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 a slanted 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 neighbours 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 opened inward, Luke Eaton’s face in the crack. In the darkness, the tattooed patterns climbing up his neck and the side of his face looked like his skin had come apart, strips of flesh re-building 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 got away from Luke now; the house was empty, 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 Little Kilton. 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 on to 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 over the money and then held out her other hand. The paper bag went into it, crinkling under her grip.
Luke 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, filled with oblong tablets of a light mossy-green hue.
Pip stared at them, bit her lip. ‘Stronger?’ she asked.
‘Definitely.’
‘W-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 ten months ago. Pills that her 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.