Page 73 of Not Quite Dead Yet

‘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.’

Except it had been – a problem, that is. Jet bent over the kitchen sink, Billy pouring lukewarm cups of water over her head, the sting when the shampoo found the wounds, clinging to the clumps and clots.

They’d waited long enough; Jet knocked again, three more times.

A dog started barking, down the street.

‘I don’t think he’s home,’ Billy said.

Jet put her ear to the door, closed her eyes to focus. Behindthe glass, down the hall, there was a faint rumble of voices, and the tinny laugh of a studio audience.

‘TV is on,’ she said. ‘Someone’s home.’

Jet knocked again, knuckles on wood, then the backside of her fist, door juddering in its frame.

The door wrenched open and Jet’s hand couldn’t stop in time, crossing the threshold. Her eyes next.

A gun, pointed straight at her face.

Finger on the trigger.

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