Day eighty-nine. Pip was only three months into her exile, her purgatory, walking these busy, regimented streets over and over, round and round. She walked every day, and she made promises. That’s what she did. Promises of how she would be different, how she would be better, how she would deserve her life back and everyone in it.
She would never complain ever again about taking Josh to one of his soccer games, and she’d answer his every curiosity, big or small. Be his big sister, his teacher, the person he could look up to, until the day when he outgrew her and she looked up to him instead.
She’d be kinder to her mom, who had only ever wanted the best for her. Pip should have listened more, she should have understood. Pip had taken her for granted: her strength, the roll of her eyes, and the reason for her pancakes, and she’d never do that again. They were a team, they had been from the start, from her very first breath, and if Pip could have her life back, they would be a team again, until her mom’s last. Holding hands, old skin on older skin.
Her dad. What she wouldn’t give to hear his easy laugh again, hear him call her his pickle. She would thank him every day, for choosing her and her mom, for everything he’d ever taught her. Tell him all the ways she was like him and so glad for it, how he’d shaped the person she’d become. She just had to become that person again. And if she could, maybe it would happen one day, her dad’s arm in hers as he walked her down that aisle, stopping halfway to tell her how proud he was.
Her friends. She’d always ask them how they were before they could ask her. She wouldn’t let anything get in the way, wouldn’t need them to be understanding because she would be instead. Laugh with Cara until it hurt during phone calls that lasted three hours, Connor’s bad puns and awkward arms, Jamie’s kind smile and big heart, Nat’s strength that she’d always admired so much, Naomi who’d been a big sister to her when Pip needed one most.
And Becca Bell, Pip made a promise to her: she would tell Becca everything when they were both free. Pip had had to cut her off too, missed visits, missed phone calls. But prison wasn’t Becca’s cage, her father had been her cage. He was gone now, but Becca deserved to know everything, about her dad and how he died, about Max, and the part Pip had played. But mostly she deserved to know about Andie. Her big sister who’d known about the monster in their house and did all she could to save Becca from him. She deserved to read Andie’s email and know how much she was loved, that those cruel things Andie said to her in her final moments were really her sister trying to protect her. Andie was terrified that one day their father would kill them both, and maybe she was scared that that would be the thing that made him snap. Pip would tell her all of it. Becca deserved to know that, in another life, she and Andie would have escaped their father, together.
Promises and promises.
Pip would earn them all back, if she got the chance.
It wasn’t Max’s trial she was waiting for, not really. It was hers. Her final judgment. The jury wouldn’t only decide Max’s fate, they would decide hers, whether she could have her life back and everyone in it.
Especially him.
She still spoke to Ravi every day. Not the real one—the one who lived in her head. She spoke to him when she was scared or unsure, asked him what he would do if he were there. He sat beside her when she was lonely, and she was always lonely, looking at old photos on her phone. He told her goodnight and kept her company in the dark while she learned how to sleep again. Pip wasn’t sure anymore if she was getting the timbre of his voice quite right, the exact way he had leaned into his words, whether they lilted or tilted. How had he said “Sarge” again? Had his voice dipped up or dipped down? She had to remember, she had to hold on, preserve him.
She thought about Ravi every day, almost every moment of every day, eighty-nine days full of moments. What he was thinking, what he was doing, whether he’d like the sandwich she’d just eaten—the answer was always yes—whether he was OK, whether he missed her as much as she missed him. Whether that absence had grown into resentment.
She hoped that whatever he was doing, he would learn to be happy again. If that meant waiting for her, waiting for the trial, or if that meant waiting to find someone else, Pip would understand. It broke her heart to think of him doing that crooked smile for anyone else, making up new nicknames, new invisible ways of saying “I love you,” but that was his choice. All Pip wanted to know was that he was happy, that there was good in his life again, that was all. Her freedom for his, and it was a choice she would make over and over again.
And if he did wait, if he did wait for her and the verdict went their way, Pip would work every day to be the kind of person who deserved Ravi Singh.
“You old softie,” he said in her ear, and Pip smiled, a breath of laughter.
There was another sound, hiding beneath her breath, a faint whine, high and reeling, growing closer and closer.
A siren.
More than one.
Screaming up and down, clashing together.
Pip whipped her head around. There were three police squad cars at the end of the street, overtaking traffic, speeding toward her.
Louder.
Louder.
Blue and red lights spiraling, breaking up the twilight, flashing in her eyes and lighting up the road.
Pip turned away and shut her eyes, screwed them tight.
This was it. They’d found her. Hawkins had worked it out. It was over. They’d come for her.
She stood there and held her breath.
Louder.
Closing in.
Three.
Two.
One.
A scream in her ears. A rush of wind through her hair as the cars streamed past, one after the other, their sirens fading as they carried on down the street away from her. Left her behind on the sidewalk.
Pip peeled her eyes open, carefully, slowly.
They were gone. Their sirens dwindling to a whine again, then a hum, then nothing.
Not for her.
Not today.
One day they might be for her, but not today, day eighty-nine.
Pip nodded, picked up her feet.
“Just got to keep going,” she told Ravi, and everyone else who lived in her head. “Keep going.”
Her judgment day would come, but for now, Pip walked and she promised. That’s all. One foot in front of the other, even if she had to drag them, even when that hole in her heart felt too big to keep standing. She walked and she promised and he was with her, Ravi’s fingers slotting in between hers in the way they used to fit, fingertips in the dips of his knuckles. The way they might again. Just one foot in front of the other, that was all. Pip didn’t know what was waiting for her at the end, she couldn’t see that far, and the light was failing, night drawing in, but maybe, just maybe, it would be something good.
3 minutes after the verdict was read in State of Connecticut vs. Max Hastings:
Hey Sarge, remember me?
As ever, the first thanks must go to my agent, Sam Copeland. Thank you for being the best sounding board/agony aunt/bad cop/good cop. This all started with me pitching you girl does school project about old murder case back in June 2016, and look where we are now! A whole-ass trilogy is the technical term. But there wouldn’t even be one book if you hadn’t taken a chance on me back then and told me to write this idea, so thank you! (Although let’s not give you ALL the credit—though I’m sure you’d love to take it!)
Next, I want to thank booksellers, who do such a fantastic job of getting books into the hands of readers and have continued to do so despite the incredible challenges of this past year. I am so so grateful to you for your enduring enthusiasm and dedication to books and reading, and for the huge part you have all played in the success of the AGGGTM series. To the bloggers, too, who dedicate so much of their time to posting reviews or sho
uting about books they have enjoyed. I could never thank you enough for all the love you have shown the AGGGTM series, and I am so looking forward to seeing your reactions to As Good As Dead.
To everyone at Delacorte Press who worked tirelessly to help turn my Word documents into actual, physical books. It takes a village. Thank you to Kelsey Horton for so expertly navigating this huge book with me and for understanding exactly what I wanted it to do. And again for guiding me through my fake-American-ness and all the ensuing hilarity that comes from “translating” UK to US English. Thank you so much to Beverly Horowitz for all your guidance and hard work overseeing this series from the very beginning, and for all the incredible opportunities you have given me. Thank you to Colleen Fellingham, Tamar Schwartz, and Marla Garfield for helping me whip this manuscript into shape. Thank you, as always, to the genius Casey Moses for the incredible cover design and for so expertly bringing to life my unhelpful suggestion of “duct tape—but make it creepy.” And to Christine Blackburne for your superb photography once again. I think this is the best cover of the series—it’s so dark and fitting for this finale and I couldn’t have asked for a better cover. I hope no one looks at duct tape the same way again. Thank you to Caitlin Whalen, Emma Benshoff, Jenn Inzetta, Lili Feinberg, and everyone in the publicity and marketing teams for all your incredible hard work in making sure people hear about these books and are excited about them—I am eternally grateful. And to Victoria Rodriguez for being the most amazing advocate for YA books. Thank you to the sales team for all you do to get these books out into the world, and a massive thanks to Nick Martorelli and the audiobook team for making my words sounds so cool and professional! A special thank-you to Priscilla Coleman again for your fantastic artwork, and for bringing the DT Killer to life so expertly in the police composite sketch.
After the last year we have had, it would seem a glaring omission for me to not express my overwhelming gratitude and admiration to all NHS workers (in the UK—where I live). Your everyday heroism and bravery during the Covid-19 pandemic at times made my contribution to society feel very small (typing away made-up stories about made-up people), but I want to thank you for being so inspiring and compassionate, and for looking after us all during this horrific year. You truly are heroes, and the National Health Service is an incredible privilege that we should protect at all costs.
Thank you to my writer friends, as always, for helping me navigate the tricky waters of publishing, especially during these lockdown releases. And for Zoom game sessions so I could virtually escape my flat and my deadlines (temporarily). Thank you to my Flower Huns for keeping me sane (remotely) during the pandemic. I look back fondly on those weekly quizzes. I can’t wait to do more IRL playing this year—although no more quizzes, yeah?
Thank you to my mum and dad as always for their unwavering support and for believing in me when no one else did. I think you probably knew I was going to be a writer from a young age, but thank you for fostering my love of stories by letting me have a childhood full of books, and video games, and TV, and films. Not a second of it was wasted. Also thank you, Dad, for your first reader comments, and for understanding the book perfectly. And thanks, Mum, for telling Dad that you “felt sick” when reading the book—that’s when I knew it was doing exactly what I wanted it to do!
Thank you to my sisters, Amy and Olivia, for their constant support, and for showing me just how important sisters are. Pip has had to find her own sisters (Cara, Naomi, Nat, and Becca), but I was lucky enough to have two from the very start. I’m sure your influence will be all over every example of sibling banter/bickering I ever write, so thank you for that!
To my nephew, George, who says I am his favorite author, despite being ten-plus years too young to read my books: top marks for you! To my new niece, Kaci, for supplying the cuteness to keep me going during a dreadful year of deadlines, and for also being a badass pandemic baby. And especially to my niece Danielle, who is almost old enough to read these books now. Several years ago, when Danielle was about nine years old, she was studying creative writing at school, and she told me that all the best stories end in a dot dot dot…Well, Danielle, I have finished my first-ever trilogy with a dot dot dot—I hope you’re proud (and I hope you’re right!).
Thank you to Peter, Gaye, and Katie Collis as ever for being my early readers and for being the best second family one could ask for.
To Ben, who is my cornerstone, my forever partner-in-crime. Without you, none of this would have been possible and Pip would never have seen the light of day, let alone made it to the end of book three. Thank you.
After writing a series that is so heavily influenced by true crime, it would seem strange for me to end without one comment on the criminal justice system and the areas in which it fails us. I feel a helpless despair when I look at the statistics of rape and sexual assault in this country (and I’m sure the case is much the same in the US) and the abysmal rate of reporting and conviction. Something isn’t right here. I hope the books themselves do the talking for me on this front. I think it’s clear that parts of these stories come from an angry place, both personal anger at the times when I have been harassed and not believed, and frustration at a system of justice that sometimes doesn’t feel very just.
Finally, to end on a lighter note, I want to thank all of you who have followed me through every page right to the end of book three. Thank you for trusting me, and I hope you found the ending you were looking for. I certainly did.
HOLLY JACKSON is the author of the #1 New York Times bestsellers A Good Girl’s Guide to Murder and Good Girl, Bad Blood. She started writing stories at a young age, completing her first (poor) attempt at a novel when she was fifteen. She graduated from the University of Nottingham, where she studied literary linguistics and creative writing, with a master’s degree in English. She enjoys playing video games and watching true-crime documentaries so she can pretend to be a detective. She lives in London.
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As Good as Dead Page 42