Literature & Fiction
![Holly Jackson - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_a_holly_jackson.jpg)
As Good as Dead: The Finale to A Good Girl's Guide to Murder
THE MUST-READ MULTIMILLION BESTSELLING MYSTERY SERIES • The final book in the A Good Girl's Guide to Murder series that reads like your favorite true crime podcast or show. By the end, you'll never think of good girls the same way again...
Pip is about to head to college, but she is still haunted by the way her last investigation ended. She's used to online death threats in the wake of her viral true-crime podcast, but she can't help noticing an anonymous person who keeps asking her: Who will look for you when you're the one who disappears?
Soon the threats escalate and Pip realizes that someone is following her in real life. When she starts to find connections between her stalker and a local serial killer caught six years ago, she wonders if maybe the wrong man is behind bars.
Police refuse to act, so Pip has only one choice: find the suspect herself-or be the next victim. As the deadly game plays out, Pip discovers that everything in her small town is coming full circle . . .and if she doesn't find the answers, this time she will be the one who disappears. . .
And don't miss Holly Jackson's next thriller, Five Surive!
Pip is about to head to college, but she is still haunted by the way her last investigation ended. She's used to online death threats in the wake of her viral true-crime podcast, but she can't help noticing an anonymous person who keeps asking her: Who will look for you when you're the one who disappears?
Soon the threats escalate and Pip realizes that someone is following her in real life. When she starts to find connections between her stalker and a local serial killer caught six years ago, she wonders if maybe the wrong man is behind bars.
Police refuse to act, so Pip has only one choice: find the suspect herself-or be the next victim. As the deadly game plays out, Pip discovers that everything in her small town is coming full circle . . .and if she doesn't find the answers, this time she will be the one who disappears. . .
And don't miss Holly Jackson's next thriller, Five Surive!
Editorial Reviews
Praise for Holly Jackson's A GOOD GIRL'S GUIDE TO MURDER series:
"The perfect nail-biting mystery." -Natasha Preston, #1 New York Times bestselling author
"Holly Jackson plays off of our collective true crime obsession brilliantly." -PopSugar
"Gripping."-E! News Online
"If you love true crime, murder mysteries, and unstoppable young women, this is the perfect easy-read thriller." -Business Insider
"A knockout series." -The Nerd Daily
"An instant shocker that will leave you on the edge of your seat." -Los Angeles Times High School Insider
"This is a great, twisty read for fans of YA." -Book Riot
"A taut, compulsively readable, elegantly plotted thriller."-The Guardian
"A fun, gripping, and skillfully constructed novel of suspense. I loved Pip-her relatable quirks, her inventive investigative approach, and her willingness to step outside of her safe world in search of the truth." -Emily Arsenault, author of All the Pretty Things
"Dark, dangerous and intricately plotted-my heart literally pounded." -Laura Steven, author of The Exact Opposite of Okay
"So so clever." -Savannah Brown, author of The Truth About Keeping Secrets
"Well-executed…. A treat for mystery readers who enjoy being kept in suspense.
"The perfect nail-biting mystery." -Natasha Preston, #1 New York Times bestselling author
"Holly Jackson plays off of our collective true crime obsession brilliantly." -PopSugar
"Gripping."-E! News Online
"If you love true crime, murder mysteries, and unstoppable young women, this is the perfect easy-read thriller." -Business Insider
"A knockout series." -The Nerd Daily
"An instant shocker that will leave you on the edge of your seat." -Los Angeles Times High School Insider
"This is a great, twisty read for fans of YA." -Book Riot
"A taut, compulsively readable, elegantly plotted thriller."-The Guardian
"A fun, gripping, and skillfully constructed novel of suspense. I loved Pip-her relatable quirks, her inventive investigative approach, and her willingness to step outside of her safe world in search of the truth." -Emily Arsenault, author of All the Pretty Things
"Dark, dangerous and intricately plotted-my heart literally pounded." -Laura Steven, author of The Exact Opposite of Okay
"So so clever." -Savannah Brown, author of The Truth About Keeping Secrets
"Well-executed…. A treat for mystery readers who enjoy being kept in suspense.
Readers Top Reviews
Kindle TeenaE
Loved this series, but I wish it ended differently. It would be nice to see how everything played out with pip and Ravi
MailyPeg Kindle
Had to purchase this for my daughter. She had it on her mist needed book list. Packaging was great. She loves her new book. Thank you!
RileyMailyPeg K
I loved every other book of this series but was disappointed with the slow start of this one. However, I kept reading and couldn't put it down. Amazing end to the series
RileyMailyPeg
I absolutely loved reading Pips' journey. She is an amazing character. However, the ending just kind of stops. There is so much more story I feel like to be told. (I won't say what for other readers) Is there a chance for an extended epilogue or maybe a couple of final chapters to tie up all the loose ends?
Short Excerpt Teaser
One
Dead-eyed. That's what they said, wasn't it? Lifeless, glassy, empty. Dead eyes were a constant companion now, following her around, never more than a blink away. They hid in the back of her mind and escorted her into her dreams. His dead eyes, the very moment they crossed over from living to not. She saw them in the quickest of glances and the deepest of shadows, and sometimes in the mirror too, wearing her own face.
And Pip saw them right now, staring straight through her. Dead eyes encased in the head of a dead pigeon sprawled on the front drive. Glassy and lifeless, except for the movement of her own reflection within them, bending to her knees and reaching out. Not to touch it, but to get just close enough.
"Ready to go, pickle?" Pip's dad said behind her. She flinched as he shut the front door with a sharp clack, the sound of a gun hiding in its reverberations. Pip's other companion.
"Y-yes," she said, straightening up and straightening out her voice. Breathe, just breathe through it. "Look." She pointed needlessly. "Dead pigeon."
He bent down for a look, his black skin creasing around his narrowed eyes, and his pristine three-piece suit creasing around his knees. And then the shift into a face she knew too well: he was about to say something witty and ridiculous, like--
"Pigeon pie for dinner?" he said. Yep, right on cue. Almost every other sentence from him was a joke now, like he was working that much harder to make her smile these days. Pip relented and gave him one.
"Only if it comes with a side of mashed rat-ato," she quipped, finally letting go of the pigeon's empty gaze, hoisting her bronze backpack onto one shoulder.
"Ha!" He clapped her on the back, beaming. "My morbid daughter." Another face shift as he realized what he'd said, and all the other meanings that swirled inside those three simple words. Pip couldn't escape death, even on this bright late-July morning in an unguarded moment with her dad. It seemed to be all she lived for now.
Her dad shook off the awkwardness, only ever a fleeting thing with him, and gestured to the car with his head. "Come on, you can't be late for this meeting."
"Yep," Pip said, opening the door and taking her seat, unsure of what else to say, her mind left behind as they drove away, back there with the pigeon.
It caught up with her as they pulled into the parking lot for the Fairview train station. It was busy, the sun glinting off the regimented lines of commuter cars.
Her dad sighed. "Ah, that fuckboy in the Porsche has taken my spot again." "Fuckboy": another term Pip immediately regretted teaching him.
The only free spaces were down at the far end, near the chain-link fence where the cameras didn't reach. Howie Bowers's old stomping ground. Money in one pocket, small paper bags in the other. And before Pip could help herself, the unclicking of her seat belt became the tapping of Stanley Forbes's shoes on the concrete behind her. It was night now, Howie not in prison but right there under the orange glow, downward shadows for eyes. Stanley reaches him, trading a handful of money for his life, for his secret. And as he turns to face Pip, dead-eyed, six holes split open inside him, spilling gore down his shirt and onto the concrete, and somehow it's on her hands. It's all over her hands and--
"Coming, pickle?" Her dad was holding the door open for her.
"Coming," she replied, wiping her hands against her smartest pants.
The train into Grand Central was packed, and she stood shoulder to shoulder with other passengers, awkward closed-mouth smiles substituting sorrys as they bumped into one another. There were too many hands on the metal pole, so Pip was holding on to her dad's bent arm instead, to keep her steady. If only it had worked.
She saw Charlie Green twice on the train. The first time in the back of a man's head, before he shifted to better read his newspaper. The second time, he was a man waiting on the platform, cradling a gun. But as he boarded their car, his face rearranged, lost all its resemblance to Charlie, and the gun was just an umbrella.
It had been three months and the police still hadn't found him. His wife, Flora, had turned herself in to a police station in Duluth, Minnesota four weeks ago; they had somehow gotten separated while on the run. She didn't know where her husband was, but the rumors circulating online were that he'd managed to make it ac...
Dead-eyed. That's what they said, wasn't it? Lifeless, glassy, empty. Dead eyes were a constant companion now, following her around, never more than a blink away. They hid in the back of her mind and escorted her into her dreams. His dead eyes, the very moment they crossed over from living to not. She saw them in the quickest of glances and the deepest of shadows, and sometimes in the mirror too, wearing her own face.
And Pip saw them right now, staring straight through her. Dead eyes encased in the head of a dead pigeon sprawled on the front drive. Glassy and lifeless, except for the movement of her own reflection within them, bending to her knees and reaching out. Not to touch it, but to get just close enough.
"Ready to go, pickle?" Pip's dad said behind her. She flinched as he shut the front door with a sharp clack, the sound of a gun hiding in its reverberations. Pip's other companion.
"Y-yes," she said, straightening up and straightening out her voice. Breathe, just breathe through it. "Look." She pointed needlessly. "Dead pigeon."
He bent down for a look, his black skin creasing around his narrowed eyes, and his pristine three-piece suit creasing around his knees. And then the shift into a face she knew too well: he was about to say something witty and ridiculous, like--
"Pigeon pie for dinner?" he said. Yep, right on cue. Almost every other sentence from him was a joke now, like he was working that much harder to make her smile these days. Pip relented and gave him one.
"Only if it comes with a side of mashed rat-ato," she quipped, finally letting go of the pigeon's empty gaze, hoisting her bronze backpack onto one shoulder.
"Ha!" He clapped her on the back, beaming. "My morbid daughter." Another face shift as he realized what he'd said, and all the other meanings that swirled inside those three simple words. Pip couldn't escape death, even on this bright late-July morning in an unguarded moment with her dad. It seemed to be all she lived for now.
Her dad shook off the awkwardness, only ever a fleeting thing with him, and gestured to the car with his head. "Come on, you can't be late for this meeting."
"Yep," Pip said, opening the door and taking her seat, unsure of what else to say, her mind left behind as they drove away, back there with the pigeon.
It caught up with her as they pulled into the parking lot for the Fairview train station. It was busy, the sun glinting off the regimented lines of commuter cars.
Her dad sighed. "Ah, that fuckboy in the Porsche has taken my spot again." "Fuckboy": another term Pip immediately regretted teaching him.
The only free spaces were down at the far end, near the chain-link fence where the cameras didn't reach. Howie Bowers's old stomping ground. Money in one pocket, small paper bags in the other. And before Pip could help herself, the unclicking of her seat belt became the tapping of Stanley Forbes's shoes on the concrete behind her. It was night now, Howie not in prison but right there under the orange glow, downward shadows for eyes. Stanley reaches him, trading a handful of money for his life, for his secret. And as he turns to face Pip, dead-eyed, six holes split open inside him, spilling gore down his shirt and onto the concrete, and somehow it's on her hands. It's all over her hands and--
"Coming, pickle?" Her dad was holding the door open for her.
"Coming," she replied, wiping her hands against her smartest pants.
The train into Grand Central was packed, and she stood shoulder to shoulder with other passengers, awkward closed-mouth smiles substituting sorrys as they bumped into one another. There were too many hands on the metal pole, so Pip was holding on to her dad's bent arm instead, to keep her steady. If only it had worked.
She saw Charlie Green twice on the train. The first time in the back of a man's head, before he shifted to better read his newspaper. The second time, he was a man waiting on the platform, cradling a gun. But as he boarded their car, his face rearranged, lost all its resemblance to Charlie, and the gun was just an umbrella.
It had been three months and the police still hadn't found him. His wife, Flora, had turned herself in to a police station in Duluth, Minnesota four weeks ago; they had somehow gotten separated while on the run. She didn't know where her husband was, but the rumors circulating online were that he'd managed to make it ac...
