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The inside of the truck smelled like salt and grease, stronger somehow, the colder the fries got. Maybe Jet hadn’t needed four whole boxes – large, of course – as well as a double cheeseburger. But she hadn’t eaten fries in years, to save her kidneys, and what had been the damn point?
She finished off the last three fries from her second pack, eating with spite more than anything else – because she could now, so she would. They weren’t as good as she remembered, and now her tongue stung from the
salt.
It was coming up again. The location.
Jet lightened the pressure in her right foot and the truck slowed to a
crawl.
River Street.
Right here, where the road met North Street, continuing straight on ahead, where her headlights couldn’t reach.
It had been three nights now, since her phone was brought here by her killer, turned off in this exact spot.
What did this place mean to them? Where were they going?
If JJ was the prime suspect, then how did this tie into the police’s theory?
JJ had never mentioned knowing anyone on this street either, so why would he have come here after killing her? And – scratch that – why would he have killed her in the first place? They used to make each other laugh … a lot. Although, now Jet thought about it, maybe the laughter had been mostly one-sided. His. At work, catching stolen moments in the gym staff room, before they realized there were cameras in there. They’d been good together, but good hadn’t been good enough for Jet. You had to aim for something better than good, something bigger, and Jet had her whole life in front of her … back then, at least. She’d done it nicely, even quit her job at
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the gym so it wouldn’t be awkward for either of them. That wasn’t a reason to kill somebody, right?
It was Jet’s fourth time driving the street tonight, and she still had no answers, no sign. Apart from that yellow sign over there. SLOW: Children, it said. Jet was going slow, but not because some sign told her to. So slow that the truck came to a stop, sighing, settling back on its wheels.
Jet sighed too.
Maybe she should get out of the truck, walk the street instead of driving it, swap the smell of congealing fries for the crisp night air. Maybe she’d see it from a different perspective, in a new light. She pulled off onto the grass alongside someone’s pristine white fence. Pulled the handbrake but didn’t turn off the engine, not yet. The clock on the dashboard was her only way to keep track of time, without a phone, without a watch. It read 10:55.
Which meant that, in one minute, it would be the exact same time as well as the exact same spot. The time and place the killer was when they turned off her phone.
Jet pulled the key from the ignition, got out, locked the door. Then she turned, one hand resting on the truck, and she watched the street. The middle of the road, where the last blue blip of her phone had floated, its final stamp on the world. It had guided her here and now she was lost.
Nothing happened. She counted to sixty, and still nothing happened. Just the wind whistling in the burnt-orange trees. Well, what had she expected exactly?
Jet kept going, following River Street, leaving her truck behind. Head spinning as she looked at the houses on either side: that white one there, with the triangular porch and the red car outside, must have been the house Ecker mentioned, where the elderly woman lived. Asleep and useless to Jet.
Her shoes slapped the pavement, the only sound on this too-quiet street.
No more streetlamps beyond this point, just the faint glow of the moon hovering over her.
Her killer must have known someone who lived down this way, right? Or why drive straight here after breaking Jet’s head open? Could she ask the police for a list of all the owners’ names, Mrs Red Shutters and Mr American Flag?
Not just a flag outside that house, though; a jack-o’-lantern too, carved into the face of a skull. The bottom looked a little soggy, but it wasn’t rotting yet. It shared its death stare with Jet, and she shared hers back.
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At this rate, all the pumpkins would outlive Jet.
The houses petered out again, making way for the cemetery. Strange shapes skulking in the dark, crosses and headstones like wonky rows of teeth, an angel weeping over them all. Jet kept walking, didn’t want to think about it too hard. This wasn’t the only cemetery in town; she might not end up here. But Emily was buried here, and there was something in that, wasn’t there? Sisters, together again. Jet much older than her older sister ever got to be. And, look, there was a fresh corner of grass, a patch waiting to be filled. There you go: Jet had thought about it anyway. Would anyone leave flowers for her? Jet liked sunflowers best.
The cemetery ended and the houses came back. More shutters, more dormer windows, and Jet skulking below. She came to a crossroads, four ways to choose. River Street continued if she picked the road ahead; she’d only just reached the halfway point, but her legs felt a little unsteady. Tired, just tired. She was allowed to get tired; it didn’t mean anything else. And the back of her head throbbed, a wet kind of pain. Jet had left those painkillers behind at Billy’s, hadn’t realized she’d be out so long.
She picked the road that branched off to the left, back toward town. She’d come all this way, might as well loop around to go pick up her truck. Better than having to walk back past the cemetery again anyway.
The world darkened as she followed the road, the moon blocked out, trees pressing in on either side of her. The bridge waited up ahead in an orange glow, flickering in and out from a faulty streetlamp. Middle Covered Bridge, the one all the tourists stopped to take a photo of, because it was so Vermont. That was during the day; at night it looked like something from a horror movie, like you wouldn’t step inside unless the plot forced you to.
But no one was forcing Jet. She continued toward the wooden walkway that ran alongside the bridge, her steps echoing around the whole structure,
reverberating in her aching head.
Jet stopped.
A rustle in the trees behind her, something moving, following.
She looked over her shoulder, couldn’t see anything.
Probably just a fox.
And that was when Jet realized: she wasn’t afraid. She should be afraid: it was night, it was dark, she was alone, walking, without her phone or any way to call for help. But she wasn’t afraid, or her heart hadn’t noticed those things, forgot to drum out any warning.
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And her heart was right: what was the point of being afraid anymore?
The worst had already happened – the thing from your nightmares, the reason you didn’t go out alone in the dark or held your keys in your knuckles if you had to. Jet couldn’t get any more dead; it had already happened.
Was this what it felt like to be a man? Walking on this creepy dark bridge, not scared for a second that she wouldn’t make it out the other side, because it didn’t really make a difference whether she did or not. The night belonged to her now too.
A dead woman walking. And dead women had no use for fear.
Jet pushed the door open with her hip. ‘Want some fries, Billy? They’re cold.’ Billy stood three feet away, eyes wide and unblinking, phone in his hand. ‘Where have you been?’ he said, breathless, though he hadn’t moved.
Jet passed him the two leftover boxes of fries. He held them to his chest, almost dropping one. ‘From that burger place on Route 4. Near the police station. Haven’t eaten fries in about four years and it was a bit of an anticlimax, if I’m being honest. Maybe I should have found a McDonald’s.’ ‘It’s late.’ Billy put the boxes on the table, one pack overturning, fries cascading over the edge. ‘I was worried. Tried to call but you don’t have a phone. What were you doing?’ ‘I went to the police station, then I went to the burger place on Route 4, then I drove up and down River Street for a while, eating fries, looking for my killer. Walked it too. Pointless, didn’t find anything.’ Billy blinked, eyes coming back even wider. ‘I could have come with you. It’s dark, it’s not safe.’ ‘I wasn’t scared. What’s going to happen, Billy? I’ll get murdered again?’
‘Maybe.’ ‘So, why does it matter?’ ‘It matters,’ he said, scooping up the floor-fries, wiping the grease from his hands. That look in his eyes was bigger than worry. It was fear. Jet thought men weren’t scared of the night, but Billy was made different. And now she felt guilty, for some reason. ‘I said I might keep strange hours,’ she said, not really an apology, not even close. ‘I’ve got a murder to solve.’
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Billy sniffed, reluctantly took a sagging fry, held it to his lips. ‘What did the detective say? About the loan thing?’ He folded the fry and stuffed it in. ‘They’re going to look into it. Not ruling anything out apparently.’ ‘That’s good.’ He chewed. ‘Yeah, these fries are shit. I’ll get you some good ones before –’ He cut himself off, a flush in his cheeks.
Jet helped him out, pretending she hadn’t heard, hanging up her jacket. ‘I got something from your dad, after Ecker and the chief left the room.’ Billy raised his eyebrows, going for another fry. ‘Really? He never tells me anything. All we have is football and the weather,’ he sniffed. ‘Showed me a photograph,’ Jet said. ‘Of a hair found at the scene. It was under the blood, so either it was there before, or it came from the killer.’ ‘How long does it take to do a DNA test?’ ‘It’s a wig hair.’ Jet sat down, pulling her notebook across the sofa, opening the page. ‘A red costume wig hair.’ She looked up at Billy. ‘And we all know who was wearing a red wig for Halloween.’
‘Yeah.’ He sucked in a breath. ‘JJ –’ ‘– Andrew Smith,’ Billy said at the same time.
They stared, pointed at each other.
Spoke at the same time again. ‘JJ had one –?’ ‘– Andrew Smith was wearing a red wig?’ Jet’s eyes narrowed, voice
lowered. ‘He was a clown, Jet.’ Jet searched her memory. ‘I remember the painted red nose. He had a wig on too?’ ‘One hundred percent.’ Billy dropped down on the sofa next to her.
Jet closed her eyes to peel back the time, to see the scene playing out before her. ‘Yeah, but clowns have rainbow-colored hair, don’t they? And it’s curly, like, coiled? This hair at the scene was straight, like five inches long.’ Billy closed his eyes too, trying the same trick. Jet watched him, blew on his face when he took too long. ‘You know, you haven’t changed much since you were eleven,’ he said. ‘Neither have you.’ She prodded the side of his head, through to his memory. ‘Anything?’
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Billy nodded. ‘It was definitely a red wig, just red, and I’m pretty sure the hairs were straight. Fluffy red. Like the clown from It.’ Jet clicked her pen at him. ‘You sure?’ ‘No,’ Billy said, crumbling under the pressure of the pen. ‘But we could go ask him. He lives literally three steps from my front door, in the other apartment.’ Billy rose up from the sofa. ‘We can just –’ ‘– No, we can just not.’ Jet pulled him back down, their legs colliding. ‘We can’t go around and ask him about a wig. If he’s a suspect, that will give him time to get rid of it, destroy it. No one can know about the hair at the scene; your dad wasn’t even supposed to tell me. You’re bad at murders, Billy, god.’ ‘It’s my first time!’ He surrendered, palms up. ‘How are we going to confirm what wig he was wearing, though? It’s important. Takes you from one suspect to two.’ ‘Possibly more,’ Jet thought aloud. ‘Almost everyone was in costume.
There could have been more red wigs wandering around that fair.’ Billy shrugged, deflating. ‘I didn’t take any photos.’ Jet didn’t need to close her eyes this time, the memory burrowing its way to the front, riding that tunnel of pain behind her eye. ‘No, but someone else did.’ She clicked her fingers. ‘Gerry Clay’s son, I think his name is Owen.
He was taking the official photos at the fair, with a fancy-ass camera. He’s got photos. A lot of photos.’ Jet grinned, and Billy mirrored it back. ‘Come on.’ She jumped up, heading for her jacket.
Billy coughed. ‘You’re not going now, are you? It’s eleven-thirty.’
‘I’m kinda on the clock here.’ Billy hesitated. ‘I think you’ll get a better reception if you go in the morning. And you look tired.’ ‘Tired is fine, Billy. Not-dying people get tired too.’ She slipped one arm into her jacket. ‘There’s something else,’ Billy said, dropping his eyes, like his gaze was suddenly an intrusion. ‘You’re … you’re leaking. Through the bandage at the back.’ Jet stopped, the jacket clattering to the floor, her hand moving to the back of her head. A sharp pain when she pushed, warm and sticky. She winced.
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‘I’m supposed to change the dressing every day.’ But how? She couldn’t see, couldn’t reach. ‘I can do it,’ Billy offered, before Jet had to ask for help. He’d known her all her life; maybe he knew those hidden parts of her too, that she couldn’t ask for help because it was the same as feeling useless. ‘If you really want,’ Jet sniffed. Besides, she knew some hidden parts of Billy too: that he always had to help, whoever it was. So this wasn’t even really about her. ‘Yeah, come on, sit down.’ He patted the sofa, like this was no big deal, a Band-Aid on a grazed knee. He’d probably done that for her at some point too, when they were kids. ‘I’ve got a first aid kit. Got some gauze pads, and some of that tape. Antiseptic cream.’ ‘Not sure we need to bother with the cream.’ She was going to rot either way.
Billy opened the closet door, beside the TV. The framed photo of his mom peeking out from the top shelf, her eyes watching Jet as she flinched from another throb of pain beneath the bandage. On the shelf below were a tool kit and a little blue first aid box. ‘Presents from Dad,’ Billy said, ‘when I moved out. Never used either of them.’ He unzipped the first aid kit and pulled out some plastic-wrapped pads, a little roll of tape. ‘OK, look forward. We’ll do the back first, then the one at the side.’ He rested his elbows on the back of the sofa, kneeling, so his head was at the same height as hers. ‘I’m going to go slow, OK?’ ‘Just do it.’ Jet gritted her teeth, waiting for the pain. Billy’s breath was warm against the back of her neck. And then it wasn’t; he was holding it, concentrating.
His fingers soft against her head as he pulled at the old dressing, the tape lifting away, pulling at her skin and the weeping wound.
Jet winced, gripped the sofa cushion.
‘Sorry, sorry. Oh god.’
‘Are you going to faint, Billy?’ ‘Not if I can help it. There. Done.’ He lifted the bandage away, the air cool against the exposed back of her
head. Too cool. ‘Did they shave my head, Billy?’
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‘Um,’ he answered. ‘It’s … it’s not your best angle. Bit crusty. Little bit bald. Let’s get this covered up, nice and clean.’ The sound of ripping plastic behind her ears. ‘Here we go. I’m just going to place this on, very carefully, then tape it down. OK?’ Jet waited for him to get close. Closer. ‘AH!’ she cried suddenly, making Billy jump out of his skin, falling back
into it and off his knees. ‘Jet, that’s not funny!’ She cackled, deep and gravelly. Because it was, actually. And so was the
look on his face. ‘Don’t do that again.’
Jet turned off the bathroom light, closed the door behind her as she stepped into the darkened living room.
Billy was already tucked up on the sofa, his head against one of the patterned cushions, using the matching throw as a blanket. It wasn’t long enough, and neither was the sofa, Billy’s bare feet dangling over the end.
Eyes glowing as they watched her approach. ‘I’m done in there now, thanks for the toothpaste,’ she said. ‘No problem.’ Jet picked her way past the sofa, toward the bedroom, the small lamp glowing inside. She hesitated, turned back. ‘You can come with me,’ she said to the darkness. ‘In the morning, to talk to Owen Clay. If you want?’ Only because she knew Billy wanted to. Then at least she didn’t have to worry about him worrying, or hear about it after. ‘I’ll be there,’ his voice found her, across the dark room.
Jet slipped inside the bedroom, the bed ready and made, a glass of water on the nightstand that Billy must have just put there.
‘Night, Jet.’ ‘Night, Billy.’
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