Page 51 of Good Girl, Bad Blood

‘Right, these are for you.’ Pip pulled out the thick stack of missing posters, split them in half and handed them over. ‘The ones in plastic sleeves are for shop windows and outside. Ones without are for posting through doors. Make sure you get them up all over the high street, and the roads down by the common. And all your neighbours, Connor. Did you bring the stapler?’

‘Yep, got two and some tape,’ he said.

‘Good. We should get going.’ She nodded and left them there, pulling out her phone to check. The thirty-seven-hour mark had just ticked by, without any warning or fanfare. Time was creeping away from her and Pip picked up her pace to catch it.

Someone was there; a hunched shape and a rattling of keys outside the smallKilton Mailoffice. Pip recognized her as one of the women who volunteered at the town paper.

The woman was unaware she was being watched as she shuffled the bunch of keys and tried another.

‘Hi,’ Pip said loudly, making the woman jump, as she’d suspected it might.

‘Oh.’ The woman’s yelp became a nervous laugh. ‘Oh, it’s you. Can I help you with something?’

‘Is Stanley Forbes in?’ asked Pip.

‘He should be.’ Finally, she located the correct key and slid it into the lock. ‘We’ve got the write-up of the memorial to sort out before we print today, so he asked me to come in and help.’ She opened the door. ‘After you,’ she said, and Pip stepped over the threshold into the small front room.

‘I’m Pip,’ she said, following the woman as they passed two tired sofas, heading for the back office.

‘Yes, I know who you are,’ the woman said, shrugging off her jacket. And then, in a slightly less frosty tone: ‘I’m Mary, Mary Scythe.’

‘Pleased to meet you, again,’ she said, which wasn’t exactly true. She figured Mary was one of those people who blamed Pip forall that troublelast year in their nice, quaint town.

Mary pushed the door, revealing a small, square room, four computer desks lining its walls, as tight and claustrophobic as Pip remembered it. Guess that’s what you got for a tiny town newspaper that ran mostly on donations from the family living in that manor house up Beechwood Bottom.

Stanley Forbes was sitting at the desk against the far wall, his back to them, his dark brown hair in unkempt clumps, presumably from where his fingers had tunnelled through. He paid them no attention, leaning towards his desktop screen which, judging by the swathes of white and dark blue, was on Facebook.

‘Hi, Stanley,’ Pip said softly.

He didn’t turn. In fact, he hadn’t moved at all, still scrolling down the page on his computer. He hadn’t heard her.

‘Stanley?’ she tried again. Nothing, not even a flinch. He wasn’t wearing headphones, was he? She couldn’t see any.

‘Honestly,’ Mary scoffed, ‘he does this all the time. Has the most selective hearing I’ve ever come across. Tunes the whole world out. Oi Stan!’ She barked that last part, and finally Stanley looked up, spinning his chair to face them.

‘Oh sorry, were you talking to me?’ he said, his green-brown eyes jumping from Mary to settle on Pip.

‘No one else in the room,’ Mary said irritably, dropping her handbag against the desk furthest from Stanley’s.

‘Hi,’ Pip said again, walking over to him, crossing the distance in just four large steps.

‘H-hello,’ Stanley said, getting to his feet. He held out his hand, apparently to shake hers, but then evidently changed his mind and drew it back – then changed it again with an embarrassed laugh and re-extended the hand. He probably didn’t know the appropriate way to greet her, given their fraught history, and her being eighteen while he was at least late twenties.

Pip shook the hand just to make him to stop.

‘Sorry,’ Stanley said, replacing the awkward hand by his side.

It wasn’t just the Singhs he’d apologized to; Pip had also received a letter from Stanley a few months ago. In it he’d apologized for the way he’d talked down to her, and for Becca Bell taking Pip’s number out of his phone and using it to threaten Pip. He hadn’t known at the time, but he was still sorry. Pip wondered how sincere he really was.

‘What can I . . .’ Stanley began. ‘What do you –’

‘I know the memorial will probably take up a lot of room in tomorrow’s paper. But could you make space, for this?’ Pip dropped her rucksack so she could take out the reserved missing poster. She handed it over, watching Stanley read, his eyes furrowed and a hollow burrowing into his cheek as he chewed it from the inside.

‘Missing, is he?’ He looked down again. ‘Jamie Reynolds.’

‘Know him?’

‘Don’t think so,’ Stanley said. ‘Might recognize the face. Is he from Kilton?’