‘MAX, do not lie to me or I swear to god I will ruin you! Did you put Rohypnol in Becca’s drink and have sex with her?’
‘Yes, but, like . . . it wasn’t rape. She didn’t say no.’
‘Because you drugged her, you vile rapist gargoyle. You have no idea what you’ve done.’
Her ears rang, trying to push away his voice and listen to her own. Good and bad didn’t matter here. There were only winners. And he only won if she let him. That was justice.
So, she did it.
She pressed the button, uploading the audio of that phone call to her website, reposting it on the podcast’s Twitter account. Alongside the post, she wrote: Max Hastings trial final update. I don’t care what the jury believes: he is guilty.
It was done, it was gone.
There was no going back now. This was her, and it was OK.
She dropped her phone on to the passenger seat and picked up the pot of paint she’d taken from the garage, tucking the brush into her back pocket. She opened the door, reaching back for the final item, the hammer from her dad’s toolkit, before stepping silently out of her car.
She walked up the road, passing one house, two, three, four, until she stopped, looking up at the Hastings family’s sprawling home, with its painted white front door. They were out, all of them, at their fancy dinner at the Savoy. And Pip was here, outside their empty house.
Up the drive, past the large oak tree, coming to a stop before the front door. She laid the paint pot on the ground, bending down to use the end of the hammer to pry open the lid. It was half full, the paint a dull green as she pulled out the brush and dipped it inside, spooling off the excess.
No going back. She took one breath and then stepped up, pressing the brush against the front door. She reached high, looping it up and down, crouching to pick up more paint when her lines ran dry.
The letters were shaky and dripping, spreading out from the door to the light-coloured bricks either side. She went back over the words, deeper and darker, and when she was done, she dropped the brush on the path, a small spatter of paint where it landed. She picked up the hammer, twirling it between her fingers, feeling its weight in her hands.
She crossed to the left side of the house, to the window there. She readied her arm and the hammer, held it back. Then she swung with full force into the window.
It shattered. A sprinkling of broken glass fell inside and out, like glitter, like rain, dusting the tops of her trainers. She tightened her grip on the hammer, glass crunching under her feet as she approached the next window. Pulled back and smashed it, the sound of the tinkling glass lost beneath the rain. And the next window. First swing, cracked. Second swing, exploded. Past the front door and the words she’d painted there, to the windows on the other side. One. Two. Three. Until all six windows at the front of the house were destroyed. Broken open. Exposed.
Pip’s breath was heavy in her chest now, right arm aching as she back-stepped down the drive. Her hair was matted and wet, whipping across her face as she looked up at the destruction. Her destruction.
And painted across the front, in the same forest-green shade as the Amobis’ new garden shed, were the words:
Rapist
I will get you
Pip read them, and read them again; looked around at what she’d done.
And she checked, down inside herself, under her skin, but she couldn’t find it. The scream was no longer there, waiting for her. She’d beaten it.
*
Can you come outside? she texted him, the rain pattering against her screen, the phone no longer recognizing her thumb.
Read, it said beneath her message a few seconds later.
She watched from outside as the light in Ravi’s bedroom window clicked on, and the curtain twitched for just a second.
Pip followed his progress as the hall light turned on in the upper middle window, and then the downstairs hall light, glowing through the glass in the front door. Broken up now by Ravi’s silhouette as he made his way towards it.
It opened and he stood there against the light, wearing just a white T-shirt and navy joggers. He looked at her, then up at the rain in the sky, and he walked outside, his feet bare, slapping against the path.
‘Nice night,’ he said, squinting against the droplets now running down his face.
‘I’m sorry.’ Pip looked at him, her hair sticking to her face in long dark streaks. ‘I’m sorry I took it out on you.’
‘That’s OK,’ he said.
‘No, it’s not.’ She shook her head. ‘I had no right to be angry at you. I think I was angry at me, mostly. And it’s not just everything that happened today. I mean, it is that, but also I’ve been lying to myself for a while now, trying to separate myself from that person who became so obsessed with finding Andie Bell’s killer. Trying to convince everyone else it wasn’t really me so I could convince myself. But I think, now, that that is me. And maybe I’m selfish and maybe I’m a liar and maybe I’m reckless and obsessive and I’m OK with doing bad things when it’s me doing them and maybe I’m a hypocrite, and maybe none of that is good, but it feels good. It feels like me, and I hope you’re OK with all that because . . . I love you too.’
She had barely finished speaking, but Ravi’s hand was against her face, cupped around her cheek, his thumb rubbing the rain from her bottom lip. He moved his fingers down to lift her chin and then he kissed her. Long and hard, their faces wet against each other, both trying to fight a smile.
But the smile broke eventually, and Ravi drew back. ‘You should have just asked me. I know exactly who you are. And I love her. I love you. Oh, by the way, I said it first.’
‘Yeah, in anger,’ said Pip.
‘Ah, that’s just because I’m so brooding and mysterious.’ He pulled a face with puckered lips and too-serious eyes.
‘Um, Ravi?’
‘Yes, Um Pip.’
‘I need to tell you something. Something I just did.’
‘What did you do?’ He dropped the face into one that was actually serious. ‘Pip, what did you just do?’
FRIDAY
7 DAYS MISSING
Thirty-Four
Pip’s alarm went off for school, chirping from her bedside table.
She yawned, sticking one foot outside the duvet. Then she remembered that she was suspended, so she tucked the foot back inside and leaned over to snooze the alarm.
But even through one sleepy eye, she saw the message waiting on her phone. Received seven minutes ago, from Nat da Silva.
Hi it’s Nat. I need to show you something. It’s about Jamie. About Layla Mead.
Her eyes hadn’t even unstuck yet, but Pip sat up and kicked off the duvet. Her jeans were still damp from last night as she pulled them on, with a white long sleeved T-shirt from the top of the laundry basket; it probably had one more use in it.
She was just fighting a brush through her rain-tangled hair when her mum came in to say goodbye before work.
‘I’m taking Josh to school now,’ she said.
‘OK.’ Pip winced as the brush caught in a knot. ‘Have a good day.’
‘We need to have a proper conversation about what’s going on with you, this weekend.’ Her mum’s eyes were stern, but her voice was trying not to be. ‘I know you’re under a lot of pressure, but we agreed that wouldn’t happen this time.’