Good Girl, Bad Blood

But sometimes my mouth starts saying words without checking with my brain first.

Some people are pretty good at hiding who they really are.

And, finally, to all the girls who’ve ever been doubted or not believed. I know how that feels. These books are for all of you.

I think we all get to decide what good and bad and right and wrong mean to us, not what we’re told to accept.

But justice doesn’t exist, and the truth doesn’t matter, not in the real world.

What do you do when the things that are supposed to protect you, fail you like that

Are we squad goals?” Ravi whispered to Pip. Cara heard and snorted.

It was in nightmares, and crashing pans, and heavy breaths, and dropped pencils, and thunderstorms, and closing doors, and too loud, and too quiet, and alone and not, and the ruffle of pages, and the tapping of keys and every click and every creak. The gun was always there. It lived inside her now.

Fuck likeable. You know who's likeable? People like Max Hastings who walk into a courtroom with fake glasses and charm their way out. I don't want to be like that.

Oh, justice exists," Charlie said, looking up at the rain. "Maybe not the kind that happens in police stations and courtrooms, but it does exist. And when you really think about it, those words – good and bad, right and wrong – they don’t really matter in the real world. Who gets to decide what they mean: those people who just got it wrong and let Max walk free? No," he shook his head. "I think we all get to decide what good and bad and right and wrong mean to us, not what we’re told to accept. You did nothing wrong. Don’t beat yourself up for other people’s mistakes.

Time is in charge here, not me, and that's terrifying

...it’s hard to climb back out of the hole once you’ve dug in your heels.

She hadn’t almost lost herself, maybe she’d actually been meeting herself for the very first time. And she was tired of feeling guilty about it. Tired of feeling shame about who she was.

A quietness settled over the room, a quietness that wasn’t the absence of sound, it was its own living thing, stifling in the spaces between them.

I've been thinking', Pip said, turning to face him. 'All Stanley wanted was a quiet life, to learn to be better, to try do some good with it. And he doesn't get to do that any more. But we're still here, we're alive.' She paused, meeting Jamie's eyes. 'Can you promise me something? Can you promise me you'll live a good life? A full life, a happy one. Live well, and do it for him, because he can't any more.

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.

When the police won’t do anything, I guess you’ve gotta turn to high schoolers instead.

Do you care what people think, if you know you’re right?

Stanley died with his ankles in her hands, scared and bleeding out while a fire raged around them. She didn’t think he’d want to be cremated, burned, like his father had done to those six kids.

Pip had always been so curious about what was back there, the sort of wonder that dies a little more each year you grow older.

You aren't on your own here, so stop pushing people away. Stop pushing me away.

Good and bad didn't matter here. There were only winners. And he only won if she let him. That was justice.

Like you just want to set fire to the world and watch it burn.

His fingers stalled. ‘I’m –’ ‘Please.’ Her throat clenched like it did before she cried, breaking her voice into a million little pieces. ‘Don’t make me do this again. Please. I can’t do this again.

It was done, it was gone. There was no going back now. This was her, and it was OK.

MY DAD ISNT A KILLER!!!" he yelled. -paragraph- "cant relate," Cara shrugged.

Maybe the rain would help: water down the rage until she was no longer ablaze, just the charred parts left behind.

It was like ‘child broomstick’ or ‘child brown sick,

He was already in bed, but he’d come in to see her earlier, with a whispered

The man she’d once looked to as an almost-father. But then, Pip had lied too, hadn’t she? And she could tell herself she’d done it to protect the people she loved, but wasn’t that the exact same reason Elliot gave?