Sometimes Pip saw that same look in Jamie’s eyes too, haunted by Stanley’s death and the parts they’d both played in it. A burden they would always share. But Jamie hadn’t been there when it happened, he didn’t have blood on his hands – not in the same way.

‘Why is it whenever I’m on shift, the whole bloody circus turns up?’ Cara said. ‘Do you guys think I’m lonely or something?’

‘No, mate.’ Connor flicked her topknot. ‘We think you need the practise.’

‘Connor Reynolds, I swear to god if you order one of those iced pumpkin macchiatos today, I will murder you dead.’

‘Cara,’ Jackie called cheerily from behind the counter. ‘Remember lesson number one: we don’t threaten to kill customers.’

‘Even if they’re ordering the most complicated thing just to annoy you?’ Cara stood up, with an exaggerated side-eye at Connor.

‘Even then.’

Cara growled, calling Connor a ‘Basic White Bitch,’ under her breath as she made her way towards the counter. ‘One iced pumpkin macchiato coming up,’ she said, with the fakest of enthusiasms.

‘Made with love, I hope,’ Connor laughed.

Cara glowered. ‘More like spite.’

‘Well, as long as it’s not spit.’

‘So,’ Jamie said, taking Cara’s empty seat, ‘Nat told me about the mediation meeting.’

Pip nodded. ‘It was... eventful.’

‘I can’t believe he’s suing you.’ Jamie’s hand tightened into a fist. ‘It’s just... it’s not fair. You’ve been through enough.’

She shrugged. ‘It’ll be fine, I’ll work it out.’ Everything always came back to Max Hastings; he was on every side and every angle, pressing in on her. Crushing her. Filling her head with the sound of Stanley’s cracking ribs. She wiped the blood off her hands and changed the subject. ‘How’s paramedic training going?’

‘Yeah, it’s going well,’ he nodded, broke into a smile. ‘I’m actually really enjoying it. Who would have thought I would ever enjoy hard work?’

‘I think Pip’s disgusting work ethic might be contagious,’ Ravi said. ‘You should stay back, for your own safety.’

The bell clanged again and from the sudden way Jamie’s eyes glowed, Pip knew exactly who had just walked in. Nat da Silva stood in the doorway, her silver hair tied up in a small, stubby ponytail, though most of the hair had made a break from the scrunchie, fanning around her long neck.

Nat’s face lit up as she surveyed the room, rolling up the sleeves of her plaid shirt.

‘Pip!’ Nat made a beeline straight for her. She bent down and wrapped a long arm around Pip’s shoulders, hugging her from behind. She smelled like summer. ‘Didn’t know you’d be here. How are you?’

‘Good,’ Pip said, their cheeks pressed together, Nat’s skin cold and fresh from the breeze outside. ‘You?’

‘Yeah, we’re doing good, aren’t we?’ Nat straightened and walked over to Jamie. He stood to offer her his chair, pulling another for himself. They paused as they collided, Nat’s hand pressed to his chest.

‘Hey you,’ she said and kissed him quickly.

‘Hey you, yourself,’ Jamie said, the colour rising to his already red cheeks.

Pip couldn’t help but smile, watching the two of them together. It was... what was the word... nice, she supposed. Something pure, something good that no one could take away from her; to have known each of them at their lowest and to see how far they’d come. On their own and together. A part of their lives, and they a part of hers.

Sometimes good things did happen in this town, Pip reminded herself, her gaze catching on Ravi, finding his hand under the table. Jamie’s glowing eyes and Nat’s fierce smile. Connor and Cara bickering over pumpkin spice. This was what she wanted, wasn’t it? Just this. Normal life. People you could count on your fingers who cared about you as much as you cared about them. The people who would look for you if you disappeared.

Could she bottle this feeling, live off it for a while? Fill herself with something good and ignore the slick of blood on her hands, not think about the gun in the sound of that mug hitting the table or those dead eyes waiting for her in the darkness of a blink?

Oh, too late.

Pip couldn’t see, sweat stinging at the corners of her eyes. She might have pushed herself a little too hard this time. Too fast. Like she’d been running away, not just running.

At least she hadn’t seen Max out this time. She’d looked for him, ahead and over her shoulder, but he never appeared. The roads were hers.

She lowered her headphones to her neck and walked home, catching her breath as she passed the empty house next door. She turned down her driveway and stopped. Rubbed her eyes.

They were still here, those chalk figures. Five little stick people without their heads. Except, no, that couldn’t be right. It had rained yesterday, hard, and they definitely hadn’t been here when Pip left for her run. They hadn’t, she swore. And there was something else too.

She bent to get a closer look. They had moved. On Sunday morning they’d been at the intersection between pavement and driveway. Now they had shuffled several inches over, down the brickwork, moving closer to the house.

Pip was certain: these figures were new. Drawn in the hour she’d been out on her run. She closed her eyes to focus her ears, listening to the white-noise sound of trees dancing in the wind, the high whistle of a bird overhead, and the growling sound of a lawnmower somewhere close by. But she couldn’t hear the squawking sounds of the neighbourhood kids. Not one peep.

Eyes open, and yes, she hadn’t imagined them. Five small figures. She should ask her mum if she knew what they were. Maybe they weren’t supposed to be headless people, maybe they were something entirely innocent and her wrung-out mind was twisting them into something sinister.

She straightened up, the muscles in her calves aching and a sharper sensation in her left ankle. She stretched out her legs, and continued towards the house.

But she only made it two steps.

Her heart picked up, knocking against her ribs.

There was a grey lump further along the driveway. Near the front door. A feathered grey lump. She knew before she even got close what it was. Another dead pigeon. Pip approached it slowly, steps careful and silent, as though not to wake it, bring it crashing back to life. Her fingers fizzed with adrenaline as she towered over the pigeon, expecting to see herself again reflected in its glassy dead eyes. But she wasn’t there. Because there were no dead eyes.

Because there was no head.

A clean, tufted stump where it should be, hardly any blood.

Pip stared at it. Then up at the house, then again at the headless pigeon. She took herself back to last Monday morning, peeled away the week, sorting through her memories. There she was, rushing out the door in her smart suit, stopping as she caught sight of the dead bird, fixating on its eyes, thinking of Stanley.

It had been here. Right here. Two dead pigeons in exactly the same place. And those strange, shifting chalk figures with arms and legs and no heads. This couldn’t be a coincidence, could it? Pip didn’t believe in those at the best of times.