As Good as Dead

by Holly Jackson

  One down, one to go. But she couldn’t walk over to it, right into its view. She left the same way she’d come, back along the house and the hedgerow, vaulting the fence where it hid beneath the tree. Walked down the sidewalk with her head down, hood up, to the other side of the house. An opening in the fence between two shrubs. Pip climbed over and in, creeping up the outer edge of the other side of the house. Sidled in across the front. Ripped more tape free, reached up, and covered the camera.

  She exhaled. OK, the cameras were disabled, and they wouldn’t have caught a trace of the one disabling them. Because it was Max, not her. Max was the one who covered the cameras.

  Pip returned to the outer corner of the house and carried on around its side, walking carefully up to a glowing window near the back. She ducked and peered inside.

  The room was bright, lit up by yellow spotlights on the ceiling. But there was another light, flickering blue, clashing against the yellow. Pip’s eyes found the source: the huge TV mounted against the back wall. And in front of the TV, his messy blond hair visible over the arm of the sofa, was Max Hastings. A controller in his raised hands as he thumbed one button over and over, a gun firing on-screen. Feet up on the oak coffee table, beside the obnoxious blue water bottle he took with him everywhere.

  Max shuffled and Pip dropped to the grass, her head below the window. She took two deep breaths, leaning against the bricks, crushing her bag between them. This was the part Ravi had been most worried about, that any number of small factors could send the plan spinning off course, out of her control, that he should be there to help.

  But Max was here, and so was his blue water bottle. And if Pip could get inside, that’s all she needed. He’d never even know.

  Pip wouldn’t have long to work out how to break in. Minutes, if that. She’d told Nat to buy her as much time as she could, but even two minutes was optimistic. Jamie had volunteered for the distraction at first, said he’d be able to keep Max at the door long enough. They’d been at school together, Jamie could find something to say, but Nat had shaken her head at them both, stepped forward.

  “Put him away forever, you said?” Nat had asked her.

  “Thirty to life,” Pip replied.

  “Well, then this is my last chance to say goodbye. I’ll do the distraction,” she’d said, teeth gritted and determined.

  The same look was on Pip’s face now, as she reached into her pocket, fingers closing around the slippery latex gloves. She pulled them out and pulled them on, stretching her fingers down to the very ends. The burner phone next, with a new number saved. The number of the other burner phone she’d just given to Jamie and Connor.

  Ready, she typed slowly, the gloves tripping up her fingers.

  It was only a few seconds until she heard the sound of a car door slamming in the distance.

  Nat was on her way.

  Any second that doorbell would ring. And everything, the entire plan, Pip’s life, depended on the next ninety seconds.

  The shrill sound of a doorbell, a scream by the time it reached Pip’s ears.

  Go.

  Breath-fogged glass and a getaway heart, escaping her chest.

  Pip’s eyes at the bottom of the window, watching as Max paused the video game.

  He stood up, dropped the controller on the sofa. Stretched his arms over his head, then wiped his hands on his running shorts.

  He turned away.

  Headed toward the hallway.

  Now.

  Pip was numb and she was flying.

  Feet carrying her round the back of the house.

  She heard the doorbell, pressed twice again.

  A muffled shout from inside, Max’s voice. “I’m coming, I’m coming!”

  More windows at the back. Damn, they were all closed. Pip had hoped at least one would be open—it was summer, after all. But there was an unwelcome chill to the evening and hope wasn’t on her side. Pip would break a window if she had to; undo the catch and climb through. Pray he wouldn’t hear, that he wouldn’t go into that room until it was too late. But a broken window didn’t fit the narrative as well.

  How long had it been now? Had Max already opened the door, shocked to see Nat da Silva standing in the dark outside?

  Stop. Stop thinking and move.

  Pip ran across the back of the house, keeping low.

  There was a patio up ahead, with a folded-up sunshade and a covered-up table. Leading out to it was a wide set of patio doors, small squares of glass in a white painted frame. There was no light leaking out of them, but as Pip approached, the moon lit her way this time, taking over from the sun, showing her a large dining room inside. And the door that must connect it to the living room was closed, yellow lines of light around its border.

  Her breaths were adrenaline-fast, and each one hurt.

  Pip hurried up to the patio doors. Through the glass, she could see the door handle inside, and a set of keys in the lock. This was it. Her way in. She just had to break that one small pane of glass and she could reach inside to unlock the door. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do.

  Quickly.

  She braced one hand against the handle, readying the elbow on her other arm. But before she could ram it forward, into the glass, her other hand gave way. The handle pushed down, under her weight. And then—to her shock—it opened outward as she pulled.

  The door was already unlocked.

  It shouldn’t be unlocked; the plan had counted on an open window, not an open door. But maybe Max didn’t fear the danger lurking outside in the night, because he already was the danger. Plain-sight danger, not the dark-of-night kind. Or maybe he was just forgetful. Pip didn’t pause, didn’t stop to question it anymore, sliding through the gap and shut the patio door quietly behind her.

  She was inside.

  How long had that taken? She needed more time. How much longer could Nat distract him for?

  Pip could hear their voices now, carrying through the house. She couldn’t make out the words, not until she opened the dining room door and crept through into the living room.

  The room was open-plan, leading out onto the hallway. Pip glanced over, and Max was right over there, standing at the front door with his back to her. Beyond him, Pip could just make out the halo of Nat’s white hair.

  “I don’t understand why you’re here,” she heard Max say, his voice quieter than usual, unsure.

  “Just wanted to talk to you,” Nat said.

  Pip held her breath and stepped forward. Slow, silent. Her eyes shifted, away from Max to his blue water bottle, waiting on the coffee table ahead.

  “Kind of feel like I shouldn’t talk to you, not without a lawyer present,” replied Max.

  “And doesn’t that say everything?” Nat said with a sniff.

  There was still water in the bottle, almost a third. Pip had hoped for more, but that would do. It should be tasteless. Her feet moved from polished wood to the huge over-patterned rug in the center of the room. There were no shadows to disappear into, nothing to hide behind. The room was bright and if Max looked back now, he’d see her.

  “So, what did you want to say?” Max coughed lightly, and Pip halted, checking over her shoulder.

  “Wanted to talk to you about this libel suit you’re filing against Pip.”

  Pip crept forward, testing out each step before she leaned into it, in case one of the floorboards creaked.

  She reached the edge of the large corner sofa and ducked beneath it, crawling forward, toward the bottle. The controller and Max’s phone lying abandoned on the seat of the sofa.

  “What about it?” asked Max.

  Pip reached out with her gloved hand, fingers wrapping around the sturdy plastic of the bottle. Its spout was already up and waiting, globs of his spit resting on top.

  “Why are you doing it?” Nat said.
r />   Pip unscrewed the top of the bottle, round and round.

  “I have to,” said Max. “She spread lies about me to a significant number of people. Damaged my reputation.”

  The top of the bottle came free, attached to a long plastic straw.

  “Reputation,” Nat laughed darkly.

  Pip rested the bottle top on the table, a few drops of water falling from the straw onto the rug below.

  “Yes, my reputation.”

  She reached into her pocket, pulled out the sealed plastic bag with the green powder. Holding the bottle in the crook of her elbow, Pip peeled open the baggie.

  “Except they weren’t lies, you know that. For fuck’s sake, Max, she has a recording of you admitting it. What you did to Becca Bell. And me. And all the others. We know.”

  Pip tipped the bag over the opening of the bottle. The green powder made a gentle hiss as it slid down, landing in the water.

  “That recording was fabricated. I would never say that.”

  Green dust clung to the inner walls of the bottle, sinking down through the water.

  “Have you said that so many times you’re even starting to believe it yourself?” Nat asked him.

  Pip swirled the water inside the bottle, picking up the dregs. Gently. A small splashing sound of water crashing on water.

  “Look, I really don’t have time for this.”

  Pip froze.

  She couldn’t see beyond the sofa. Was it over? Was Max shutting the door? Would he catch her right here, crouched on his rug, his water bottle in her hands?

  A sound. Shuffling. And then something harder, like wood crashing up against something.

  “But I’m not finished,” Nat said, louder now. Much louder. Was it a signal to Pip? Get out of there now, she couldn’t keep him any longer.

  Pip gave the bottle one last shake. The powder was dissolving, cloudy in the water, but Max wouldn’t be able to tell, not through the dark blue plastic. She picked up the top and screwed it back on.

  “What are you doing?” Max said, his voice rising too. Pip flinched. But, no, he wasn’t talking to her. He was still over there, talking to Nat. “What do you want?”

  Nat coughed, a harsh, unnatural sound. That was a signal, Pip was sure.

  She placed the bottle back on the coffee table, exactly where she’d found it, and she turned. Crawling back the way she’d come.

  “I wanted to tell you…”

  “Yes?” Max snapped, impatient.

  Past the edge of the sofa, and Pip straightened up. She looked at them, Nat’s foot over the threshold, blocking the front door.

  “That if you take it to trial, this libel case against Pip, I will be there, every day.”

  Pip crept, one foot in front of the other, bag shuffling against her shoulders. Too loud. She looked across, her eyes meeting Nat’s over Max’s shoulder.

  “I will testify against you. So will the others, I’m sure.”

  Pip shifted her gaze, focusing on the closed door into the dining room ahead of her. Max wouldn’t go in there, she was sure. She could wait him out in there, or outside.

  “You won’t get away a second time. I promise. We will get you.”

  More scuffling. Fabric on fabric. Then a thump.

  Someone roared.

  Max.

  Pip wouldn’t make it. Too far. She darted right instead, to a slatted door fitted under the grand staircase. She opened it and swung herself inside, falling back into the small space, between a vacuum cleaner and a mop. She leaned up and pulled the closet door closed.

  It slammed. Loudly.

  No, that wasn’t her door.

  That was the front door.

  The slam echoing down the polished hall.

  No, that wasn’t an echo, those were feet.

  Max’s.

  Slapping against the wooden floorboards, a person-shaped blur passing through the slats in front of her.

  He stopped, right outside, and Pip didn’t breathe.

  Pip still didn’t breathe.

  She pushed her eyes up against the closet door, adjusting to the checkerboard view beyond.

  Outside, Max swayed on his feet for a moment. Then he stumbled past her, holding one hand to his face. Up to his eye.

  Pip exhaled, carefully, breath bouncing back into her face. Nat must have hit him. That was the thump Pip heard. Not part of the plan, but it had worked. Bought Pip enough time to hide in this closet.

  Max hadn’t seen her; he didn’t know anyone was inside. The drugs were in place, dissolved in his blue water bottle. She’d made it. The part where Ravi was scared it would all fall apart. She’d just about held it together.

  And now, Pip waited.

  Max moved away from her, past the living room, toward an archway into the kitchen. Pip heard clattering, Max swearing to himself under his breath, and another slamming door. He returned a minute later, clutching something up to his eye.

  Pip shifted to get a better view as Max padded over to the sofa. Something green and plastic; maybe a pack of frozen peas. Good. Pip hoped Nat hadn’t held back. Although, now Max would have a black eye to explain, to fit into the narrative. But maybe that wasn’t a bad thing, maybe that worked even better. A fight, between Max and Jason Bell. Jason punched him and Max walked away, returned with a hammer, sneaking up behind him. Yes, the bruise blossoming on Max’s face could bend to fit right into the story Pip was creating for that not-yet-dead man fifteen miles away.

  Max slumped down into his place on the sofa. Pip could no longer see his face, just a striped view of the back of his head. A grunt, a shuffling sound as he must have rearranged the peas. His head moved as he leaned forward.

  Pip couldn’t see. She couldn’t see from here if he was drinking the water.

  But she could hear it. That obnoxious sucking sound from the spout, filling the silent house, cutting right through her.

  Pip pushed up onto her feet, quietly, quietly, her bag snagging on the top of the vacuum cleaner. She unhooked it and straightened up, looking through the slats again. Now she could see him, from this height. One hand on the frozen peas over his eye, the other clutched around his bottle. At least four large sips before he put it back down. That wasn’t enough. He had to drink all of it, most of it.

  She pulled out the burner phone from the front pocket of her hoodie. It was 8:57 p.m. Fuck, almost nine already. Pip thought they could buy at least three hours with Jason’s body. Which meant she only had a half hour until the time-of-death window might open. She was supposed to start establishing her alibi in forty-five minutes.

  And yet, there was nothing she could do now. All she could do was wait. Watch Max from her hiding place. Try to play god, using that dark place in her mind to make him sit forward and drink more.

  Max didn’t listen. He leaned forward, but only to place his phone on the coffee table. Then he picked up his controller and unpaused his game. Gunshots. A lot, but Pip heard only six, striking her through the chest, Stanley’s blood creeping over her hands in the dark closet. Stanley’s, not Jason’s. She could tell the difference somehow.

  Max took another sip at 9:00 exactly.

  Two more at 9:03.

  Went to the downstairs bathroom at 9:05. It was right next to Pip’s closet, and she could hear everything. He didn’t flush, and she didn’t breathe.

  Another sip at 9:06 as he returned to the sofa, a sucking, rattling sound from the spout. He put down the water bottle, and then picked it back up again, getting to his feet. What was he doing? Where was he taking it? Pip couldn’t see, shifting her head to peer through the slats.

  He wandered through the archway into the kitchen. Pip heard the sounds of a running faucet. Max appeared again, the blue bottle in his hand. Twisting his wrist as he screwed the top back on. He’d just refilled the bottle. He must ha
ve drunk it all, or at least he’d gotten close enough to the bottom to need to fill up.

  The drugs were gone. Inside him now.

  Max stumbled, tripping over his own bare foot. He stood there for a moment, blinking down at his feet, like he was confused, a deepening red mark under one eye.

  The pills must already be starting to take effect. Some had been in his system for more than ten minutes now. How long would it be until he passed out?

  Max took a tentative step, swaying slightly, and then another quick one, hurrying over to the sofa. He lowered himself down, took another sip of water. He was feeling dizzy, Pip could tell. She’d had that same feeling last year, sitting across from Becca in the Bells’ kitchen, though she’d been given more than two and a half milligrams. The exhaustion, like her body was starting to separate from her mind. Soon his legs wouldn’t be able to hold him up.

  Pip wondered what he was thinking right now, as he unpaused the game and started shooting again, taking cover behind a dilapidated wall. Maybe he was thinking his light-headedness had come from the blow to his head, from Nat’s fist. Maybe he was feeling tired, and as he felt sleep dragging him in, closer and closer, he’d tell himself he just needed to sleep it off. He’d never know, never suspect, that as soon as he fell asleep, he would be out of the house, killing a man.

  Max’s head lowered against the arm of the sofa, resting on the frozen peas. Pip couldn’t see his face, couldn’t see his eyes. But they must still be open, because he was still shooting.

  But his on-screen character was moving sluggishly too, the violent world spinning around him in dizzying circles as Max started to lose control of his thumbs.

  Pip watched, eyes flicking between the two.

  Waiting. Waiting.

  She glanced down at the time, the minutes running away from her.

  And when she looked back up, neither of them was moving. Not Max, stretched out on the sofa, head up on the arm. And not his character on-screen, standing still in the middle of a battlefield, life bar draining as he took hit after hit.

  You’re dead, the game told him, fading to a loading screen.