her, but it was everything she tried to do to escape him that did. Howie Bowers. Max Hastings. Elliot Ward. Becca. This is why it all happened. Everything. Full circle,” she added quietly. The beginning was the end and the end the beginning, and DT was both.
Ravi wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “I just…” His voice croaked,
stifling his next words. “I don’t know how I feel about this. It’s…it’s too sad. And we, we’ve all been wrong about her. I couldn’t really understand what Sal saw in her before, but…oh god, she must have been so terrified. So alone.” He glanced up at Pip. “And this is it, isn’t it? The nineteenth of February: it was right after this that she first approached Mr. Ward, and…”
“At all costs,” Pip said, echoing Andie’s words, and she felt that uncanny closeness to her again. Five years apart and they’d never met, yet here she was, carrying Andie around in her chest. Two dead girls walking, more alike than Pip could ever have realized. “She was desperate. I never really understood why, but I never would have guessed this. Poor Andie.”
Such an inadequate thing to say, but what else was there?
“She was brave,” Ravi said in a small voice. “Reminds me of you a little bit.” A small smile to match the small voice. “The Singh brothers clearly have a type.”
But Pip’s mind had left her, spinning back to last year. To Elliot Ward standing across from her, the police on their way. “Elliot said something to me last year, and I never really understood it until now.” She paused, replaying the scene in her head. “He told me that when Andie went round to his house—before he pushed her off and she hit her head—she told him that she had to get away from home, from Fairview, because it was killing her. The signs were there…I—I didn’t see them.”
“And it did,” Ravi said, his eyes back on the screen, on the final trace of Andie Bell, her last mystery laid bare. “It did kill her.”
“Before he did,” she said.
“Who is he?” Ravi said, running an unclicked pen down the laptop screen. “There’s no name, but there’s a lot of information, Pip. There must be a smoking gun here. So, it’s someone the whole Bell family knew, including Andie and Becca. Which makes sense with the connection to Jason’s company Green Scene, right?”
As Good as Dead Page 17
