Page 28 of Not Quite Dead Yet

‘He’s clever, isn’t he? Our friend Billy,’ Jet said to the dog, straightening up, knees clicking.

Billy glanced at the vans behind her, the plastic people.

‘Crime scene cleaners,’ Jet explained. ‘They’ll be done soon.’

‘I can’t believe you’re out of the hospital already.’

‘Why would I waste any more time in there?’

Billy didn’t answer. He did something else: stepped forward and buried her in a hug, Jet’s nose pressed up against his chest.

The first person to actually hug her.

It almost brought her blockades down, the ones made of screws and wire mesh in her head. But if they came down now, how would Jet ever bring them back up? She coughed into the fabric of Billy’s shirt.

‘I’m so glad you’re OK,’ he said, his breath warm against her hair, against the bandages.

‘Don’t be too glad.’ She pulled back out of the hug, Reggie settling by her leg, dusting the drive with his tail.

‘I can’t believe it.’ He sniffed, catching a tear that fell to the groove of his chin.

Jet shrugged. ‘I’m only a few hours ahead of you there.’

Billy’s eyes settled on his dad’s squad car. ‘They don’t know who …?’

‘Not yet,’ Jet replied. ‘I’m going to work out who did it. I guess you’re the only person I can trustnotto be the killer, right? I mean, who would come back a few minutes later todiscovertheir own crime, on camera, and leave their DNA all over the scene, call the cops and the ambulance? And we grew up together, and I know you can’t even kill a bug, so it’s a pretty safe bet that it wasn’t you, Billy Finney. I did want to ask, though. Why were you here? You live in the center of town.’

‘Dad’s wallet,’ he said. ‘Someone found it on The Green, handed it to me as I was leaving the fair. Think he must have dropped it during the scuffle with Andrew Smith. I walked here to bring it back, put it through the mail slot. Didn’t even get to his front door before I heard Reggie screaming, knew something was wrong over here.’

They both looked down at the dog. Jet might not have survived at all if Billy hadn’t found her when he did. Did she owe these final seven days to this man and this dog?

‘I’m going to do it, Billy. Always told you I’d do something big, didn’t I? OK, I thought I was going to be president or an astronaut back then, but this is just as big: solving my own murder.’

Billy dipped his head, eyes darkening. ‘Why do you keep saying it like that?’

Jet shrugged. ‘If you’ve gotta die, might as well be funny about it.’

No one else seemed quite ready for it.

Another tear: Billy didn’t catch this one in time, soaking into his checked collar.

‘I was so scared when I found you. I thought you were dead. I really thought you were dead. I don’t know what I’d do if … but you’re alive, you’re OK, you survived. It’s all going to be OK.’

‘NotthatOK,’ Jet said, confused by the sincerity in his face, the hope in his eyes alongside the blue, where hope absolutely did not belong. Wait a minute. ‘Billy … has no one told you?’

He sniffed.

‘Told me what?’

Ah, fuck. This wasn’t going to be fun.

Jet pulled her coat tighter, night settling in, claiming her exposed skin. ‘Billy. It’s … the thing is … I’m … well …’ Just rip off the Band-Aid, it would hurt him the same whether it was fast or slow. ‘I’ll be dead in a week.’

His face changed, one second to the next. Mouth cracked open, eyes faraway and spinning, a quake in his knees that made him stumble back.

Poor, sweet Billy.

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