Not Quite Dead Yet, page 15
Because I wrote this little song…for her.
Billy swallowed, stepped back from the microphone. He looked nervous, Jet could tell, eyes still on the ground.
“Whoooo,” Jet called between her cupped hands, clapping them together. “Come on, Billy!”
The crowd joined in.
Billy’s smile came back, and so did his eyes, surveying the bar, having fun with it now.
“She’s my cup of tea, my bit of me, why yes, I’ve watched British Love Island on TV, why do you ask?”
Jet laughed.
“No, stop asking, we’re just friends, stay on task, I’ve got a verse to sing. She’s a queen but I’m no king, I’m just royally fucked, and I’m sorry for swearing.”
Everyone laughed, and Jet’s cheeks glowed harder. That was her friend up there.
* * *
—
“Got you a beer.”
Billy took the seat opposite, resting his guitar case against the arm.
“Thanks.”
“So,” Jet said.
“So?” Billy asked, gripping the bottle, eyebrows up, forcing little folds onto his forehead.
“You’re not terrible.” She smiled, could only feel it on one side.
Billy laughed. “I told you I wasn’t terrible.” He took a sip, mouth creased at the corners, almost dribbling his beer, catching it with his sleeve. “I’d never lie to you. Wh-why are you prodding your face like that?”
“I can’t feel my cheek,” Jet said, driving her finger into it, nail first. “Can you feel your cheek?”
Billy leaned across the table, fingers outstretched.
“No, not my cheek, yours. Can you feel anything when you prod it?”
Billy picked up Jet’s bottle of beer instead. “How many of these have you had?”
“You’re good, Billy,” Jet said. “Better than good. Fucking good.”
“Stop.” He pulled his shirt up, hooking it over his nose, covering his face.
Jet reached over and yanked it down, her fingerprints remaining, creases in the fabric.
“Why have you been hiding that?”
“I didn’t hide it,” Billy said. “I’ve invited you like fifty times. You’re always busy.”
“Always busy,” she murmured, a puff of air that was both a sigh and a laugh, it couldn’t decide, and neither could Jet. “But, Billy, you could do this, you know. Write songs, play them, get paid to do it.”
“Nah,” he said, the sound echoing in his beer bottle.
“No, you could, I’m serious,” Jet said, seriously. “You just have to be discovered, and then it can all really begin.”
“What can begin?”
“Life, Billy.” She slapped the table. “I can’t believe you’ve been sitting on this. You’ve never thought about purs-pur-p—doing this? Doing it properly?”
Billy shrugged. “I don’t think I want that. I just write songs because I like to do it, that’s all. Makes me happy.”
Was he joking?
“But,” she said, “what’s the point in doing it, if it’s not to achieve something big?”
“Maybe there is no point.”
Jet felt a flash of annoyance warm up her neck, sitting straighter with it. “But there has to be a point. Otherwise you’re just wasting your time.”
Billy shrugged. “Is it a waste of time if I love every minute?”
Jet chewed her lip, studied his face. “Yes, Billy. You’ve literally just described a waste of time.”
He laughed into his beer.
“It’s not funny,” Jet exhaled into hers. “You’re lucky you found the thing you’re good at. I never did find mine. And I looked a lot.”
“What are you talking about, Jet? You got into UPenn, one of the best law schools in the world.”
“…And dropped out after two semesters.”
“Then you worked at that fancy bank in Boston.”
“…And quit because the hours were too long, and I never had time to drink enough water, so I kept pissing blood, which is not good for you, apparently.” She held out her bottle to Billy’s on the table, cheers-ed it.
Billy’s smile turned down at the corners. “I think you’re too hard on yourself.”
Jet shook her head. “Not hard enough. Yeah, I haven’t actually finished anything I’ve started…ever.” She rubbed her eye with her sleeve—Billy’s sleeve—came back with a grin, used it as a shield. “Actually, that’s not true. When I was ten, I did come first in the regional spelling bee, beat all the teenagers.”
Billy’s eyes flickered. “Wasn’t that the same day that—”
“—Emily drowned, yeah. Forgot you were there that day.”
“I didn’t forget.” Billy abandoned his beer, chewed his thumb instead. Could he still hear her mom’s screams too, if he searched his memories far enough?
Jet cleared her throat. “You know, I was never allowed to have my hair long after that day. Mom forced me to cut it short, even though I hated it. Guess it kind of stuck with me.” Jet fiddled with the ends of her hair, skimming her shoulders.
“I remember,” Billy said. “No one was allowed to go in your pool unless there were two adults there, constantly watching. And no swimming under the surface ever, especially anywhere near the drain.”
Jet sniffed. Looked into Billy’s watery eyes. She could just tell him. She’d never told anyone before—not Luke, not Sophia, not JJ—and if she didn’t now, it would probably die with her.
“You know, I…” She stopped herself, false start. Pushed herself to try again. “My mom, she blames me for Emily’s death. Said it was my fault.”
Billy blinked. “What are you talking about? You weren’t even there.”
“Exactly,” Jet said. “It was my fault both my parents were out that afternoon, watching me at the competition. If I hadn’t reached the final, Mom and Dad would have been at home, and Emily wouldn’t have died.” Jet dropped her chin, hiding it behind Billy’s collar. “I overheard Mom saying it to Dad, right after the funeral. That it was my fault Emily died.”
Billy shuffled, his shoes pressing against hers. “That’s crazy.”
“She blames your dad too,” Jet sniffed. “It always has to be someone’s fault.”
“My dad?”
“Yeah. Apparently they passed him on the way to the competition, and my mom asked your dad if he could check in on Luke and Emily in a couple of hours. Emily was sixteen, Luke was thirteen, and man did they fight all the time. I guess she was worried about them killing each other while they were out. And I guess your dad never did go check.”
Billy shook his head. “Emily’s death was a freak accident; it wasn’t anyone’s fault her hair got stuck in the—”
“—I know,” Jet interrupted him. “But my mom doesn’t know that. I think she’s punished me for it ever since.”
Jet tapped her foot, nudging against Billy’s. Something else she’d never told anyone: “Those were all Emily’s plans, you know. She was the one who wanted to go to Dartmouth, then UPenn for law school. I tried, but…” Had she really tried, though? Survived Dartmouth—never felt at home there, never made any lasting friends to fill the hole Sophia left—just buckled down, eyes on her shiny future. And then it was there, Jet had it, just as shiny as she’d imagined, and she’d given up law school as soon as she found any reason to, like she’d been waiting for a way out. Why was that? “You remember what Emily was like, don’t you? So cool, so sure, so smart, she didn’t even have to try. Effortless. I wanted to be just like her. She won that same spelling bee, you know, when she was ten too. Being Emily, it just came so easy to her. But it wasn’t easy for me. Guess I never really filled those shoes, huh?”
Billy pressed his toes against hers, a half-smile. “You’ve only got little feet.”
Jet snorted, kicked him away.
“I know your mom is hard on you,” he said, dropping the smile. “But she does it because she cares.”
“Really?”
“Well, she didn’t up and leave when you were eighteen, sent two birthday cards then forgot the rest, no phone call ever, no explanation, no idea where she is.” Billy ran his hands through his hair, finger tracks breaking up the curls. “That’s a mom who doesn’t care, Jet.”
Jet caught his eye, a warm creep of guilt stirring in her gut.
“I’m sorry about your mom, Billy.”
“And I’m sorry about yours. Moms, huh?”
“Moms.”
They clinked beer bottles.
“Right, let’s stop being depressing,” Jet said. “Acting like somebody died over here.”
“You’re doing that on purpose now, Jet.”
“Let’s go back to talking about you becoming a famous singer.”
“Let’s not.”
“Is that a Tile tracker on your guitar case?” She pointed.
“Yeah.” Billy traced it with his fingers. “It’s my baby.”
“Oh please,” she snorted again.
“Don’t Oh please me, you’re the same way with your truck.”
“That truck is my baby,” she said. “You’re never allowed to drive it.”
“And you’re not allowed to play my guitar,” he said.
“Fine.”
“Finer.”
“Sooooo.” Jet leaned across the table to prod Billy in the arm. “That song you wrote, it’s about a girl you like, huh?” She leaned even closer, whispered: “Who is she?”
Billy tipped back in his chair. “No one. It’s not about anybody, I made it up.”
“Oh, come on,” Jet said. “You can tell me. I’ve known you forever. Who could be a better wingwoman? Let me help—it’s my dying wish. Does she work at the bar?”
Billy fiddled his fingers, stared down at them too hard, acting strange and un-Billy-like. Which was all the yes Jet needed.
“She does, doesn’t she?” she hissed. “Is it Allison? It’s Allison, isn’t it? You wrote the song about her?”
“No,” he coughed. “It’s not. The song isn’t about anybody. It’s just a song.”
Wednesday
November 5
Fifteen
“So, I guess you really don’t know the meaning of ASAP?” Jet raised her voice over the sound of the screaming baby, banging his little fists against his high chair.
Luke didn’t react, scooting past Billy to the cupboard over the sink.
Billy stuck his tongue out at Cameron, tried to make him laugh; didn’t work.
“Luke?!” Jet said.
“I heard you,” he snapped, a muscle ticking in his jaw, something alive beneath the skin.
“I need that list.”
“I’m in the office later, I’ll send it to you then.”
Jet folded her arms. “Why can’t you go now? Where’s Sophia?”
Luke closed the cupboard, harder than he needed to, snatched open the one beside it. “Sophia has Pilates on Wednesday mornings so I have Cameron.”
Jet turned to look at the baby, face reddening, his awful screeches reverberating inside her skull, finding all the cracks.
“What’s wrong with him?” she asked.
“He’s teething.”
“Well, can you turn him down?”
Luke tensed. “That’s what I’m trying to do, it’s— Ah, here it is.”
He pulled a red box down from the highest shelf. Infants’ Tylenol. Opened the flap to pull out the glass bottle and little plastic syringe. “OK, it’s coming, Cam. Shh-shh,” he said, which made absolutely no difference at all.
Jet’s head ached, pushing back against the sound, returning fire.
“Shit, I don’t know how much.” Luke narrowed his eyes at the tiny syringe. “Jet, can you check my phone? Sophia texted about it the other day. There, on the table. Should say the amount.”
Jet sighed, tapped the darkened phone screen. “Code?” She repeated the phone’s demand.
“213024,” Luke said, unscrewing the medicine as Jet tapped the code in.
She pressed the Messages icon, opened Luke’s thread with Sophia.
“What am I looking for?” she asked, scrolling up.
“Tylenol,” Luke said through gritted teeth, like the sound had made its way inside his head too.
“OK.” Jet clicked her tongue, scanning the screen. “Is it normal to talk about your baby’s poop this much?”
“Jet!”
“Found it. Just called doctor,” she read from the screen. “He says try Tylenol instead of Advil when he’s bad. 3ml.”
“Three,” Luke repeated. “Perfect.” He dipped the syringe into the bottle, but Jet’s eyes strayed back to Luke’s phone screen, to that message from Sophia.
It was sent on Friday, at 3:06 p.m. But wait…Jet shifted. Wasn’t that in the time span between the Sophia sightings on the doorbell camera, when she said she’d left her phone at the Masons’? How was Sophia texting from a phone she’d left behind?
Maybe Jet was wrong; she’d have to check the times in her notebook.
But there was something else too, a few messages below.
A text from Sophia to Luke.
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.
Jet narrowed her eyes. Billy caught her, widening his in response. She shook her head. Not here, not now.
“There we go,” Luke said, oblivious, his back turned, pressing the plunger of pink liquid into Cameron’s open mouth.
The baby swallowed and the screaming stopped, Jet’s ears ringing with relief. Cameron clacked his tongue, poked it through his lips. Then his little mouth bared again, a silent scream, revving up, followed by a not-silent one.
“He’s still screaming,” Jet said, hands to her ears.
“It doesn’t work immediately.” Luke threw her a look, rinsing the plunger.
“OK, I need to leave.” Jet crossed the kitchen, heading for the hall. “Send me that list of employees, Luke. As soon as you get to the office. Or I’ll ask Dad instead.”
“I’ll do it,” Luke said, head over the sink, the loud splatter of the water joining in with the screams, an assault of sound.
Jet ran away from it, to the front door, Billy on her heels.
“What was that face for?” he asked her, closing the front door behind them, shutting away all that noise. They headed to her truck, parked in front of the double garage. “What did you see on Luke’s phone?”
“Luke and Sophia lied.” Jet opened her door, slid inside. “One of them wasn’t at home around the time of the attack, like they said. Sophia lied twice, actually. Said she left her phone at my parents’ house that afternoon, but I’m pretty sure she was texting Luke at that time. I’ll have to show you the doorbell footage.”
Billy clicked in his seatbelt. “So, what are we going to do now?”
Jet slotted the keys into the ignition.
“I needed that list, fucking Luke,” she said, looking over her shoulder to scowl at his house. “I wanted to interview those employees this morning. After Andrew Smith, that’s our strongest lead: someone who works at the company, would have known about the foundations on the North Street project, might own a hammer like that.”
“We could go back to the site, ask some of the builders there?” he suggested.
“It’s been shut down; it’s a crime scene now. Won’t be anyone there.”
Billy sat back. “I don’t know what to suggest.”
Jet started the engine. “I do,” she said. “I know someone who works for the company, whose name will be on that list. Maybe he can help us.”
* * *
—
“JJ’s brother?”
Billy closed the truck door, staring across at the small, two-bedroom house: gable roof and once-white panels. Tiny yard along the road and a broken fence. It wasn’t broken the last time Jet had been here.
“Yeah. Henry,” she said. “He works for Mason Construction. Or…he did, before his accident.”
“What accident?” Billy asked, still sizing up the house.
“Like seven, eight months ago. Henry got stupid drunk and fell off a wall, fell like a whole story. Shattered his kneecap, had to have surgery. Also fell right on a nail or something, went through his eye.”
Billy winced.
“Doctors couldn’t do anything about that, though. He’s blind in that eye now. JJ was so mad at him for being so fucking stupid. He won’t admit it, but his little brother is his world. They come as a pair.” Jet copied Billy, stared at the little house. There would have been space for her in that pair too, if she’d wanted it. “Anyway, obviously Henry couldn’t walk, so he couldn’t work, but he can now, so maybe he’s back. Might be able to tell us about other employees or contractors who worked on North Street, anyone who might seem, I don’t know…murdery. Anyone with reason to hate me, or my family.”
Jet started to move but Billy stepped backward, blocking her way to the front door.
“JJ lives here too?” he asked.
“He’s not here.” Jet sidled past him. “We know that. He skipped town. Billy, stop worrying, there’s no danger here.”
Jet walked up the path, gravel crunching under her mud-caked shoes. She reached the front door and balled her fist, knocked three times.
They waited.
Billy glanced down at Jet and she up at him.
“Thanks again,” she said, “for helping me wash my hair.”
“No problem again.”
