Not Quite Dead Yet

by Holly Jackson

“Exactly.” He stood up. “I think we need to take this to the police. Aren’t they looking for a reason someone might have wanted to kill you?” “Over thirty grand?” Funny, Jet always thought she might be worth more than that. “You’re right,” she sniffed, getting to her feet, swiping Billy’s spare key from the table.

“See you later,” Jet said, reaching for the door. “Oh,” Billy replied, one arm already inside his fur-lined denim jacket. “I thought…no, yeah, that’s fine.” Jet faltered in the open doorway. “Oh,” she said too. “I just thought you’d be busy, you know. I’m probably imposing enough, right? Don’t need to take up any more of your time.”

“Yeah, no, you’re right. I’ve actually g-got a shift at the bar later anyway, so that’s…yeah, that’s fine. S-see you later.” Later. The meaning different now, shortened to a few hours. Because that’s the only kind of later Jet had left. “Yeah, see you later, Billy.”

“Well, you’ve probably ruled some things out. I’m no detective, but it probably wasn’t aliens or Taylor Swift. She’s very busy.”

Was this what it felt like to be a man? Walking on this creepy dark bridge, not scared for a second that she wouldn’t make it out the other side, because it didn’t really make a difference whether she did or not. The night belonged to her now too. A dead woman walking. And dead women had no use for fear.

“Jet.” Billy turned to her, the storm settling in his eyes, reaching out to take her hand, holding it in her lap. “It was never your fault.”

I think I’ve spent so long waiting for it all to begin, for life to really start, that I missed out on what it was really all about. It’s not law school, or the big fancy job at the big fancy firm, or solving your own murder because it’s your last chance to prove something. It’s about all of those small moments I missed while I was waiting. I haven’t been able to see it until now. Racing bikes, doesn’t matter who wins. Cold beers. Writing songs just because it makes you happy. Laughing. I haven’t laughed so much my whole life as I have the past few days with you. And that’s saying something, because I got murdered a week ago.

She smiled, tears gathering across her lips, salt on her tongue. “I said I didn’t want to stop because I was having too much fun. I was just being…well, me, being an asshole, but I think that, maybe, I accidentally stumbled on it, I just didn’t realize. Because, Billy, this past week, I haven’t really been dying. I think, maybe, it’s the opposite. I’ve finally been living. And that’s all because of you. You showed me. It’s the best thing anyone’s ever done for me, and I’ll never forget it. And I wanted you to know, that it was all you, before it’s too late.”

“—You have reached the voicemail limit. To send, please hang up, or press one to rerecord your message.” Jet swallowed. Replaced the receiver to hang up.

She took a breath, steadied herself, anchored herself, looked through her doubled vision, beyond it. She pressed the pen to the paper and began her goodbyes.

“You know,” he said, gripping the wheel with both hands, even though they weren’t going anywhere. “I think this has been the worst week of my life, because I’m going to lose you, and I don’t want to lose you.” He cleared the lump in his throat. “But, it’s also been the best week of my life, because I got to spend it with you.” “Me too,” she said again. Same words, completely different somehow, another language. “Good.” Billy clicked his tongue. “Glad we agree.” “Yep. Same page.”

“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.”

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.

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.”

“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.”

“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.”

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.”

“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 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.

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.”

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. A wrench. Black rubber grips and a little yellow logo. Coleby. Coleby. They were all Coleby.

“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.”

“Jet!” “It’s happening, Billy.” “No!” Billy was screaming, now she couldn’t anymore. “No! We had more time! We need more time!”