A yawn split Pip’s face as she stared down at the toast in front of her. Not hungry.
“Why are you so tired this morning?” her mom asked, watching her over a mug of coffee.
Pip shrugged, flicking the toast around her plate. Josh was sitting opposite her, humming as he shoveled Cocoa Puffs into his mouth, swinging his legs under the table and kicking her accidentally on purpose. She didn’t react, pulling her knees up to sit cross-legged on the chair instead. The radio was on in the background, tuned to WNPR, as always. A song was just ending, the hosts talking over the fading drums.
“Are you taking too much on with this Jamie thing?” her mom said.
“It’s not a thing, Mom,” Pip said, and she could feel herself growing irritable, wearing it like a layer beneath her skin, warm and unstable. “It’s his life. I can be tired for that.”
“OK, OK,” her mom said, taking the empty bowl away from Josh. “I’m allowed to worry about you.”
Pip wished she wouldn’t. She didn’t need anyone’s worry; Jamie did.
A text lit up Pip’s phone, from Ravi. Just leaving for court to wait for deliberation. How are you?
Pip stood and scooped up her phone, grabbing her plate with the other hand and sliding the toast into the trash. She felt her mom’s eyes on her. “Not hungry yet,” she explained. “I’ll take a cereal bar to school.”
She had taken only a few steps down the hall when her mom called her back.
“I’m just going to the bathroom!” she replied.
“Pip, get in here now!” her mom shouted. And it was a real shout, a sound Pip rarely heard from her, rough and panicked.
Pip felt instantly cold, all feeling draining from her face. She spun back, socks sliding on the oak floor as she sprinted into the kitchen.
“What, what, what?” she said quickly, eyes darting from a confused- looking Josh to her mom, who was reaching over to the radio and turning up
the volume.
“Listen,” she said.
“…a dog walker discovered the body at about six a.m. yesterday morning in the trees beside I-95, between Fairview and Stamford. Officers are still at the scene. The deceased is as yet unidentified but has been described as a white male in his early twenties. The cause of death is currently unknown. A spokesperson for Fairview Police Department has said—”
“No.” The word must have come from Pip, but she didn’t remember saying it. Didn’t remember moving her lips, nor the scrape of the word against her narrowing throat. “No no nonono.” She didn’t feel anything except numb, her feet a solid weight sinking into the ground, her hands detaching
from her finger by finger.
“P…i…p?”
Everything around her moved too slowly, like the room was floating, because it was right there with her in the eye of the panic.
“Pip!”
And everything snapped back into focus, into time, and she could hear her heart battering in her ears. She looked up at her mom, who mirrored back her terrified eyes.
“Go,” her mom said, hurrying over and turning Pip by her shoulders. “Go!
I’ll call school and tell them you’ll be late.”
“Up next, one of my favorite songs from the eighties, we have ‘Sweet
Dreams’…”
“He—he c-can’t be—”
“Go,” her mom said, pushing her down the hall, just as Pip’s phone started buzzing with an incoming call from Connor.
—
It was Connor who opened the door, his eyes rubbed red and a twitch in his upper lip.
Pip stepped inside without a word. She gripped his arm, above the elbow, for a long, silent second. And then she let go, saying, “Where’s your mom?”
“Here.” His voice was just a croak as he led Pip into the cold living room.
The daylight was wrong in here, too harsh, too bright, too alive. And Joanna was huddled against it, wrapped in an old blanket on the sofa, her face buried in a tissue.
“Pip’s here,” Connor said in barely more than a whisper.
Joanna glanced up. Her eyes were swollen and she looked different, like something beneath her face had broken.
She didn’t speak, just held out her arms, and Pip stumbled forward to lower herself onto the sofa. Joanna wrapped her arms around her and Pip held her back, feeling Joanna’s racing heart in her own chest.
“We need to call Detective Hawkins at the police station,” Pip said, pulling back. “Ask if they’ve identified the—”
“Arthur’s on the phone to them now.” Joanna shuffled over to clear a space between them for Connor. And once Connor had settled, his leg pressing into hers, Pip could hear the sound of Arthur’s voice, growing louder as he left the kitchen and walked toward them.
“Yes,” he said, entering the room with the phone to his ear, blinking as his gaze settled on Pip. His face looked gray, mouth in a tense line. “Jamie Reynolds. No, Reynolds, with an r. Yes. Case number? Um…” His eyes darted to Joanna. She began to push herself up from the sofa, but Pip cut in.
“Four nine zero,” she said. Arthur repeated the numbers after her into the phone. “Zero one five. Two nine three.”
Arthur nodded at her. “Yes. Missing since last Friday night.” He chewed his thumb. “The body found by the I-95, do you know who it is yet? No. No, don’t put me on hold aga—”
He leaned against the door, closing it and resting his head against one finger, pushing his skin into folds. Waiting.
And waiting.
It was the worst wait Pip had ever had in her life. Her chest was so tight she had to force the air through and out of her nose. And with every breath she thought she might be sick, swallowing down the bile.
Please, she kept thinking, no idea who she was thinking it to. Just someone. Anyone. Please, please don’t let it be Jamie. Please. She’d promised Connor. She’d promised she’d find his brother. She promised she’d save him.
Please. Please, not him.
Her eyes slipped from Arthur back to Connor beside her.
“Should I be here?” she mouthed.
But Connor nodded and took her hand, their palms clammy, sticking together. Pip saw him take his mother’s hand, too, on the other side.
Waiting.
Arthur’s eyes were closed, the fingers on his free hand pressing into his eyelids, so hard it must have hurt, his chest rising in stuttering movements.
Waiting.
Until… “Yes?” Arthur said, his eyes snapping open.
Pip’s heartbeat was so loud, so fast, it felt like that was all she was: a heart and the empty skin around it.
“Hello, Detective,” said Arthur. “Yes, that’s what I’m calling about. Yes.”
Connor gripped Pip’s hand even tighter, crushing her bones together.
“Yes, I understand. So is—” Arthur’s hand was shaking at his side. “Yes, I understand that.”
He went quiet, listening to the other end of the phone.
And then his face dropped.
Cracked in two.
He doubled forward, the phone going limp in his fingers. Other hand up to his face as he bawled into it. A high, inhuman sound that racked his entire body.
Connor’s hand went slack against Pip’s, his jaw falling open.
Arthur straightened up, tears spilling down into his bared mouth.
“It’s not Jamie,” he said.
“What?” Joanna stood up, clutching her face.
“It’s not Jamie,” Arthur said again, choking on a sob, putting his phone down. “It’s someone else. His family just identified him. It’s not Jamie.”
“It’s not Jamie?” Joanna said, like she didn’t dare believe it yet.
“It’s not him,” Arthur said, staggering forward to pull her to him, crying down into her hair. “It’s not our boy. Not Jamie.”
Connor unstuck from Pip, his cheeks flushed and tear-streaked, and he folded himself around his parents. They held each other and they cried, and it was a cry of relief and grief and confusion. They’d lost him for a while. For a few minutes, in their heads and in hers, Jamie Reynolds had been dead.
But it wasn’t him.
Pip held the sleeve of her shirt to her eyes, tears falling hot, soaking into the fabric.
Thank you, she thought to that invisible person in her head. Thank you.
They had another chance.
She had one last chance.
File Name:
A Good Girl’s Guide to Murder SEASON 2: Interview with Arthur Reynolds.wav
PIP: OK, recording. Are you OK?
ARTHUR: Yes. I’m ready.
PIP: So why didn’t you want to be interviewed or involved before now?
ARTHUR: Honestly? I was angry. In my head, I was convinced Jamie had run away again. And he knows how worried we were the first time he did that. I didn’t want to indulge Joanna and Connor’s idea that Jamie was really missing because I didn’t think he was. I didn’t want to believe something was wrong. Seems I preferred to be angry at Jamie instead. But I was wrong, I think. It’s been too long.
And if he was out there, Jamie would’ve heard about your podcast by now. He would have come home if he could.
PIP: And why did you think Jamie had run off again? Is it because you had a big argument, right before the memorial?
ARTHUR: Yes. I don’t want to argue with him, I just want what’s best for him. I want to push him to make smart decisions for his life, to do something that he loves. I know he’s capable of that. But he’s seemed stuck the past few years. Maybe I go about it the wrong way. I just don’t know how to help him.
PIP: And what were you arguing about last Friday?
ARTHUR: It’s just…it had been simmering for a while. He recently asked if he could borrow a lot of money, and I don’t know, he just said something that set me off about money and responsibility and finding a career. Jamie didn’t want to hear it.
PIP: When did he ask you to borrow money?
ARTHUR: Oh, it was…Joanna was out at tennis, so it must have been a Tuesday. Yes, Tuesday, April 7.
PIP: Did Jamie say what he wanted the money for?
ARTHUR: No, that’s the thing. He wouldn’t tell me. Just said it was really important. So of course I told him no. It was a ridiculous amount.
PIP: If you don’t mind me asking, how much did Jamie want to
borrow?
ARTHUR: Nine hundred dollars.
PIP: Nine hundred?
ARTHUR: Yes.
PIP: Nine hundred exactly?
ARTHUR: Yes. Why? What’s wrong?
PIP: It’s just…I’ve heard that exact figure recently, about someone else. A guy named Luke Eaton, he mentioned losing nine hundred dollars this week. And I think he’s involved in dr— You know what, I’ll look into it. So after you left Bobby’s Bar & Grill Friday night, what time did you get home?
ARTHUR: I don’t remember looking at the time specifically, but it was definitely before eleven-thirty. Maybe around twenty past.
PIP: And the house was empty, right? You didn’t see Jamie?
ARTHUR: No, I was alone. I went to bed, but I heard Connor get in later.
PIP: And there’s no way Jamie could’ve snuck in before then? Like, just after you got back?
ARTHUR: Not possible. I was sitting here, in the living room, for a while. I would have heard the front door.
PIP: I believe Jamie came back here, for his hoodie and the knife, so he must have arrived and left again before you got home. Do you know anything about the knife?
ARTHUR: No. I didn’t even know it was missing until Joanna told me.
PIP: So where were you all last weekend when Jamie was first missing? Connor mentioned you weren’t at home much.
ARTHUR: I was out driving, looking for him. I thought I’d find him somewhere, just blowing off steam. And that I could talk to him, fix things, get him to come home. But he wasn’t anywhere.
PIP: Are you OK, Mr. Reynolds?
ARTHUR: No. I’m terrified. Terrified that the last thing I did was argue with my son. The last words I said to him were in anger. I never told him I loved him, and I’m scared I’ll never get the chance again. Jamie came to me, asked me for help, and I sent him away.
Life or death, that’s what Jamie said to your mom about the money, wasn’t it? And I said no to him. I’m his dad, he’s supposed to be able to turn to me for anything. He asked me for help and I said no. What if this whole thing is my fault? If I had only said yes to him, maybe… maybe…
