She pulled out the burner phone from the front pocket of her hoodie. It was 8:57 p.m. Fuck, almost nine already. Pip thought they could buy at least three hours with Jason’s body. Which meant she only had half an hour until the time-of-death window might open. She was supposed to start establishing her alibi in forty-five minutes.

And yet, there was nothing she could do now. All she could do was wait. Watch Max from her hiding place. Try to play god, using that dark place in her mind to make him sit forward and drink more.

Max didn’t listen. He leaned forward, but only to place his phone on the coffee table. Then he picked up his controller and unpaused his game. Gunshots. A lot, but Pip heard only six, striking her through the chest, Stanley’s blood creeping over her hands in the dark cupboard. Stanley’s, not Jason’s. She could tell the difference somehow.

Max took another sip at 9 p.m. on the dot.

Two more at 9:03 p.m.

Went to the downstairs toilet at 9:05 p.m. It was right next to Pip’s cupboard, and she could hear everything. He didn’t flush, and she didn’t breathe.

Another sip at 9:06 p.m. as he returned to the sofa, a sucking, rattling sound from the spout. He put down the water bottle, and then picked it back up again, getting to his feet. What was he doing? Where was he taking it? Pip couldn’t see, shifting her head to peer through the slats.

He wandered through the archway into the kitchen. Pip heard the sound of a running tap. Max appeared again, the blue bottle in his hand. Twisting his wrist as he screwed the top back on. He’d just refilled the bottle. He must have drunk it all, or at least he’d got close enough to the bottom to need to fill up.

The drugs were gone. Inside him now.

Max stumbled, tripping over his own bare foot. He stood there for a moment, blinking down at his feet, like he was confused, a deepening red mark under one eye.

The pills must have already started to take effect. Some had been in his system for over ten minutes now. How long would it be until he passed out?

Max took a tentative step, swaying slightly, and then another quick one, hurrying over to the sofa. He lowered himself down, took another sip of water. He was feeling dizzy, Pip could tell. She’d had that same feeling, almost a year ago, sitting across from Becca in the Bells’ kitchen, though she’d been given more than two and a half milligrams. The exhaustion, like her body was starting to separate from her mind. Soon his legs wouldn’t be able to hold him up.

Pip wondered what he was thinking right now, as he unpaused the game and started shooting again, taking cover behind a dilapidated wall. Maybe he was thinking his light-headedness had come from the blow to his head, from Nat’s fist. Maybe he was feeling tired, and as he felt sleep dragging him in, closer and closer, he’d tell himself he just needed to sleep it off. He’d never know, never suspect, that as soon as he fell asleep, he would be out of the house, killing a man.

Max’s head lowered against the arm of the sofa, resting on the frozen peas. Pip couldn’t see his face, couldn’t see his eyes. But they must have still been open, because he was still shooting.

But his on-screen character was moving sluggishly too, the violent world spinning around him in dizzying circles as Max started to lose control of his thumbs.

Pip watched, eyes flicking between the two.

Waiting. Waiting.

She glanced down at the time, the minutes running away from her.

And when she looked back up, neither of them were moving. Not Max, stretched out on the sofa, head up on the arm. And not his character on-screen, standing still in the middle of a battlefield, life bar draining as he took hit after hit.

You’re dead, the game told him, fading to a loading screen.

And Max didn’t react, didn’t move at all.

He must have passed out, right? He must be unconscious. It was 9:17 p.m. now, twenty minutes after he’d first started drinking the spiked water.

Pip didn’t know. And she didn’t know how she could know for certain, trapped back here in the understairs cupboard. If she left her hiding place and he wasn’t asleep, the plan was finished, and so was she.

Gently, Pip pushed the slatted door of the cupboard, opening it just a few inches. She glanced around her, looking for something, something small, to test it out. Her eyes landed on the plug for the vacuum cleaner, its long wire wound around the machine. That would do. Pip unwound some of the cable, to give herself some slack, ready to reel it back in and close the cupboard door if Max reacted at all.

She threw the plug out of the cupboard, towards the living room. It clattered, bounding three times against the floorboards before it reached the end of its wired leash.

Nothing.

Max didn’t stir at all, lying deadly still on the sofa.

He was out.

Pip pulled the vacuum plug back in, the plastic hissing loudly against the floor, and still Max didn’t move. She rewound the wire and then left her cupboard, closing it behind her.

She knew he was out, but she trod carefully anyway, creeping one foot in front of the other, towards the large rug, towards the sofa, towards him. As she neared, she could now see his face, cheek crushed up against the hard end of the couch, his breaths deep and whistling. At least he was breathing, that was good.

Pip approached the coffee table, the hairs rising up the back of her neck. She felt like he was watching her somehow, even though his eyelids were heavy and closed, the beginnings of a bruise around one. He looked helpless, lying there behind her, his face almost child-like, innocent. People always looked innocent when they slept; pure, removed from the world and its wrongs. But Max was not innocent, not even close. How many girls had he looked at like this, laid out helpless before him? Had he ever felt guilty, like Pip almost did now? No, he hadn’t; he was a taker, through and through. Born wrong, bred wrong, it didn’t matter which.

And Pip knew, as her eyes trailed away from him, that this wasn’t just about her own survival; she knew herself well enough by now. Had reckoned with that dark place in her mind long enough.

This was also revenge.

This town wasn’t big enough for the both of them. This world wasn’t. One of them had to go, and Pip was going to give one hell of a fight.

She reached forward, wrapping her gloved fingers around Max’s phone. It illuminated as she picked it up, telling her that it was 9:19 p.m. now, and she better hurry.

The symbol at the top told her that the battery had at least half of its charge left. Good, that should be enough.

Pip stepped away from Max, behind the sofa. She flicked the side button to switch his phone on to silent and then she bent to her knees, removing her rucksack. She reached inside and retrieved one of the small, clear sandwich bags, swapping it with the empty baggie from her pocket and the roll of duct tape.

She opened the sandwich bag and dropped Max’s phone inside, sealing the top after it. She straightened up, her knees clicking at her, and turned towards the front door. She left her rucksack behind her on the floor; she wasn’t finished here yet, she’d be back in a minute. But first she needed to hand off Max’s phone to Jamie and Connor.

She passed a sideboard in the hallway, a wooden bowl on top with a collection of coins and keys. Pip rifled through until she found an Audi keyring and pulled it free. These must have been Max’s car keys, the house keys attached too. Pip would need these as well.

Keys in one hand, bagged-up phone in the other, Pip pulled open the Hastingses’ front door and stepped outside into the cool evening, shutting the door gently behind her. She walked down the front path, glancing quickly at the duct-taped cameras. She could see them, but they couldn’t see her.