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Here it was. Fucking North Street.
The road stopped abruptly in front of them, choked up with vans, some white, some branded with the Mason Construction logo. A low growl of heavy machinery, shaking the ground and Jet’s truck with it, as a yellow digger rolled up the hill toward all that mud. A rickety wire gate pushed off to the side, two signs attached to it: CAUTION: Construction Area and DANGER: Hard Hat Area.
They couldn’t get any closer than this, parking behind a tree less than fifty feet away from her phone’s last known location. Jet cut the engine and the truck sighed as she stepped out, Billy on the other side. The sound of their slamming doors was lost in the uproar of clanging metal.
Jet picked their way through the vans and sleeping machinery, heading toward the site, through the open gate. ‘There used to be two houses up here?’ Jet asked Billy, eyes ahead. ‘Apparently.’ Now it was just a field of mud and men in silly yellow hats.
They moved past a cement mixer, spinning and churning, being fed by the spadeful, one man doing all the work, another just watching. ‘This must be Luke’s big project,’ Billy said, scanning the chaos, avoiding a track of the sloppiest mud. ‘Sophia was telling me about it at the fair. His first project that’s all him, not your dad. That’s why he’s so stressed about it, needs it to go well.’ Jet shrugged. ‘Luke’s always stressed.’ The same thing she’d said to Sophia at the fair, shrugging her off too. ‘Well, this one’s important, Sophia said. Apparently, construction was already delayed a while back, a floor collapsed or something, so Luke had to change his plans. Decided to demolish, start again. I guess combining it with the lot next door. I get the impression that this is his baby.’
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Jet wrinkled her nose; it didn’t look like much. An outline of wooden trenches carved out of the mud, buttressed by planks. The new foundations.
Fucking hell, Luke, this was going to be a stupidly big house, look at the size of that. Most of it was just an empty track right now, only one small section at the front filled with concrete. Looked like they were getting ready to fill the rest. ‘Maybe that’s why he was being extra assholey at the fair,’ Jet said. ‘Yeah, Sophia said he was nervous because they were starting on the foundations – no going back now.’ ‘And yet, according to Andrew Smith, Dad isn’t even going to let Luke have the company.’ Billy chewed his lip. ‘Well, I don’t think Luke knows that.’ No, he definitely didn’t. And it probably wasn’t even true. ‘Hey!’ a voice cut through all the noise. Uh oh, they’d been spotted.
A man was hurrying toward them, in a neon jacket that clashed with his hard hat, waving his arms. It wasn’t a hello, but Jet made it one, waving back with a grin. ‘What are you doing here?’ the man yelled, catching up to them. ‘You can’t be here. This is a construction area.’ ‘Yeah, I saw the signs,’ Jet told him.
The man pushed up his hard hat, falling into his meaty eyes. ‘I’m going to have to ask you to leave. This is private property, and it isn’t safe.’ He pointed them back toward the road, a hand on Jet’s back. ‘I’m going to have to ask you to stop asking us to leave,’ Jet countered,
pulling away. ‘Scott Mason is my dad.’
The man hesitated. ‘And Luke, he’s –’ ‘– My brother, yeah,’ Jet said.
The man nodded, retracted his arm. ‘He’s not here right now.’ ‘That’s OK.’ Jet smiled. ‘It’s you I came to see.’ His mouth folded down, merging with his chin. ‘M-me?’ ‘What’s your name, sir?’ He pointed to his own chest, a silent question. Jet nodded. ‘It’s Jimmy.’ ‘Hi, yes, Jimmy,’ she said. ‘Just the man I was looking for. You’re the
foreman, right?’ ‘Right?’
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‘Great,’ she said, moving toward the outline of the new house, through the mud. Her poor Birkenstocks. ‘I’m just here to ask you a couple of questions about the site. It’s a company policy thing.’ ‘But I –’ ‘– That gate across the road.’ She pointed. ‘I assume that’s shut and
locked at night?’ ‘I – Of course.’ ‘But it’s not like there’s a fence around it, so even if nobody can drive through, you could easily walk around, onto the site.’ ‘Yes, well, Luke didn’t think we needed a fence, as these are the only properties up here and it’s not a through road. No one ever comes up here.’ Jet pursed her lips. ‘But if they did, you guys got any cameras set up here? You know, for security?’ A blank look on Jimmy’s face. ‘Why would we need cameras?’ ‘A great question. Billy, my associate, will write that down.’ Billy’s face stirred, taken aback. ‘He’s new,’ Jet said to Jimmy, in a loud whisper behind her hand. ‘If you’re on site, you really should be wearing hard hats. It’s the rule.’ Jimmy doubled back to an open van, grabbing two yellow hard hats from the pile. ‘Your associate?’ Billy whispered out the side of his mouth, watching
Jimmy return. ‘Don’t talk back to your boss.’ ‘Here.’ Jimmy passed one to Billy, one to Jet. ‘Accidents happen all the time on site. We had a floor collapse here a while ago, brought some of the roof down with it, some guy still working inside. I wasn’t here then, wouldn’t have happened if I was here. But my point is, anything can happen. Gotta protect those heads.’ He knocked against his own hard hat.
Billy blew out his cheeks, something he did when he was uncomfortable, hadn’t grown out of it yet. He rammed the hard hat onto his head, avoided Jet’s eyes.
Jet dropped hers in the mud. ‘I’m not putting this on, Jimmy, because, quite honestly, it doesn’t match my outfit. And I don’t see any roofs that might collapse anytime soon – doesn’t even have foundations yet.’ And there was no way she was forcing that hat over her bandages, to press against the pain, magnify it. There was only so much the codeine could do.
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‘Speaking of the foundations,’ Jet continued, breezing past the horrified look on Jimmy’s face, ‘when did you start pouring the concrete? It’s already set here, on this front part.’ The point closest to the road and what Jet imagined would be the future driveway, about fifteen feet across, blockaded at the corners by more wood. ‘Yeah, that’s the garage we started on,’ Jimmy answered, but that’s not
what she had asked.
‘When did the concrete go in, Jimmy?’ Because what if it was – ‘– Saturday morning, I think,’ Jimmy said, speaking over her thoughts. ‘Finished the trenches Friday afternoon. We started on this’ – he pointed to the channel of hardened concrete – ‘Saturday morning. Would have finished too, but the boss wanted to be here, and he had to take a couple of days, for
personal reasons.’ ‘Hi,’ Jet said, ‘I’m Personal Reasons.’ Jimmy narrowed his eyes, clearly had no idea what she was talking about and didn’t want to know. ‘We’re only just back today, really,’ he said, for something to say. ‘I can make up the time, don’t worry.’ ‘What time did you start work on Saturday – start pouring the concrete?’ Jimmy shrugged. ‘Probably about eight a.m.’ ‘Great,’ Jet said, grin widening with the word, trying to cover for her eyes, for her quickening heart. This was something, she knew it. ‘And it’s just mud underneath, right? You’d already dug the trenches, so you wouldn’t have known if there was anything in the mud?’ Jimmy stared at her, confused. ‘Did you lose something?’ ‘Only my mind. Could you give me and my associate two minutes, please, Jimmy? Yeah, you go just over there, that’s great.’ ‘Jet?’ Billy looked down at her. ‘You thinking what I’m thinking?’ she hissed. ‘Probably not.’ ‘That concrete was poured, what, like nine hours after my murder? And we know the killer was here with my phone. Like, right there.’ She pointed beyond her truck, to the street. ‘If you knew that was going to happen, that the foundations were going in the next morning, wouldn’t this be the perfect place to hide it?’ ‘Hide the phone?’ Billy eyed the concrete.
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‘And the other thing missing from the scene,’ Jet said. ‘The murder weapon. If they’re under concrete, in the foundations of a house, who would ever find them?’ ‘Ah, shit.’ Billy fiddled with his hair, tucked it under his hard hat.
‘Should we call the cops?’ ‘And let them have all the fun?’ Jet winked and Billy swallowed, her eyes tracking the movement, the lump in his throat, up and down. ‘Why are you smiling like that? You can’t be serious?’ he hissed. ‘Dead serious,’ she said, and not just to make him nervous, though that was fun too. ‘The police would have to wait, apply for warrants or something. Could take days. Longer.’ She patted Billy on the shoulder. ‘I don’t have time for paperwork, bud. Sorry.’ Billy’s head dropped back, blinking at the sky. ‘You’re not sorry, though, are you?’ ‘Hey Jimmy!’ Jet called, mud squelching, soaking into her socks as she ran over to the man. ‘How deep does that concrete go?’ Jimmy looked even more confused now. ‘About three feet deep. Why?’ ‘Three feet,’ Jet muttered to herself, studying the new foundations. ‘That’s doable. OK, guys!’ she called, cupping her hands to send her voice farther. ‘Break time! Everyone take five. Or … a few fives. Hey, shut that digger off!’ ‘You can’t tell them to do that,’ Jimmy said, his confusion thawing, melting into something like anger. ‘I just did. You’re working too hard, Jimmy. Go grab a coffee, or go take a piss, I don’t care. Hey, you!’ Jet stopped a young-looking guy who was walking toward one of the vans, a sledgehammer in his hands.
He widened his eyes, deer in her headlights. ‘Hey,’ Jet said. ‘You mind if I borrow that?’ He didn’t say anything. Passed it over and skittered away, into the safety
of his van.
The sledgehammer was heavy.
Jet held it with two hands, the handle sleek and orange, rubber grips at the end. The dense metal end was well used, marked with scratches and dents.
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‘I guess I’m really doing this,’ Jet said to Billy and to herself, carrying the sledgehammer over toward the new foundations. She climbed down and over the trench, standing in the footprint of the garage-to-be. ‘What are you doing over there? Get out!’ ‘Sorry, Jimmy,’ she called back, raising the sledgehammer. ‘I don’t think you and me are going to be friends.’ She brought the hammer down, double-handed, into the center of the concrete channel. It cracked, the pressure locking her wrists, riding up her arms, the thud ringing in her ears.
A large chunk came loose, a crater where it used to be. ‘What are you doing?!’ Jimmy screamed, voice finding a new octave. ‘Stop that!’ He barreled toward Jet, sliding in the mud, hands out to reach across the trench and grab her. ‘No!’ Billy got there first, stood in front of Jet, blocking Jimmy’s way. A barricade made of arms, flexing his shoulders. ‘You leave her alone,’ Billy said, straightening up to his full height, leaning over a red-faced Jimmy.
‘Please.’ ‘But she’s –’ ‘– I know she is,’ Billy said, calmly. ‘But neither you or me are going to stop her. Believe me, she can’t be stopped.’ Jet swung again, another thwack, another slice of concrete, the size of her hand. ‘Please.’ Billy doubled down, too damn nice sometimes, should have just told Jimmy to go fuck himself. Give Jet a second to catch her breath and she’d do it herself.
Jimmy growled and Jet glanced up, ready to swing at him if he dared to hit Billy. But he wasn’t, he didn’t. He spun on his boots, walking away, pulling a phone out of his back pocket. ‘He’s gone,’ Billy said, the last word lost as Jet swung again, widening the hole, fault lines cracking, spidering along the once-smooth surface. ‘I love it when you fight over me, honey,’ Jet told him, already breathless. ‘You got some balls now, huh, Billy Finney?’ ‘And you’ve got a death wish.’ ‘Billy, I’m not even going to comment on that one.’ Jet swung again. She guessed she was really doing this. She had to – she was dead in five days and she had a murder to solve. And … well, she’d
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kind of always wanted to just smash shit up.
And shit was smashing. The middle of that hole might have already been two feet down.
Billy was watching her, his teeth out, pressing little moons into his bottom lip.
Jet shifted, aiming closer, trying to break the crater into a cross section.
She’d need to check the entire trench; it could have been anywhere along it. ‘I get it, Billy,’ she said, feeling his eyes. ‘You’re stuck because you want to help, because helping is what you do. But you can’t help me now.’ Jet wiped her sleeve across her face, beads of sweat prickling her nose. ‘You still have to think about consequences. But I don’t. It’s OK. You cover me.
Save me from more angry builders.’
She swung again.
Again.
Stopped to remove her jacket – too hot already – and swung again.
Billy wasn’t there when she glanced up; he was gone.
Jet sniffed, letting go of the sledgehammer, dropping to her knees to clear some of the debris, chucking it behind her, out of the way.
She stood up and started again, digging toward the outer boundary now.
Swung.
Thud.
Looked up.
Billy was back.
Crossing the trench, a blue sledgehammer gripped in his hands.
He came to stand beside her, didn’t look at her, looked down instead. ‘Only you,’ he said.
He raised the sledgehammer above his head and brought it down, the sound so loud it shook the world beneath Jet’s feet, a huge pit where he’d struck the concrete. ‘Always getting me in trouble,’ he muttered, swinging again. ‘I am not!’ She waited for Billy to go again, then took a turn. ‘What about the time you made us put red food dye in your parents’ pool because you wanted to make a shark movie?’ Jet removed a huge slab of concrete, dragging it out of Billy’s way. ‘Let’s not talk about the pool,’ she grunted. ‘Actually, let’s not talk at all.
This is fucking hard work.’
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Jet swung, made a dent, then Billy swung, his dent twice the size of hers. ‘Hey,’ she said, ‘your sledgehammer’s better than mine. Switch.’ It wasn’t the sledgehammer.
Billy took a turn, and then Jet, one strike then two, while the other reared up, ready. Like a broken clock, the ticking uneven, too slow then too fast, counting down to something, seconds and minutes Jet would never get
back. ‘Stand back, Jet. Let me do a few.’ Billy smashed, once, twice, and again, concrete breaking up, springing free. ‘We’re at the bottom here,’ Billy panted, dropping the hammer to move the rubble.
They’d done it: cleared a jagged passage in the middle, about three feet wide and three feet down to the soil underneath. ‘Let’s check it,’ Jet said, dropping her hammer, standing directly over the channel, one foot on the concrete either side. ‘Billy, grab that spade over there.’ He handed it to her and Jet raked the spade through the exposed mud, driving the tip in and loosening the soil. ‘Nothing here. Let’s keep going.’ ‘Let’s open it out this way.’ Billy pointed with one hand, wiped the sweat from his forehead with the other, adding a smear of mud. ‘Closer to the road, to where the killer would have approached from.’ ‘OK,’ Jet said, following his lead.
The builders were all watching them now, sitting and standing around in an amphitheater of their making, paper cups in hands, following each rise and fall of the hammers with their stupid yellow plastic heads. Jimmy at the front, arms folded over his belly.
They found their rhythm again, the heat creeping up Jet’s chest, sweat creeping down, trickling, following that dip between her ribs. The same in her lower back. No, lower than that. Lower. OK, yes, fine, her ass was sweating too.
They cleared another three feet of width, a little easier now that they could chip away at it from the side. Checked the mud underneath, moved on.
Billy paused to take off his hard hat, throwing it over his shoulder. Then his jacket five minutes later, then his shirt five minutes after that, down to just the white T-shirt underneath, a see-through ring of sweat around his
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neck, the muscles in his bare arms straining and twisting as he struck the concrete.
Jet watched him for a moment, taking a break, catching her breath, but she caught something else instead: movement. Someone jumping out of a car, short buzzed hair, heading straight toward them.
It was Luke, breaking into a run now. Any chance he hadn’t seen her yet? ‘Jet Fucking Mason, what the fuck are you doing?!’ Luke screamed across the site.
Jet brought the hammer down, an island of concrete breaking free, falling to the bottom of the trench. ‘Jet, what are you doing?’ Luke yelled, voice pitching up, near-hysterical. ‘Construction!’ she yelled back. ‘Decided to go into the family business after all!’ ‘Why are you smashing up my foundations?!’ Jet stole a breath; the air didn’t want to give itself up, her throat too tight. ‘Because they weren’t good enough – you need to start again!’ Billy looked at Jet. She nodded and he kept going.
Jet swung again. ‘Jet, stop!’ Luke roared, pushing past the rows of watching builders. ‘Why are you doing this?!’ ‘Because I have to, Luke! Fuck sake, it is hard to do this and talk! God, my head hurts. God, I’m thirsty. This is what dying must feel like.’ Luke had almost reached them. ‘Give me that hammer!’ he roared, approaching the trench, fury staining his face red. ‘Now!’ ‘Come any closer and Billy will hit you with a sledgehammer!’ ‘I’m not going to hit you with a sledgehammer, Luke,’ Billy clarified, the only one not yelling. ‘What she means is that we can’t stop, and we’re very
sorry.’ ‘Jet!’ ‘Luke!’ she screamed back. ‘It is important! And stop making me talk or you’re going to kill me off early!’ Luke’s hands balled into fists, scabs pockmarked across his knuckles.
The scabs he didn’t get from tripping at a work site Friday morning, the ones he must have got sometime after the Halloween Fair, and then lied about. ‘I’m calling Dad!’ he shouted, unclenching one hand, pulling out his phone.
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‘Fine, call him!’
‘And I’m calling the cops!’ ‘No, Luke, don’t call them!’ ‘They’re already on their way,’ a voice pitched in from across the site. ‘You’re such a fucking rat, Jimmy!’ Jet channeled it, taking it out on the concrete. One hit, two, three, a huge slab cracking and falling away, revealing the dark dirt underneath. She bent to pick it up, double-handed, wrenching her back to haul it out.
Luke was off the phone already, more yelling. ‘Why did you let her pick up a sledgehammer, Jimmy? You let anyone just walk in off the street and pick up your tools? Who are these people now?’ Jet glanced up. These people, ones without yellow helmets, standing by the open gate, watching. Probably neighbors from River Street, being nosy, drawn here by all the fuss Luke was making. ‘Stand back, Jet. Let me clear this part.’ Billy moved into position, standing wide across the trench, slamming down, again and again, a trail of sweat escaping down his temple, blinked into his eye. He didn’t stop to wipe it, not until his sledgehammer found soil instead.
He dropped down to remove the rubble, his hands dusty and scratched. ‘Here, cleared another section. Let’s check it.’ Jet had been leaning on her hammer, using it as a crutch. She dropped it now, swapped it for the spade. Raked it, blade down, over the new section of mud. Dug the tip in to overturn the surface, moving from back to fro–
The spade found something.
Flipped it out of the soil.
A corner of material, filthy and sodden. ‘There’s something here,’ Jet said, breathless, jumping down into the trench to get closer.
She used the tip of the spade to loosen the mud, brush it away. A corner became a flap, and Jet could see a pattern printed into the material now, underneath all that dirt. A pattern she recognized: little cartoon oranges, freckled, green leaves out the top like hair.
‘Oh my god,’ she whispered. ‘What?’
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‘This is one of our dish towels, from the kitchen,’ Jet said, the hair rising up the back of her neck, a thousand cold fingers tracing her spine. ‘Mom has a set of three. Didn’t realize one was missing.’ She brushed more dirt away with the spade, carefully, even more carefully, revealing the rest of the grimy, folded dish towel. Lumpy, because
it was wrapped around something. ‘Shit, I need gloves.’ ‘Work gloves?’ Billy suggested, pointing at the row of watching builders. ‘No.’ Jet shook her head, eyes following his outstretched finger. ‘Plastic gloves, like the police use. It –’ Her eyes snagged on something else, in one of the builders’ hands. Not gloves, but lunch: a clear plastic bag, resealable at the top, a triangular sandwich inside. One was already half eaten, balanced in his mouth. ‘That will do,’ Jet muttered, scrambling out of the hole toward him. He froze when he saw her approaching. It was the same guy as before, eyes petrified and wide, or maybe that was how he always looked.
Luke grabbed her arm, got in her way.
‘Jet, can you tell me what –’ ‘– Not now, Luke. I’m a little busy.’ ‘This is my site. Mine.’ His fingers dug in. ‘I’m in charge here, and you’re not allowed to just –’ ‘– Man, Luke, you are going to feel real stupid in about thirty seconds.
We found it.’ ‘Found what?’ Jet shrugged him off, an extra jab with her elbow. ‘Hi, Creepy Eyes. Me again. Thanks for the sledgehammer. Can I just –’ Jet took the sandwich bag out of his hand. She upturned it, the other sandwich falling to the mud-churned ground, flapping open. ‘PB and J, dude? You twelve?’ ‘It’s my dessert sandwich,’ he said weakly, recoiling back.
Jet walked away, sliding her hand inside the clear bag, avoiding a large smear of peanut butter. The plastic formed a glove around her fingers, awkward and misshapen and sticky on the inside.
Back into the trench, Billy taking her arm, helping her down.
Jet dropped to her knees beside the dish towel, not too close.
Her breath loud, but there was a new sound too, echoing through the late- afternoon sky, growing, a high-pitched wail, blaring up and down.
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‘That’s the cops,’ Billy said, ‘coming down the street.’ Jet reached over, fingers outstretched in their clear bag.
She pinched the corner of the dish towel, just the very corner, and flicked it open.
Clumps of mud and soil rained over her, scattering around her knees.
Jet blinked.
There it was, lying against the white inside of the towel, almost clean.
Her iPhone.
The screen shattered, glass split into delicate little fronds.
The frame buckled, under the weight of all that concrete.
And next to the phone, tucked up against it, was a hammer.
Black handle.
Metal head.
Flecks of brown on the blunt end that might have been dirt or –
‘That’s –’ Billy began. ‘– The murder weapon,’ Jet finished.
This little thing, right here. No more than sixteen inches long. Head like a metal bird, a few strands of blond hair caught in its mouth.
This was it. This was what killed her. The thing that had broken open her head, shattered her skull, left a sliver of bone where it shouldn’t be.
This, right here.
The thing that took Jet’s life before she’d even lived it, stole her future, all of her laters and all of her tomorrows, leaving her with just a handful.
Leftovers. Scraps.
It wasn’t even very big.
The siren was almost on top of them now, splitting the sky, the clouds roiling above to mend the cracks.
Billy was on his knees too, right here in the dirt with her. He placed his hand on her back. ‘Jet,’ he said softly, from another world, the one that belonged to the living.
The touch of his fingers brought her back, warm and clammy against her shoulder. ‘Your phone,’ she sniffed, dropping the sandwich bag to hold out her hand. Grime was caked under her fingernails, dirt and concrete dust staining her palm gray.
Billy didn’t hesitate, placed his phone face up in her filthy hand.
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Jet swiped for the camera and leaned forward, over the hammer.
She held her breath, the siren screaming in her head and her head screaming back.
Took a photo. Hand closer. Took another, and another, moving from its head to the claw, down its black spine, rubber ridges for better grip.
Stopping over the logo at the bottom. A yellow circle with pointed ends, the brand name Coleby printed inside. Took a photo. Tapped the screen to make it focus, took another.
The siren cut off, leaving just a phantom in Jet’s ears.
Three doors slammed. ‘What the hell is going on here?!’
They were all behind the gate now, yellow hats replaced with dark police caps, officers securing the scene, waiting for the forensic teams to turn up.
More black-and-yellow tape – CRIME SCENE – DO NOT ENTER – being spooled across the flimsy gate. ‘You think you can get DNA from it?’ Jet asked Detective Ecker, knowing she didn’t have time for DNA. ‘Fingerprints?’ Ecker’s eyes flashed, mouth set in a grim line. ‘You should have called us.’ His voice was gruff, an edge of impatience. ‘You’re lucky we turned up when we did. You’ve heard of chain of custody, right?’ He tapped his pen against his notebook. ‘Some lawyer hears about the stunt you pulled here, they might be able to get that evidence thrown out in court.’ ‘That’s a strange way of saying, “Thanks for finding the murder weapon for us.”’ ‘Jet, please,’ he sighed. ‘You can’t do this.’ ‘Do what?’ ‘Get in the way of the investigation like this.’ Jet cracked her fingers, her back warm and aching. ‘In the way? I’ve
made more progress than you have.’ ‘Jet –’ ‘– I’m running out of time. And I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty.
See.’ She held them up for him, crusted with dirt and dust. ‘Jet –’
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‘– I know you think it’s JJ, but doesn’t this change things?’ She gestured at the site. ‘Finding my phone and the murder weapon here. JJ has no connection to this place. But someone else does. Andrew Smith. This was his old house. He’s been watching the work, could have known the concrete was going in the morning after. He was wearing the exact same red wig as JJ on Halloween, so the hair at the scene could have come from him too.’ Ecker faltered, chewing the air. ‘How do you know about the hair at the
scene?’ Jet blinked. ‘I … guessed?’ Ecker glanced over his shoulder, back at Jack Finney in his uniform, standing over there with Luke, Billy, and Jet’s parents. Shit. Sorry, Jack.
Now he really would be in trouble. ‘But if there was a red wig hair found at the scene,’ Jet continued, ‘that makes Andrew Smith just as much a suspect as JJ. And don’t just tell me you’re not ruling anything out, again.’ ‘I’m not ruling anything out, suspects either. And the red hair doesn’t limit us to just two options.’ ‘Well, the other matching red wig was on an eleven-year-old girl, so I think –’ ‘– Hairs can transfer, Jet. Synthetic ones too.’ His mouth twitched, watching Jet’s eyes spin, like he was scoring points, firing back. ‘Just because this wig hair was at the scene, doesn’t mean the perpetrator had to be wearing the wig. All it could mean is that they had contact with somebody wearing that wig, that a hair transferred to them, and then to the scene.’ ‘Oh,’ was all Jet could say. And all she could think was: You stupid fuck, thinking you were good at this. ‘You said you spoke to JJ at the fair, when he was wearing that wig?’ Ecker asked, taking aim again. ‘Did you have any physical contact with him?’ Jet shrugged. ‘He might have touched my arm. I can’t remember.’ ‘Right.’ Ecker nodded, the winning shot, eyes softening, but smug all the same. ‘So the hair might have transferred from JJ to you, and you’re the one who transferred it to the scene.’ Jet didn’t like this, being on the receiving end. She wanted to be the smug one, and now she felt … flat, the win snatched from her, arms too tired to snatch it back.
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‘So, you’re saying the killer could be anyone who had contact with either JJ or Andrew Smith at the fair. Or if the hair was transferred from JJ to me, then the killer could be … well, anyone?’ Ecker exhaled, put his notebook away. ‘Please don’t get in the way of the investigation again,’ he said. ‘Cool.’ Jet blew out her lip. ‘Good talk. Always a pleasure.’ She sidled over to her family. ‘Oh, Jet, look at you, sweetie,’ Mom said. The past day must have been hard on her, her face grayer and gaunter somehow. ‘You’re filthy.’ ‘Yep.’ Jet’s arms slapped down to her sides. ‘Why don’t you come home? I’ll run you a nice bath.’ ‘No.’ Jet sniffed, sleeve to her nose, rubbing more dirt on than off. ‘I don’t have time for a nice bath and I’m not coming home. I’m not giving up, not this time, Mom. I can do this. I’m doing it, see. I just found the murder weapon. Not the police, me. I have to do this. I’m supposed to do
this.’ ‘But, Jet –’ ‘– It’s supposed to be hard,’ Jet said, trying to convince herself too. A lot harder now, her suspect pool shifting, opening up from two to … anyone.
No, not anyone. Someone who had a connection to this construction site, who knew that the concrete was going in the morning after, that this would be a perfect place to hide the phone and the weapon. That narrowed it down a bit. Maybe a lot. ‘Dad.’ Jet turned to him. ‘Can you get me a list of all Mason Construction employees? All contractors and subcontractors, anyone who could have known about this site?’ He nodded, hand pressed to his side, knuckles white. Jet knew what that meant, knew the unrelenting pain. ‘Luke can get that for you, honey,’ Dad said.
Jet turned to her brother, eyebrows raised. ‘As quick as you can, Luke.’ He sniffed. ‘This project was already delayed, and now it’s shut down.
Now it’s a crime scene.’ ‘It’s not a crime scene because I smashed up your foundations, Luke. It’s a crime scene because the killer came here to bury the evidence, probably someone you know or someone you employ. Be mad at them, not me.’ ‘Luke’s not mad at anyone,’ Dad said. Because Dad had no idea. None at all.
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‘Sergeant Finney!’ Ecker called. ‘A word?’ Beckoning him over.
Jet pursed her lips, shot Jack a look, said sorry with her eyes as he wandered away.
She pulled out Billy’s phone, still in her pocket, swiped into the photo reel. ‘This is the hammer, Dad.’ She showed him. ‘See the brand. Coleby. Is that one you use at work, that your employees have?’ Dad took the phone from her for a closer look, squinting at the screen. ‘No, it’s not the kind we usually order in.’ He cleared his throat. ‘But contractors will often use their own tools.’ ‘Know anyone who uses this type?’ Dad’s chin dipped, moving side to side. ‘Sorry, kiddo.’
‘Luke?’ She showed him the screen. ‘Not off the top of my head.’ ‘No, it was off the top of my head, Luke. The back actually.’ ‘You feeling OK, Jet?’ Mom interrupted, stepping between them. ‘I feel like I just spent an hour playing with a sledgehammer.’ ‘Billy.’ Dianne’s gaze fixed on him, sudden and surprising. Ah, so she did remember his name. The same thought spooled behind Billy’s eyes; Jet could tell, the twitch in his parted lips. ‘Are you making sure she’s getting
enough rest?’
‘Well, I –’
Dianne didn’t let him answer. ‘– Jet, come home. Please.’ ‘I can’t.’ Jet folded her arms in front of her heart, hiding it, protecting it?
‘I have to keep going. Come on, Billy.’ Billy came on. ‘I’ll take good care of her, Dianne. I promise,’ he said. ‘And Luke,’ Jet called, opening the truck door. ‘That list. ASAP. ASAP meaning I’ll be dead in less than five days, got it?’
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