Not Quite Dead Yet

by Holly Jackson

I came as a law school dropout who still lives at home with her parents at twenty-seven.” Made the joke before someone else could. Luke hissed. “Scariest costume here.”

Andrew laughed, a dark, whistling sound. “Your fucking family. Think throwing this fucking party every year makes up for any of it?”

“All of you. Destroy everything you touch!” Andrew spat.

she hated when her mom told her to make herself useful. It didn’t make her feel useful; it made her feel small.

“My choice is I can die now, or I can die in seven days?”

There was a humming too, but that wasn’t down the corridor; it was in Jet’s head, behind her eyes, playing with her heart. A symphony of the damned.

Mourning her before she even had the good grace to really be gone. Pre-dead. Un-dead. Fuck sake, a zombie, that’s what she was.

“I’m going to solve my own murder.”

Well, forget spaghetti sauce—that stain was never coming out.

Didn’t see her. Because she was small? Or because she was dead in a week and didn’t matter as much as the other people here, the ones who didn’t have a countdown hanging over them. Halfway between the living and the not, her edges less defined somehow.

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.

“She’s the reason Nina killed herself. The last straw. Got her fired from her job at the hotel. Nina loved that job. She was doing so well.”

“Your daddy’s not leaving the company to little Luke.” His breath whistled through his teeth. “He’s going to sell it. To Nell Jankowski.”

“How do you know this?” Billy asked, stepping in. “She told me herself. Nell.” “The chief’s wife?” Billy asked. Andrew nodded. “She’s got a construction business too, out of town. Makes sense she’d want to expand here, in Woodstock, now they live here, now he’s running the police. She’s going to buy Mason Construction—they’ve already started talking, she and your daddy.”

“I’m thinking he has no alibi for the time of my murder, and he has motive. A few to choose from, actually.” Jet sniffed. “Blames my family for losing his house, for his daughter’s death. Maybe he thought it was Mom’s head he was bashing in, I don’t know, got me by accident.”

“I used to live over there. My old house, it was on North Street. Just off River Street, the only way to get to the house.”

“This is one of our dish towels, from the kitchen,” Jet said, the hair rising up the back of her neck, a thousand cold fingers tracing her spine. “Mom has a set of three. Didn’t realize one was missing.”

There it was, lying against the white inside of the towel, almost clean. Her iPhone.

Took a photo. Hand closer. Took another, and another, moving from its head to the claw, down its black spine, rubber ridges for better grip. Stopping over the logo at the bottom. A yellow circle with pointed ends, the brand name Coleby printed inside. Took a photo.

Andrew Smith. This was his old house.

That song everyone knew. The one about Vermont and sticks. Very popular around here, especially at this time of year, right on the cusp of the season of the sticks.

Jet waited for the sound to die down, then asked: “Is it true? That my dad is planning to sell Mason Construction to you?” Nell choked on her wine. “He told you?” “Someone else did.”

“I overheard Mom saying it to Dad, right after the funeral. That it was my fault Emily died.”

“Is that a Tile tracker on your guitar case?” She pointed.

Call me. That’s all it said. Jet swiped to the left and the screen told her it had been sent at 10:52 p.m. that Friday night. Six minutes after Jet’s head was split open. When Luke and Sophia were supposed to be here, together, in this house. That was what they’d said in their police statements. But Sophia wouldn’t have texted Call me if they were here, together, watching Friends. So…one of them wasn’t in the house, and both of them had lied about it.

Sophia’s lied twice, Luke lied, maybe he’s lying to cover for Sophia. Because we know Sophia knew about the foundations, because she told you about them. But now Henry’s lying

“It’s not just invoice fraud,” Jet said, voice coming back to her, bringing her heart up to her throat with it. “It’s tax fraud too.

“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.”

“Hey, this is the song you like, Billy.” She turned it up some more. That song, about Vermont and sticks.