Not Quite Dead Yet, page 31
True, but not to fucking burn it down.
“Someone taped the cameras?” Jet asked.
“You knew the code to disable the security alarm.”
“Are you asking a question or…?”
“It’ll be easier if you just confess,” the chief said.
“Will it?” She shifted, handcuffs rattling.
“Is that a burn on your hand?” The chief pointed to it.
“I did that cooking.”
“What did you cook?”
“Pasta.”
“Look, Jet, I get it,” the chief sighed.
“Do you?”
“Something awful happened to you, and you’re mad. Maybe you thought you’d use the time you had left to take your anger out on someone else. Maybe you’re mad at your dad, at your brother, that they weren’t there to help you when JJ attacked you. Thought you’d teach them a lesson, burn down the company. Is that it? Talk to us, Jet. We’re here to help.”
“Like when you solved my murder?” she asked.
“Jet,” Jack said, softly.
“I. Did. Not. Burn. That. Building. Down.”
The chief banged the table. “Then. What. Were. You. Doing. There?”
“I was in the truck. I just parked there. It’s a quiet road.”
“Were you alone?”
Jet swallowed. Alone didn’t count as an alibi. But she would not let any of this fall back on Billy, not that. He was the one who had to live.
“No, I was with someone,” she said.
“Who?”
“I can’t tell you that,” she parroted him.
“Billy?” Jack said quietly, dipped up as a question, but not really.
There was no other answer.
Jet didn’t say anything.
“And what were you and Billy doing in your truck, on that road, at that time of night?” the chief said, sitting back, like he’d won.
“What do you think?” Jet scoffed, actually just trying to give herself time to think.
“You tell me.”
A flash of memory: Billy, his pale eyes wide and troubled, worrying that passersby would spot the truck from the road. Jet telling him not to worry, giving him a reason, actually just trying to make him laugh.
Jet smiled, reused those exact same words now.
“We were screwing, like teenagers.”
Jack dropped his eyes to the floor, chair creaking, drawing attention to him just when he was trying to hide from it.
“Sorry,” Jet said in his direction, then back to the chief. “I’m dying, and having sex in a truck was on my bucket list, OK? That’s why I was there. We didn’t even know about the fire. We heard the sirens and got out of there. That’s all.”
The chief shook his head. “I don’t believe you. I know you did this.”
“Do you have any evidence that I went inside the building?”
The chief glanced over at Jack, a silent conversation, cop speak for no.
Jet leaned forward. “Then let me go.”
Jack ran a hand over his stubble, like he was torn between his uniform and the man beneath, Jet’s neighbor, someone who’d known her since she was born. “We can’t,” he said. “The judge issued a warrant for your arrest.”
Warrant! That was the fucking word.
Jack was still speaking. “The prosecutor has to decide whether to move ahead with charges.”
“Fine,” she said. “So charge me and let me go—I don’t care, it won’t matter after tomorrow.”
A slight shake of his head. “If you’re charged, we have to hold you until morning. You’ll go to an arraignment before a judge to enter your plea. You may request bail, and the judge may grant it, but you’ll be held in the county jail until it’s posted.”
“I don’t have time for that.” Jet’s voice rose, but the fire went out, just a trail of smoke from her gut, soot coating the back of her throat, making her cough. “What about now? Can I leave? Is there any way I can leave?”
Another small shake of his head, the other way. “We have to hold you until the prosecutor makes a decision about filing charges.”
“How long can you hold me?”
“Forty-eight hours.”
Jet’s throat closed up the rest of the way, cutting off her breath, the room tilting, doubling, tripling, suffocating her.
She closed her eyes.
“So, this is it,” she said. “This is how I die. Alone. In a cell. That’s how it ends.”
* * *
—
Concrete floor, white-painted brick walls that weren’t white at the bottom, grimy and gray. A metal toilet in the corner, connected to a drinking fountain, where Jet could refill her plastic cup.
But she’d broken it. Ripped it in half. Then into tiny pieces, scattered around her like snow, like ash.
Sitting on the floor, because it hurt less than the bench. And if Jet stretched out her legs, she could reach the other side of the holding cell. It was tiny, less than Jet squared.
Too cold, a draft blowing in through the black bars from the corridor beyond, the exposed flesh of her arms rippling into small bumps, a shiver up her spine.
Jet was going to die in here.
She was going to die in this tiny cold room with bars instead of a door, and she just had to get used to that, stop crying.
Stop crying now, Jet.
She couldn’t.
She blinked and they just kept coming.
It was over.
She failed.
Jet always failed; why had she thought this time would be any different?
So many unanswered questions she was going to die with.
What did Nina Diaz-Smith know about Mom? What was the secret Emily overheard about Luke? Did Luke kill Emily when they were kids, hold her underwater until she drowned? Did Luke mean to kill Jet when he set fire to Mason Construction, to the company he’d worked his whole life to take over? Was he sorry that he sent the cops after Jet to save himself, stealing her final hours? Who owned the Coleby tool kit? Where did the red wig hair come from? Who killed Jet on Halloween and why?
Had she deserved it?
Jet sniffed, wiped her nose on her sleeve.
But there was something worse than all of that put together.
That she was going to die while Billy hated her.
That was worse.
A black hole that spread from her chest, hungry, taking every last bit of her with it.
Leaving her with just Billy’s pale eyes.
That frozen, distant look in them as he’d walked away from her. The last time she’d ever see him, and he’d ever see her.
Who would have thought, this time last week, that Billy Finney would be her most important thing?
Not just poor, sweet Billy. So much more than that.
Home.
But this was where she was going to die. Here. In this holding cell. Meant to be temporary, not a tomb.
A door creaked, footsteps, lots of them, echoing down the corridor, getting closer.
Jet sniffed, stood up. She walked to her bars, peered through.
Four men. Two in uniform, two not. One with his hands cuffed behind his back, being escorted through.
“JJ?” Jet said, face pushed up against the bars.
“Jet?” His head snapped in her direction, eyes dark and panicked, brows drawing together, confused. “What are you doing here?”
“Don’t speak to her,” Detective Ecker growled, tightening his grip on JJ’s elbow.
“Doesn’t matter,” Jet said as the tangle of men passed her cell.
“They’re taking me to the judge.” JJ tried to stop in front of her, struggling against Ecker and the chief. “They’re charging me. It wasn’t me, Jet. I didn’t do that to you.”
“Move!” Ecker barked.
“I know,” Jet said.
“I wanted to call you. They wouldn’t let me call you.”
JJ grunted as the chief shoved him against the wall, moving him on.
Jet pushed her face through the bars, watched them go, JJ pinned between the chief and Ecker, Jack Finney two steps behind, blocking JJ from view.
“I wanted to tell you I was sorry,” JJ’s voice trailed back, strained, fighting. “About the loan. It was for Henry, I was desperate. I’m sorry.”
“I know,” Jet said again, head spooling around one of those unanswered questions. Last chance to ask it. “Wait, JJ, did you touch me at the fair?” she called through the bars. “When you were wearing the red wig, did you grab my arm? I can’t remember.”
“Keep moving.”
“No, I didn’t—didn’t touch you. And I didn’t do it! And I’m sorry that you—”
The door crashed shut at the far end, taking JJ away; Jet heard it, couldn’t see that far.
“I know,” she whispered, because she wasn’t the only one who was going to die in a cell.
JJ didn’t do it, and Jet didn’t either, but she couldn’t scream about it anymore, there was nothing left.
Well, there was something left.
One set of footsteps, coming back.
It was Billy’s dad, stopping in front of her cell, sharing a sad smile.
“I’m sorry about that, Jet.” He sniffed. “I said we should have taken him out the back. He shouldn’t have spoken to you.”
But Jet was glad he had, because she was sticking on something JJ had said, something else left behind that the black hole hadn’t gotten to just yet.
“Phone call,” Jet said, resting her forehead against the cold bar. “Mr. Finney, don’t I get a phone call?”
“Yes. You do.”
“Can I…can I do it now?”
He glanced through the bars into the cell, the shredded plastic cup around Jet’s outline, a phantom version of her, left behind.
“Sure.”
He reached into his pocket for the keys, unlocked the cell door. A metallic scream from the hinges as he swung the bars open.
“I’m…I’m supposed to cuff you,” he said quietly.
“OK.”
She couldn’t hold her wrists together for him, only one. Mr. Finney had to bring her right arm around, lock her hands together, the cuffs looser than when Chief Jankowski had done it.
“This way.”
He led her to the right, down the corridor, through the door, and into an office area. Desks and papers and windows, the fading afternoon light. And a landline phone attached to the wall. Black receiver on a thick metal wire, well-worn buttons.
Mr. Finney led Jet over to it, hand soft on her shoulder.
“You should call your dad,” he sniffed. “He can get you the kind of lawyer that might be able to get you out of here, given your circumstances. He can afford that. Call your dad, Jet. He can fix this.”
Jet looked up at him, blinked. Call Dad. He could fix this, like he’d fixed things before, get Jet out, give her back her time, time to finish what she’d started. Her head agreed with Mr. Finney, but her heart was back, beating in the base of her throat, pulling her another way. A choice between the two, one or the other.
“I only get one phone call, right?” she asked.
“That’s right,” he replied.
Jet nodded.
“Then there’s only one person I need to call.”
She chose.
“What’s Billy’s number?”
Jack blinked down at her.
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
He turned to the phone, lifted the receiver, pressing the buttons with his other hand.
“It’s ringing,” he said, passing it to her.
Jet tried to take it, her dead arm too heavy to raise that high, dragging her other hand down. “I can’t.”
Jack took her hands, unlocked the cuffs. “Don’t tell anyone,” he said, placing the receiver in her left hand. “I’ll just be over there, give you some privacy.”
Jet nodded, raised the phone to her ear.
It rang.
Still ringing.
The sound chiming around her head, through the cracks.
She closed her eyes.
Come on, Billy.
It rang.
Still ringing.
“Pick up, Billy,” Jet whispered, barely made a sound. “Pick up, pick up, pick up.”
A click.
Jet’s eyes snapped open.
“Hello,” a robotic voice cut in. “Welcome to Verizon’s voicemail service. I’m sorry but Billy Finney”—Billy’s name in his real voice, Jet’s gut reacting to it, flipping over—“is unable to take your call right now. Please leave your message after the tone.”
It beeped, too shrill, and Jet wasn’t ready, but she had to be.
“Hi, Billy,” she said, “it’s me. It’s Jet. You know, next-door neighbor, childhood best friend.” She was nervous, the blood rushing to her face. “Um, yeah, so, I’m at the police station. They’ve arrested me. They think I’m the one who burned down Mason Construction, which is…Anyway, this isn’t about that. It’s about you.” She took a breath, but it didn’t work, her voice breaking anyway. “I’m so sorry, Billy. I’m so sorry. You are the last person in the entire world I wanted to hurt. I didn’t know what I was doing—I’m not making an excuse. But I think, my whole life, I didn’t know what I was doing, just ob-obsessed with this idea, of achieving something big, of proving to my parents that I can be like Emily, I can do what she would have done.” She sniffed. “That’s why I did it, your mom. And I think…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. Being brave, being useless, and not caring that I’m useless around you, letting you help me. Sitting on the floor mostly because it bugs you. Looking up at the stars. It didn’t even look like a frog, Billy, not really.” 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.” Her breath stuttered, a wet sucking sound up her blocked nose. “Gross, sorry. I’m sorry, Billy, and I hope you listen to this, and you find some way to forgive me. Because I’m an asshole, and I can’t die knowing that you hate me, because I—”
“—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.
Wiped her eyes. One eye, then the next.
“You done?” Mr. Finney’s voice behind her.
“I’m done,” she said.
He didn’t put the cuffs back on, just put a hand on her shoulder, walked her back to the holding cell, silent, pretending he hadn’t heard her one-way conversation with Billy. Jet didn’t care that he had; she meant every word.
Jack pushed the door shut, squealing hinges, mouth in a sad downward line as he locked it, looked at Jet through the bars, face creasing, sorry.
“Hey, Mr. Finney,” Jet sniffed, blinking to try and stitch him back into one person, the concrete floor unsteady beneath her. “Can I borrow some more paper? And a pen?”
He glanced over his shoulders, one way, then the other.
“You’re not supposed to have anything in there.”
“Please,” she said, wrapping her hand around a bar, holding herself up. “We both know what’s going to happen. I’m probably not going to see anybody again, won’t get a chance to say goodbye. But I can write them letters. I have to say goodbye.”
Mr. Finney chewed his lip, nodded.
“How many pages do you need?” he asked.
“A lot.”
“OK.” He nodded again. “I’ll be right back.”
“Thank you.”
Jet sank to her knees, giving in to her legs, sliding back against the wall, feet out in front of her, eyes up. The cell didn’t feel quite so small anymore, not as cold.
“Here.”
Mr. Finney was back, bending down to slide a small pile of printer paper through the bars, shushing along the concrete. Too clean, too white. He rolled a ballpoint pen through, no cap.
“Sorry, I could only find a red one,” he said.
“That’s OK.” Jet picked up the pen, then the first sheet of paper, laid it on the floor, legs hooked around it, one foot pressed to the corner to hold it in place.
“I’ll come check on you in a few hours. Bring you some food.”
His footsteps clicked along the corridor, taking him away, through the door at the end that Jet couldn’t see.
Couldn’t much see the paper in front of her either, her eyes unfocusing, losing their way. But Jet wouldn’t lose hers.
She was brave, and she was useless, and that was all fine with her.
She gripped the pen in her left hand, the wrong hand, the hand she never wrote with, wasn’t sure she could.
She started. She tried.
D ea r M o m
So slow, the letters squashed and childlike. Red ink crammed together, then spread too far, slipping up and down, out of line, like it was her first time writing, not her last.
It was going to take hours, like this.
