Not Quite Dead Yet, page 35
Billy shifted, getting there now, cold metal digging in against his flesh, tucked beneath his shirt.
“You let yourself into my apartment after leaving Andrew’s, with the key you know I keep under the mat outside. You go to that tool kit you bought me when I moved in. I’d never even used it. You open it and you find what you’re looking for, something you can kill a person with. You find the hammer. You get in your car. You drive home, but not to come home, to go to the Masons’ house. Out of the car, around the side of the house, so the doorbell camera doesn’t catch you. You know that Scott and Dianne will be cleaning up after the fair, that Jet will be home alone. Maybe you try that side door, and if it had been locked, maybe you would have let it go, gone home. But it wasn’t locked. Nothing stopped you. You went inside the house and you killed her. Hit her twice in the back of the head. Then, when she was on the ground, one last hit to the side of her head, to really make sure. She was dead—we all thought she was dead, including you.” Billy’s voice caught, a snag in his throat. “The dog is screaming, making too much noise. Neighbors will hear that. You don’t have much time. You take Jet’s phone, and you grab a dish towel on the way out, to wrap the hammer in. You drive to North Street, only takes a couple of minutes. You need to hide the phone, because that makes it look like the killer was someone Jet was in regular contact with, maybe her ex-boyfriend. And the murder weapon, because that weapon is a link back to me, which means it’s a link back to you. But you know somewhere you can put them, where no one will ever find them, because concrete was going to be poured on top in just a few hours’ time. You remember to turn Jet’s phone off, just before you get there. You think no one will ever find them at the construction site, that they’ll stay buried forever.
“Then you wait in your squad car for the call to come in on the radio. Rushed over to the scene like you were just a cop, doing his job. I bet you didn’t expect that I’d be the one to find her. You didn’t plan that, did you?”
Tears stung at the corner of Billy’s eyes. He’d had to do that twice. Hold the woman he loved in his arms as she lay dying.
“But Jet didn’t die. Not yet.” Billy’s eyes blurred, doubled, the world splitting, just until he blinked and the tears raced to his chin. “It was Jet who figured most of this out, not me. She did it. We just needed a couple more hours, that’s all we needed. Then Jet would have known it was you too. She died not knowing.” He cried, couldn’t stop it now. “I would have let her die thinking it was me, so that she had that. I was going to give her that, I wanted her to have that, I thought she needed it.”
But Jet hadn’t needed the answer in the end, Billy knew now. She’d found something else, more important. And Billy had learned something too, when he was holding her, when the world was coming to an end, crashing down around them and he confessed because he thought he had to.
He’d finally let something go in that moment.
Not the girl he loved—that would never leave him—but his need to be loved back, to fill the hole his mom had left in his heart.
Billy could be loved, and he had been. He kept Jet’s letter close, folded inside his jacket pocket, even now. Especially now, the day she went into the ground, buried forever.
“That’s right, isn’t it?” He choked. “All of it. Most of it. You killed Jet for Luke, for yourself. Because you were angry, because you felt betrayed by Dianne, because you thought there was this life that had been stolen from you and you wanted to punish Jet’s parents for taking it. Punish the woman you loved who now hated you, by taking her other daughter. You chose Luke, because he’s the person you care most about in this world. And to do that, you took the person I care most about in this world. Look at me, Dad!”
“Billy, I don’t know what to say.” He raised his hands. “I think you’re grieving, and you’re confused.”
“You do know what to say!” Billy’s voice cracked again, a thousand pieces. “Jet wanted you to confess, so confess!”
He reached behind him, under his shirt, fingers gripped around the cold metal.
Billy pulled out the gun.
Aimed it at his father’s chest.
He didn’t shake.
The world shook around him, but Billy stood still. So still.
Dad stumbled back, tripping on the stairs, hands raised above his head as he landed, hard.
“Where did you get the gun, Billy?”
“Confess, Dad!”
“Billy, I—”
Billy flicked the safety off, pointed higher, at his head.
“—Confess,” he said, didn’t need to shout, had no voice left for it. “Did you kill Jet?”
His dad flinched, raised his hands higher, in front of his face, shielding his head. “Yes. Yes, Billy, I did. You’re right. Please, put down the gun.”
Billy didn’t move.
“Are you sorry?”
“Billy.”
“Are you sorry, Dad?”
His head slumped, eyes crashing to Billy’s feet, more ghosts behind them now, too heavy. “Yes,” he said, barely a whisper. “Yes, I am.”
“Why?” Billy still didn’t shake. “Why are you sorry?”
Dad lowered his hands, pressed them against his chest, crinkling his dark suit.
“It was when we arrived at the construction site, after you’d found the phone, the hammer. I was watching you, Billy. Saw the way you looked at Jet. It’s the same way I used to look at Dianne. I didn’t know.”
“That I loved her? That I’d loved her every single day since I was a little boy? That she was everything to me?”
“I’m sorry.” He hung his head, made Billy aim at the gray hair on top.
“Would you have still killed her, if you’d known?”
“I don’t know, Billy,” he cried. “I don’t know why it happened. I was just so angry at everyone, at everything, and I only saw one way out, didn’t stop long enough to think it all through. Something else took over, like the day Emily died. I just did what I had to do, to protect Luke. To help my son.”
“But I’m your son too!” Billy roared. “I’m yours too! I’m the one who was here, who was always here! And you never even saw me, especially after Mom left!”
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t bring Jet back. She’s gone, Dad. I lost her.”
His chest seized, closing in around his heart, hiding it. It belonged to Jet, always would, he thought. But it belonged to Billy now too, shared, one half each.
“Where did you get the gun, Billy?”
“This.” Billy flicked his gaze to the gun in his right hand. “It belongs to Henry Lim. He let us borrow it. Doesn’t want his brother to go to prison forever, for killing Jet. JJ didn’t kill Jet. I know you tried very hard to make it look like he did, wrapped a neat little story around all that circumstantial evidence. Was it hard to convince Detective Ecker, or was he happy to take the easy way out, the simplest explanation?”
“Billy—”
“—I can’t live with that, Dad,” Billy sniffed, pushing on before he lost his nerve. He wouldn’t lose it, because Jet was right here with him, and she was the brave one, dangerous little smile and her old man laugh. “I’m the one who has to live, that’s what Jet told me, and I can’t live with this. You, getting to walk around with her blood on your hands, while JJ goes to prison for the rest of his life for something he didn’t do. All for Luke. Why did you do this?!” Billy’s voice grated, tearing at his throat. “Why do you care about Luke so much?!”
“Because he’s mine!” Dad cried. “And because he’s Dianne’s. He’s ours!”
“And you think Luke would have wanted you to do this? Kill his little sister?”
Dad put his hands up again, eyes dark and urgent.
“He would understand,” he said. “I did it for him. I look out for him, always have. He won’t have the same life I did, people taking what should have been mine.” He shook his head, something stirring in his eyes as he stared down the barrel of the gun.
Billy tightened his grip. “I promised Jet, as she was dying, that I was going to finish this for her. So that’s what I’m doing.”
“No, Billy, no!” Dad begged. “Don’t kill me. Please. Put the gun down!”
“OK.” Billy loosened his grip, the gun swinging around his finger. He placed it on the table, beside his phone.
“OK?” Dad was confused, gaze flickering between Billy and the gun.
“I’m not going to kill you, Dad. I hate you, but I’m not like you,” Billy said. He picked up his phone instead, tapped the screen. “I got what I came for.”
Dad pushed up to his feet, wiped his face. “You were recording me, is that it?” He gestured to Billy’s phone, lines of sweat striping his temple. “You think you can take that to the police, that they’ll arrest me and you get your ending?” His face tensed, almost a sad smile, not quite making it. “That’s not how it works, Billy. A recording like that, it’s not evidence, it’s not admissible in court, especially as you coerced it out of me, a gun in my face. That’s not how this works.”
“I know, Dad. I’m not an idiot. I am more than you think I am. Not just poor, sweet Billy.” He sniffed, waved his phone. “I wasn’t recording you. But someone was listening. Just one person.”
The ghosts came back, behind Dad’s eyes, mouth dropping open.
“Who?” he whispered.
“Me.”
The voice rang out behind them, through the front door Billy had left ajar.
Luke.
Crisp white shirt, a black tie too tight around his reddening neck. His phone in his hand, by his side.
Dad swallowed, the color draining from his face, from his eyes somehow too, graying hair and grayscale skin. “Luke. I can explain. None of that was true. He was pointing a gun at me. I didn’t—”
“—You killed Jet,” Luke said, voice dark and deep, something ticking by his jaw, beneath the skin.
“No! I just said that because—”
“—I heard everything you said.”
“Luke, listen, I—”
Billy cut in now, stepping back, shoulder to shoulder with Luke. Half his brother, half not. This man they shared, shivering before them. “—No, you listen, Dad. I thought this would hurt you most,” he said. “This ending. You’ve lost everything for Luke. And now you just lost him too.”
Luke sharpened his eyes, that earthy green, so like Jet’s.
Dad shook his head, staring at Luke. The only son he saw.
“I asked you,” Luke said, a growl hiding behind his voice. “The night Jet died. I asked you if you had anything to do with it. You swore to me. You said it wasn’t you. You lied! You killed her!” The growl didn’t hide anymore, splitting his words in half, that temper rearing, up his throat. Billy stepped back from him, half a step.
“Calm down, Luke.” Dad raised his hands again. “Let’s talk.”
“Don’t tell me to calm down!” Luke couldn’t stand still, vibrating inside his funeral suit. “You killed her!”
“I was just trying to protect you, Luke. I did it for you. All for you.”
“Why?!” Luke roared. “So I’d get the company, is that all?!”
“You deserve it—it should be yours!”
Luke balled his hands, knuckles straining through the skin, almost healed. “Why? It won’t make me happy. There are more important things. My sister was more important!”
Billy looked at Luke. That was what Jet said to him in her letter, her final goodbye. Luke could be scary, Luke had a temper, but maybe Luke could change; maybe he was even changing right now, in front of Billy’s eyes. Was this what Jet would have wanted? She never got the chance to tell Billy the ending she would have chosen.
“You’re right, Dad,” Billy spoke up now, standing between them. “A recording wouldn’t have been admissible in court. But now there are two witnesses who heard your confession, both your sons. And there’s evidence too.” He paused, pointed up the stairs. “That Coleby tool kit, I returned it to you, it’s in the closet upstairs. The police will find it when they search the house. We’ll tell them everything. We’ll go tonight, after the funeral, after I say goodbye to the girl I loved. Right, Luke?”
A click in the back of Dad’s throat.
“It means nothing,” he said. “You coerced it out of me, threatened me with a gun.”
Billy pressed his lips together. “I don’t see a gun. Do you, Luke?”
He turned back to look at Luke. Jaw still ticking, counting down to something, hands itching at his sides.
“Luke?”
His eyes darkened, neck strained, ridged with tendons, threads pulled too tight.
“I do,” Luke said, lunging forward.
Billy didn’t have a chance to stop him.
He grabbed the gun from the table.
“Luke, no!”
Luke raised the gun, pointed it at Dad’s head, finger on the trigger.
“Dad, run!”
Billy barreled into Luke.
An eruption of sound, cracking the night into two. The before and the after.
Plaster rained down on Billy’s head, white dust on his jacket, a bullet hole in the ceiling.
Luke growled. He righted his arm, pointed the gun again, but Dad wasn’t there anymore.
He was running.
Past them.
Out the open front door into the night beyond.
Luke didn’t hesitate. He shoved Billy back and chased after him, gun at his side.
“Luke, stop!”
Billy’s legs flew, and so did his heart, fight-or-flight or something in between.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
Outside, Dad was past the fence, sprinting across the road, toward the Masons’ driveway.
Luke on his heels, bearing down on him.
Billy followed. No thoughts. Just Jet. What would Jet do?
Three suits, one gun, stained silver by the same moon.
Up the drive, a dozen cars parked in messy rows.
Dad wound between them, colliding with a blue Range Rover. The alarm went off, a mechanical scream, red lights flashing.
Luke followed him, past the Range Rover, catching up.
Billy chose a different path.
“Luke, no! There’s a better way!” he shouted.
Dad had reached the house now, pummeling his fists against the red-painted door.
“Dianne!” he screamed. “Help!”
Luke stopped behind Dad.
Billy behind him.
“Dianne!”
Billy saw her, through the window into the living room. Red-raw face, black dress, peering into the darkness outside the glass, at the chirping car.
Luke raised the gun.
“Luke, don’t!”
“Dianne! Help!”
Dad pressed the doorbell instead, that up-and-down song. The camera didn’t blink, watching this all happen. Inevitable now.
Luke swung his left arm forward, held the gun with both hands.
“LUKE!”
A thunderclap.
Not inside Billy’s head, from Luke’s hands.
A flash.
Billy blinked.
Dad fell to his knees.
A spatter on the front door, a darker red, the color of hellfire.
“No,” Billy whispered.
Another crack, another burst of white.
Dad fell to the ground.
He didn’t move.
Billy blinked.
Not the ending he’d planned, but an ending he could live with. Because he was the one who had to live.
For Jet.
The front door opened.
Dianne and Scott and Sophia.
Someone screamed.
Billy blinked.
For Her
(Updated—New verse and chorus)
I won’t drag you round in my heart no more,
I’ll save one half for me.
Letting go, without ever forgetting, no.
Because you’re coming too, get ready.
I’ll do what you asked, leaving at last.
Find new stars, OK, I’m going.
Wish me luck in your little blue truck.
One day starts today because—
I loved her and she loved me back,
Same page, same track, not the right story.
Found each other to find ourselves, I’m sorry,
But it’s a lesson I’ll never forget.
That final week, not quite long enough, not quite dead yet.
But if it’s a frog to you, then it’s a frog to me too.
And (I swear) I’ll always play it (I do),
Because I wrote this little song…for Jet.
Acknowledgments
…And breathe. Sorry, I know that was intense. I still find myself feeling sad for Jet (and I made her up) so I’m sorry for inflicting that trauma on you too. But I hope you don’t just remember the sadness. I hope you remember her strength, and channel it when you need to. I certainly have this past year. WWJD (What Would Jet Do). So, my first thank you must go to you, reader. Thank you for letting me live my dream, telling stories for a living. It is bananas—truly—and there are no words for how grateful I am (and I know lots of words). But most of all, thank you for trusting me with your time; I hope you loved every minute of it.
My next thanks, as always, must go to the best literary agent in the world, Sam Copeland. This book was really an exercise in trust—for him, not me…I knew I had this down—as I insisted on writing an entire book, start to finish, while not under contract, much to my agent’s dismay. But I wanted this book—and Jet’s story—to speak for itself, not to rely solely on those who came before (CC: Pip, Red, and Bel). But the book didn’t have to speak for itself, because Sam was there to champion it from day one, sowing seeds and spreading the word before he himself even really knew what it was about. All he had to go on was my vague description: “Woman solves her own murder in seven days, and then it gets a bit It’s a Wonderful Life-y.” Jet may be one of a kind, and so is Sam. Thank you.
