Not Quite Dead Yet

Not Quite Dead Yet — Chapter 32

‘Has he moved yet?’ Jet looked over at Billy, too jittery to sit down, spider legs up her spine, more inside her head, multiplying. An itch behind her eye.

Billy was leaning on the counter, his phone clutched in his hand, staring at the screen. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Looks like he’s still at Mason Construction. Or he found the Tile tracker you put in his pocket and dropped it there.’ Jet shook her head. ‘No, he hasn’t found it. This is going to work. It’s going to work.’ She hardened her voice, trying to hear it over her heart, and all those damn spiders. ‘Luke is going to lead us straight to him, I know it.

He’s going to go to him. He has to, after what we just talked about. And we’re going to follow.’ ‘You’re sure Luke’s real dad is the person who killed you?’ Billy didn’t look up. ‘I think it’s the reason why he killed me.’ Jet swallowed. This felt right. It did. They were going to do this; they were actually going to solve her murder. Jet might not have been able to see straight, but she could see the way forward. This was it. Didn’t matter that the world was spliced in half, two layers, clashing and filmy, one world closer, the other a little farther back, two Billys, one within reach and one not. Jet rubbed her eye, her hand doubled too, existing in both worlds. She was used to it now, finding the line between. ‘And you really don’t want to just go ask your mom?’ Billy did look up now, four pale blue eyes. ‘She obviously knows who Luke’s real father is.’ Jet nodded. Shouldn’t do that, almost unbalanced her. ‘I don’t really want to be the one who ruins my dad’s life, right before I die. Mom should tell him about Luke, not me. But if we have to … We give Luke an hour to lead

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us to him, or we get it from Mom instead. Luke has an hour to lead us to him.’ ‘An hour,’ Billy agreed, refreshing his screen. ‘Who do you think it is?

Luke’s dad? And don’t say Darth Vader again, this is serious.’ ‘Same person as my killer,’ Jet said, seriously. ‘Who?’ ‘There’s two options.’ She sniffed. ‘Has to be one of them.’ ‘Andrew Smith?’ Billy glanced toward his front door. ‘If it’s him, then Luke would be coming here.’ ‘Andrew is one of them.’ Jet also stared at the front door, two doors, the truth somewhere in the middle. ‘I asked JJ at the police station. He says he didn’t touch me at the Halloween Fair. And I don’t think he did. So it wasn’t me who transferred the red wig hair to the crime scene. Which means the killer had to have had contact with Andrew Smith or JJ at the fair. Andrew Smith obviously had contact with Andrew Smith; he was wearing the fucking wig. The construction site on North Street used to be Andrew’s house – he could have been watching the work, knew when the foundations were going in, knew to hide the hammer and my phone there. Or maybe he and Luke talked about it. Luke said he gave him advice, about the company.’ ‘Why, though? What could Andrew’s motive be?’ ‘For Luke,’ Jet said, her words echoing in her chest, heart in her throat, stuck there. ‘Andrew knew that Dad was going to sell the company to Nell Jankowski, not leave it to Luke, because of me. If you take me out of the equation, then Luke gets the company. That’s his motive.’ Billy narrowed his eyes, not following. ‘But why would Andrew want Luke to have the company?’ ‘Because that’s his son. And Andrew has nothing. You don’t think he’d want access to all the money that Mason Construction can bring in? He’s lost everything. Luke could be his damn meal ticket – his drinking ticket.’ Billy chewed his lip. ‘I don’t know. He really seemed to hate Luke when we spoke to him.’ ‘Or that’s what he wanted us to think,’ Jet countered. ‘Doesn’t have to like Luke to want to use him. If he knew about Emily, if he helped Luke get away with it back then, he could threaten to expose that, make Luke give him whatever he wanted when the company was his.’

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‘But he was so angry that he’d lost his house,’ Billy said. ‘That he’d sold it to Luke.’ ‘Exactly.’ Jet slapped one hand on the counter, really just holding herself up, the world tilting again, stomach lurching. ‘Why would he sell his house to Luke if he didn’t really want to, if Nina had begged him not to? He did it to help Luke, knew that project was Luke’s chance to prove himself. He did it for Luke. There’s something between them, has to be. Andrew hates my family, hates my mom; maybe that’s because the relationship ended, because she kept Luke from him, and he blames her for Nina’s death too.

It’s all so messy, but Andrew is connected to all of it, every bit. That fucking house on North Street. It makes sense, why he’d want to kill me.’ Billy sighed, conceded, still chewing his lip. ‘Who’s the other option?’ Jet tapped her fingers on the counter, up and down, more spider legs, dragging the name up her throat. ‘Lou Jankowski.’ Billy straightened up. ‘Really?’ ‘Let’s look at the evidence,’ Jet said, before she lost her way. ‘The red wig hair. The chief helped break up the fight when Andrew Smith attacked you at the fair. One of the wig hairs could have transferred to him then. Or maybe it wasn’t even Andrew Smith. We saw that photo that Owen Clay took of the little girl in the same wig. She was posing with the chief. The hair could have also come from her, two possibilities. And again, Luke said his real dad has been giving him advice about the company, so maybe that’s how Lou could have known about the foundations going in on North Street, where to hide the hammer. And it’s this thing, with my mom, that I can’t let go. Why would she vote Lou for chief of police when your dad has been our next-door neighbor forever? She had to have known Lou before. He didn’t live far, only in Hartland. And remember: Nell told me that Lou lived in Woodstock for six months, in his thirties. That’s when the affair could have started, when Luke was conceived. Luke could be his. Why else would my mom vote for a stranger? And, man, he does not like me, the chief. He really did not want to let me out of jail, to give me any more time to work

this out.’ ‘But what’s his motive?’ Jet shrugged. ‘I don’t know. We’ll ask him. Probably the same as Andrew’s. He wanted Luke to take over the company – probably pays much better than chief of police.’

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Billy pressed his lips together and Jet’s stomach turned over, watching him, a warm buzz in her ears. The same Billy but, somehow, not at all. ‘But Lou was going to get the company anyway. Your dad was planning to sell to his wife.’ Jet hadn’t thought about that, not much space left around the ache in her head and that feeling in her gut, the one with wings. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘First, we’ve got to work out who. Then we can ask him why, when Luke leads us to him.’ ‘And what do we do, once Luke has led us to him?’ He glanced at his front door again, and Jet missed his eyes. All four of them. ‘I don’t know. We tie him up, make him tell us how and why. We have the gun, in the truck. We make him confess.’ Billy looked back at her, eyes hooked on. Hazel and blue, earth and

water, fire hidden somewhere behind. ‘And then do what?’ ‘I don’t know,’ Jet said, and she really didn’t. ‘I haven’t thought that far ahead. I wasn’t sure we’d get here. I don’t know what to do. He killed me.

Do I have to kill him?’ she asked.

Billy didn’t answer, couldn’t, the silence ticking on, ticking up. But Jet liked their silences, different with Billy than with anyone else. Not an absence of sound, its own thing. Didn’t want to break it. Had to. ‘Has Luke moved?’ She pointed to his phone.

Billy refreshed the app. ‘Not yet, still there.’ ‘We should get ready.’ She sniffed. ‘Be ready, for when he does move.’ She pushed off the counter, her feet clumsy beneath her, too heavy, the world pulling at her heels. ‘Where’s that duct tape we took for the security

cameras?’

‘Why?’ ‘In case we have to tie someone up.’ Jet winked, shot him a half-smile, like that was a normal thing to say, watched Billy fill in the other half, because he liked when she did that.

When should Jet tell him? After they were done here, after they found her killer? Should she even tell him? Was it fair to tell him, so close to the end?

What was best for Billy? He was the one who had to live after this. ‘I put the tape back,’ Billy said. ‘Closet. Next to the tool kit.’ ‘OK.’

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Jet stumbled over to it, pulled one door open, then the other, Billy’s mom staring down at her. ‘Do you have gloves too?’ she asked, throwing the question over her shoulder. ‘Not even going to ask why,’ Billy said, abandoning his phone on the counter. ‘Think I have some in the bedroom. I’ll get them.’ ‘Thanks.’ He wandered out of the living room, and Jet watched him go, smiled to herself, just for herself, not to share.

She turned back to the closet, reached for the shelf. Patted around.

Couldn’t feel the duct tape. Where was it? Maybe Billy had put it back inside the tool kit.

Jet wrapped her fingers around the fabric handle, shunted the tool kit toward her, off the shelf. Took its weight in one arm, too heavy, crashing against her chest to keep ahold of it. She bent down and dropped it to the floor with a thump.

Fuck, that was heavy, should have asked for help.

‘Jet?’ Billy called from the bedroom. ‘I’m OK.’ She got to her knees beside it and pulled the zipper, undoing the black

fabric case.

No duct tape on top.

Jet dug her hand through, moving tools aside, searching for the tape.

It must be in here.

Jet peered inside, pulled something out that was blocking her search. A set of pliers, handle wide, mouth open.

Black rubber handle with a yellow logo at the bottom.

Wait.

No.

Jet turned the pliers to read the brand name, her heart dropping all the way to her gut, taking the wings with it.

Coleby.

Written in a little yellow circle with pointed ends, against the black.

No, no, no.

Her heart was already there but Jet couldn’t follow.

She pulled out more of the tools.

A screwdriver.

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A wrench.

Black rubber grips and a little yellow logo.

Coleby.

They were all Coleby.

A measuring tape.

A little knife.

Fuck.

Where was it?

It had to be here.

If the hammer was here, then everything was OK, just a coincidence. Just a strange little coincidence that they would laugh about.

Jet had to find it.

Had to, no choice.

A file.

Another screwdriver.

More pliers.

Where was the hammer? It had to be here.

Jet’s hand retreated from the dark folds inside the tool kit. Grabbed its handle instead, flipped it, turned the whole thing over.

The tools clattered onto the floor, Jet shaking the bag until they were all out.

She sank back on her knees, sorting through the chaos of metal and rubber with her one hand, moving the saw, under the screwdriver heads,

searching, searching.

It wasn’t here.

‘No, no, no.’ There was no hammer. ‘Jet, what are you doing?’ Billy said, framed in the doorway.

Jet turned, fell back, the knuckles of her dead arm dragging on the floor as she backed up against the closet. ‘It’s yours,’ she said, voice almost gone, joining her heart in the pit of her stomach. ‘The murder weapon. It’s yours, Billy.’ She kicked out at the empty tool kit, so he could see the yellow logo stitched on the side.

Billy narrowed his eyes, shook his head.

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‘Coleby,’ Jet said, bile rising with the word. ‘A sixty-piece set. But the hammer isn’t here. The murder weapon. It’s yours, Billy.’ She couldn’t breathe, no air here, stuck between these two worlds, two

Billys moving toward her.

‘It was you.’

‘What?’ He took another step. ‘Don’t come any closer!’ Jet shouted, and pushed herself to her feet, stumbled, tripping over the abandoned tools. ‘Stay back!’

Billy didn’t stay back, he kept coming. ‘Jet, what are you talking about?’ ‘It was you,’ she said, her head trying to catch up to her heart, pounding, not the trickling of spiders anymore, a drumbeat. ‘You killed me.’

Billy’s pale eyes went cold.

Now he stopped.

‘No, Jet.’ ‘It was you.’ The world went blurry, until she blinked, tears hot and fast, falling into

her open mouth. The taste of salt. ‘I didn’t, Jet!’ Billy kept shaking his head, tendons branching across his throat, eyes wide, full of ice. ‘It had to be you. The murder weapon is yours.’ ‘No, Jet. I didn’t know about that. I would have told you if I knew. I’ve never used those!’ ‘The red hair. It transferred to you from Andrew Smith, when he pushed

you at the fair.’ ‘Jet, stop!’ ‘You had time, if you were running, to take my phone and the hammer.

Your hammer, the one you used to kill me. You had time to get over to the site on North Street, then come back to find me, kick down the door.’ ‘Jet, stop!’ He was crying now too.

She couldn’t stop. One thing led to another, sliding into place. Drums when she blinked, harder, faster. ‘You knew about the foundations going in the next morning, because Sophia told you about it at the fair. Told you how important this project was to Luke. You knew about the concrete.’

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‘Please, Jet, you know me,’ he cried. ‘I didn’t know about that hammer, that it came from here. I swear to you. We can work this out together.’ ‘We already did that, this whole week! And you were probably pushing me to look at anybody else but you!’ ‘Jet, stop! I would never hurt you, you know that, you do. Why would I hurt you?’ Jet cried, trapped it inside her hand, closed her eyes and listened to the drums. ‘Because … because you knew my dad wasn’t going to leave the company to Luke, if I was alive. You live next door to Andrew; he could have told you about Nell Jankowski anytime. And if Luke had the company, then you could extort him for money –’ ‘– Jet, stop! None of this is true! You know me. It’s me, Billy!’ ‘Because you knew that Luke killed Emily when we were kids. You’re the one who told me about it. You already knew, just pretended you only half remembered. If Luke had the company, you could threaten him about

Emily, get whatever you wanted.’ ‘Jet!’ Billy stepped forward and Jet stepped back, toward the coffee table. ‘Or maybe you did it because you knew it was me who made your mom

go away. Maybe that’s why.’ ‘Jet, please!’ ‘Or maybe it’s because I don’t – didn’t – because I didn’t –’ – A thunderclap.

Not in the sky, in her head, out of nowhere, now everywhere.

A pain worse than hellfire and cracking skulls.

Everything else just practice, for this moment here.

A hurt beyond words, beyond nightmares.

Jet screamed.

She screamed.

One hand to her head but what could that do – it was all coming undone.

She screamed. ‘Jet!’ She bent double, all that pain, too much to hold up, her neck stiffening. ‘No!’ she screamed. ‘It’s too soon!’ The world tilted, finally threw her off.

Jet’s legs gave way, too weak.

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She crashed sideways into the coffee table, caught herself.

Something fell to the floor, smashed. Glass candle. Cedar Delight.

‘Jet!’

She let go, too weak to hold on.

On the floor.

Billy’s face swimming above her, sitting her up, his hands cupping her

face.

‘Jet!’ ‘It’s happening, Billy.’ ‘No!’ Billy was screaming, now she couldn’t anymore. ‘No! We had more time! We need more time!’ Jet shook her head, as much as she could move, the pain moving with it. ‘It’s happening,’ she said. ‘OK,’ Billy swallowed, his face folding in half, fighting his tears. Losing.

‘It’s OK, Jet. I’m right here.’ ‘Billy –’ ‘– You did it. You did it, Jet,’ he cried. ‘You solved it. It was me. You’re right. You got it right. You did it.’ ‘No, Billy.’ Couldn’t shake her head anymore. ‘Yes, Jet. It was me, it was me, it was me.’ He sobbed. ‘You did it. It was me.’ Jet smiled. Just half, that’s all she could do. ‘No, Billy. I know. It wasn’t

you.’

She knew.

Of course she knew.

Everything was coming undone and still she knew.

This was Billy.

Billy would never hurt her. Never. She didn’t know who had, but she did know that. Would bet her whole life on it. And that’s what mattered.

This.

Just this.

Her arm jolted out, legs too.

Stiffening.

Seizing.

Couldn’t move because everything moved for her, shuddering. Head tilted back, eyes on the ceiling when she wanted to look at Billy, into his eyes. Not ice, just water, and the storm behind them.

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He held her, held her until it was over, everything weak again, melting to the floor.

But she wasn’t on the floor. She was in Billy’s lap, her head in the crook of his arm. ‘I’m here, Jet,’ he cried over her. ‘You did it, it was me.’ ‘It’s OK,’ Jet said, voice weakening too, forcing it out. ‘I know, Billy. It wasn’t you. It’s OK, I don’t need it anymore.’

It wasn’t important. ‘But you did it, you solved –’ ‘– Shut up, Billy,’ she whispered, reaching for his face, finger finding the dip of his chin. ‘OK,’ he whispered back, his tears falling down her cheeks too, closing the distance. ‘Billy,’ Jet said, while she still could. ‘There’s letters. In my pocket. For

everyone.’

She blinked.

Everything slowed down. ‘Jet?’ Billy’s voice echoed above her. ‘Jet. You’re back.’ ‘I’m here,’ she said. ‘The letters, Billy. You have to make sure everyone gets them. They’re in my – my –’ ‘– They’re in your pocket, I know. I’ll make sure, I promise.’ Jet shifted, body peeling away from her, neck too stiff, made of metal not

flesh. But she wanted to see his eyes.

‘Billy.’

‘I’m here.’

Here.

Right where they started.

No blood this time; it was all on the inside.

Billy holding her lifeless body. Again.

Nothing had changed.

Except.

Everything had changed.

She blinks. ‘Not yet, Jet,’ Billy is saying. ‘Not yet.’ ‘I’m here.’ It’s her turn to say it. ‘I’ll finish this for you, Jet. I promise.’

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He promises. He presses his warm hand to her face, strokes his thumb

across, stealing her tears.

Jet lets him have them.

Blinks.

‘Come back, Jet, come back.’

She’s here. Opens her eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ Billy cries.

Jet isn’t. She’s home, because she’s here with Billy.

He holds her, tucks her hair out of her face.

Jet smiles up at him, fighting her eyes.

‘I love you, Jet.’ She knows that too. ‘Your letter, Billy,’ she whispers. He leans closer to hear her. ‘You have

to read my letter.’ ‘I will.’ He’s trying so hard not to scream again, she can tell, can feel it vibrating under his hot skin, the way he’s biting his lip. ‘It’s OK,’ she tells him. ‘Your letter.’

‘I’ll read it.’

Another promise.

Another blink.

Slower to come back this time, the other side of that tunnel.

Billy is crying over her, holding her to his chest. ‘Bi-lly.’ Not a word, just two detached sounds, her lips then her tongue. ‘Jet.’ She knows that when she closes her eyes, she won’t come back again.

She knows. The tunnel is too far.

Jet stays as long as she can, not wasting a second.

The last thing she wants to see are those eyes, swim in them, and never find the end.

She blinks.

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