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‘Oh good, you’re back.’ Billy stood in the doorway, his doorway, plastic bags rustling, five hooked over his fingers. ‘Got some more food,’ he said, shutting the door awkwardly, Billy Bag- Hands, taking them over to the counter. ‘That chocolate you like. I know it wasn’t on the list, but … Stopped by the pharmacy too, got better bandages.’ Jet was sitting on the floor, legs crossed, her laptop open on the table, eyes back to the screen. The web page spliced, doubled, but Jet hadn’t touched anything; she swore she hadn’t. She rubbed her eyes, blinked, and the image fused together again, back to normal. ‘OK, so I’ve done more research on this hammer,’ she said, over Billy’s rustling. ‘Turns out you can’t actually buy the hammer on its own. It’s only sold as part of a set. Comes with a sixty-piece set in this black tool kit.’ She clicked through the images. ‘Various screwdrivers, lots of different fittings, a file, this little wrenchy thing, measuring tape, a knife, a little saw, pliers or something. You get the picture. So the killer has to have this full set somewhere. Or once had it.’ ‘OK,’ Billy said, putting a carton of milk in the fridge. ‘And the other thing I found out,’ Jet continued, ‘is that this set is only sold in North America, various retailers like Home Depot, Lowe’s, Amazon, so that … well, I mean, that doesn’t really help us at all.’ Billy pulled out a loaf of bread. ‘And we now think it’s someone connected to your dad’s company, who might have known about the project on North Street, and when the foundations were going in.’ ‘Correct,’ Jet said. ‘They had to. Just waiting on that list from Luke, then I can figure out who knew about the North Street site, then go ask them what their favorite brand of hammer is.’ Jet stared at it on-screen. The clean,
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shiny new version of the thing that killed her. ‘Maybe we got a little too excited about the red wig hair, but it still could be Andrew – he has that connection.’ Jet glanced through the front door, re-creating the space beyond it, that narrow hall that split toward two apartments: 1A through there, and here 1B. Fancy that – living about twenty feet away from one of your murder suspects. ‘OK.’ Billy balled up the empty grocery bags, quickly, the swishing sound of their whispered secrets. ‘I better get down to the bar.’ He turned to check his reflection in the mounted microwave, fixing his hair, one stubborn curl that wouldn’t let itself be fixed.
Jet slumped against the sofa. ‘You working tonight?’ she asked, watching Billy as he crossed to the far wall, picked up his guitar case.
He shrugged, hiding his face from her. ‘Kinda,’ he said. ‘It’s th-that live music thing I told you about. I – I’m the music. And I’m … live,’ he added. ‘Oh,’ Jet said. ‘That’s tonight?’ ‘Yeah. Tuesday is the only day Allison will let me do it.’ ‘When’s it start?’ Billy glanced back at the microwave, at the little clock. ‘Literally ten minutes. I should already be down there, setting up. People are waiting.’ He finally looked at her, resting the case on the tops of his shoes. ‘But I can cancel it, I can stay, if you –’ ‘– No, no,’ Jet cut him off. ‘You go. Wouldn’t want you to get in trouble with Allison. I’m fine.’ Billy hoisted the guitar case on his back, his eyebrows furrowing. Maybe his arms were sore too: Jet’s were killing her. OK, OK, she heard it. ‘I mean,’ Billy said, quieter now, unsure, ‘you could come down, i-if you want. It’s not far.’ He attempted a smile, but it didn’t reach his pale eyes. ‘You’ve been staring at that hammer for hours already. A quick break might, I don’t know, do you good.’ Jet opened her mouth, but she couldn’t find an excuse in time. Busy was already out the window, she knew it, and Billy knew it too. She couldn’t say later, or next time, because those weren’t options either, not anymore.
Billy watched her, jumped in to fill the silence. ‘Your mom told me to make sure you’re getting enough rest and … she terrifies me.’ He laughed, catching it in his closed fist. ‘I’m not … I’m not terrible, if that’s what you’re worried about.’
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‘I didn’t think you were terrible.’ Lie.
Billy smiled, like he knew it. Ah, fuck sake, Billy Finney, looking at her with those sad blue eyes, a tug of warm guilt in her chest, sliding down to her belly. ‘Yeah, OK,’ Jet said. ‘Maybe I’ll see you down there.’ Billy’s eyes lit up, a different blue somehow, trading ice for a summer sky. ‘OK,’ he said, a lopsided smile. ‘See you down there.’ The front door closed behind him. ‘Fuck sake, Billy,’ Jet muttered, closing the lid of her laptop. She pushed herself up from the floor, the muscles down the backs of her arms complaining. An ache they didn’t forget as she headed into the bedroom.
Well, she couldn’t go down to the bar in her sweats, could she? And her clothes from today were basically ruined.
She slipped on the clean pair of jeans, searched her backpack for a shirt.
Hmm, see, this was why you didn’t pack in a hurry, or when you were mad as fuck. She hadn’t packed anything bar-appropriate. Her eyes scanned up to Billy’s closet, pulled it open. Flannel shirts of almost every color combination, checked and striped and checked again. Billy was a Country Boy and he knew it. And he probably wouldn’t mind if Jet borrowed one.
Probably. Jet pulled one out – navy and cream – and buttoned it up.
In the bathroom, Jet sprayed some of Billy’s deodorant, pulled out her makeup bag, and studied her face.
Her hair was a mess. Should she try to wash it sometime, around the wounds? Was there even a point? Jet tried to get a brush through; it was still matted around the bandages, but it would have to do.
Next, her face. Her skin was a little blue, a little swollen, by her temple, the bruise creeping out from under the bandage there. A bit of foundation covered that, and the circles under her eyes. Blush on her cheeks and a little on her nose. Eyebrow gel to stick them up the way she liked them. A pale pink on her lips, up and down the sharp lines of her cupid’s bow.
Jet leaned closer to the mirror, mascara wand in hand. She blinked. The pupil on the right was still dilated, a dark abyss in the middle of her eye, mismatched from the other. There wasn’t much the mascara could do about it. But, hey, for a dying girl, she could have looked worse.
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Jet had her own table, the one by the upside-down-witch-legs lamp, hands cupped around a cold bottle of beer, stinging the raw scrubbed-clean skin of her palms.
The bar was busy, surprisingly busy, maybe forty people in here, shuffling feet and chatter crammed into the small space. A completely different world from earlier, when it had just been Jet and Billy and Andrew Smith.
The crowd started to cheer, bursts of clapping, and Jet watched as Billy emerged from the door behind the bar, his hand around the neck of his guitar. He jogged toward the makeshift stage, the microphone on a stand waiting for him. More applause, whoops from a group of middle-aged women, a wolf whistle from a burly man at the back. ‘Thank you,’ Billy said into the microphone, a screech of feedback. ‘Thanks Steve.’ Jet gripped the underside of the table, too nervous for him, crossed her legs because she couldn’t sit still. ‘I’m Billy, and it is my pleasure to play for you tonight,’ he said, strumming one chord, hooking the guitar strap over his head. ‘I’m gonna start off with a song probably none of you have ever heard before.’ He started to play, fingers dancing across the strings, and the opening riff drew a laugh from the crowd. More when he started to sing.
That song everyone knew. The one about Vermont and sticks. Very popular around here, especially at this time of year, right on the cusp of the season of the sticks.
The crowd quieted and Billy continued the verse, and Jet gripped the table harder and … wait a minute. Wait a fucking minute. Billy was good.
More than good. He could actually sing, oh my god, he could actually sing.
A raspy tone to his voice that wasn’t there when he spoke, climbing the notes like it was the easiest thing in the world.
Jet felt the hairs standing up along her aching arms. She hugged them to herself. Billy Fucking Finney, eh? Who would have thought?
Everyone joined in with the chorus, butchering the notes, coming in too late. Jet wanted them to shut up, so she could hear her friend sing.
Billy’s eyes scanned the crowd, like he was looking for someone, and then he found her, sitting here at her table, alone.
Jet raised her beer and Billy winked back at her. Moved on to the next verse, but he was smiling so wide out one side of his mouth, it must have
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been hard to sing through. ‘That’s my friend,’ Jet said to a guy at the next table.
‘Billy’s everyone’s friend.’ Well, fuck you, sir.
The song ended, another wolf whistle from the back of the room.
Billy grinned into the microphone. ‘OK, next up: Steve’s favorite, because he’ll start heckling if I don’t.’ He cleared his throat and picked at the strings. ‘Teenage Dirtbag’, another crowd-pleaser, and Steve back there looked more than pleased.
Jet took another sip of her beer, the fizz of the liquid inside her cheeks, a warm glow pressing in from the other side. Well, in one of them; the other cheek felt nothing. Could you normally feel your cheeks? Jet took another sip, finished off the beer. She glanced over to the bar, scouting her path through the crowd. There was a clear way, there, right to one of the bar stools, and a woman sitting on it. Jet recognized her immediately. Her name wasn’t Noelle, like Billy was singing now, but it was close. Nell.
Jankowski. The chief’s wife.
Jet got to her feet, zigzagged her way through, all eyes on Billy. ‘Can I have another?’ Jet placed the empty bottle down on the bar, standing right next to Nell, hair like bronze, graying at the temples. She was drinking a glass of white wine, the glass sweating, ghostly fingerprints left behind. ‘Hi,’ Jet said. ‘I’m Jet.’ Nell glanced at her, eyes that matched her hair, softening as they landed on Jet. ‘Hi, sweetheart,’ she said, straightening up. ‘I know who you are.
Lou’s told me about … He’s good, isn’t he?’ Nell pointed her glass toward Billy. ‘The best,’ Jet answered without a pause. ‘What has Lou told you?’ Nell hesitated, breathing in the wine. ‘I just wanted to say, I’m so sorry about your situation. It’s truly awful, what happened. Are you feeling OK?
If there’s anything I can do before –’ ‘– I feel fine,’ Jet lied. ‘No different. Turns out dying feels a lot like living.’ ‘I’m sorry.’ Nell stared into her glass, wincing as the crowd joined in with the chorus.
Jet waited for the sound to die down, then asked: ‘Is it true? That my dad is planning to sell Mason Construction to you?’ Nell choked on her wine. ‘He told you?’
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‘Someone else did.’ Nell’s chin dipped up, a question in her eyes. ‘Andrew Smith,’ Jet answered. ‘So it’s actually true?’ Nell nodded. ‘He shouldn’t have done that.’ ‘Probably a lot of things Andrew Smith shouldn’t have done.’ ‘I pay him to do jobs around the house sometimes,’ Nell said. ‘One of the first people I met in town, in here actually.’ She looked around, but Andrew wasn’t here. ‘I worry he’s lonely. We chat sometimes. I didn’t think he … He shouldn’t have told you that. Your dad doesn’t want anyone to know yet.’ ‘Are you going to buy it?’ Jet asked. ‘The company.’ Nell ran her finger around the rim of her glass. ‘It makes sense to. I own a home construction business, based in Hartland and Hartford, where we lived before Lou got this job. Now we live in Woodstock, it makes sense to expand here. We’re not total out-of-towners, like people think. Lou actually lived here for six months, in his thirties.’ ‘Thank you,’ Jet said to the guy behind the bar, handing her an open beer. ‘I’ll get this.’ Nell jumped in, reaching toward the card machine before Jet had a chance. ‘Thanks.’ Jet took a sip. ‘It would also make sense for my dad to leave the company to Luke when he retires. He’s worked there more than ten years. It’s what we all thought would happen.’ Nell went back to staring at her wine. ‘Your dad doesn’t want to do that.
He has two children. Doesn’t think it would be fair on you, to give the company to Luke.’ ‘Well, lucky for Luke, I guess that’s not going to be a problem anymore.
Dad’s only gonna have one kid left by the end of the week.’ Jet took another sip. ‘Excuse me – someone’s trying to steal my table.’ Jet made her way back, eyeballing the man who was reaching for her chair until he backed off. ‘Thank you, thank you,’ Billy said, his breath tickling the mic. ‘OK, next I’m gonna play one of my own songs.’ The crowd oohed. ‘I know, I know. I wrote this song a while back, so you might have heard it already. This one’s called “For Her”.’ Billy’s fingers skipped across the strings, picking out the chords, eyes down on his feet.
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‘If you asked my heart how long, it could only say it’s been a while,’ he sang. ‘And I’d ask you instead: how could you not love that dangerous little smile? She laughs like an old man dying, and I gotta keep it together, I’m really trying. Loved her since the start, since day one, but day one won’t ever be one day ’cause …’ He strummed harder, the guitar picking up for the chorus, Billy’s voice too, gravelly beneath the notes. He sang:
She might not ever love me back, Wrong place or time or maybe neither.
But she looks at me with those earthy eyes,
And I’m not sure I can breathe ugh.
Don’t think it’s in the cards or stars,
Not on the same page or track.
But, hell, I’m gonna play it, Because I wrote this little song … for her.
Billy swallowed, stepped back from the microphone. He looked nervous, Jet could tell, eyes still on the ground. ‘Whoooo,’ Jet called between her cupped hands, clapping them together.
‘Come on, Billy!’ The crowd joined in.
Billy’s smile came back, and so did his eyes, surveying the bar, having fun with it now. ‘She’s my cup of tea, my bit of me, why yes, I’ve watched British Love
Island on TV, why do you ask?’ Jet laughed. ‘No, stop asking, we’re just friends, stay on task, I’ve got a verse to sing.
She’s a queen but I’m no king, I’m just royally fucked, and I’m sorry for swearing.’ Everyone laughed, and Jet’s cheeks glowed harder. That was her friend up there.
‘Got you a beer.’ Billy took the seat opposite, resting his guitar case against the arm.
‘Thanks.’ ‘So,’ Jet said.
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‘So?’ Billy asked, gripping the bottle, eyebrows up, forcing little folds onto his forehead. ‘You’re not terrible.’ She smiled, could only feel it on one side.
Billy laughed. ‘I told you I wasn’t terrible.’ He took a sip, mouth creased at the corners, almost dribbling his beer, catching it with his sleeve. ‘I’d never lie to you. Wh-why are you prodding your face like that?’ ‘I can’t feel my cheek,’ Jet said, driving her finger into it, nail first. ‘Can you feel your cheek?’ Billy leaned across the table, fingers outstretched. ‘No, not my cheek, yours. Can you feel anything when you prod it?’ Billy picked up Jet’s bottle of beer instead. ‘How many of these have you had?’ ‘You’re good, Billy,’ Jet said. ‘Better than good. Fucking good.’ ‘Stop.’ He pulled his shirt up, hooking it over his nose, covering his face.
Jet reached over and yanked it down, her fingerprints remaining, creases
in the fabric. ‘Why have you been hiding that?’ ‘I didn’t hide it,’ Billy said. ‘I’ve invited you like fifty times. You’re always busy.’ ‘Always busy,’ she murmured, a puff of air that was both a sigh and a laugh, it couldn’t decide, and neither could Jet. ‘But, Billy, you could do this, you know. Write songs, play them, get paid to do it.’ ‘Nah,’ he said, the sound echoing in his beer bottle. ‘No, you could, I’m serious,’ Jet said, seriously. ‘You just have to be discovered, and then it can all really begin.’ ‘What can begin?’ ‘Life, Billy.’ She slapped the table. ‘I can’t believe you’ve been sitting on this. You’ve never thought about purs-pur-p – doing this? Doing it properly?’ Billy shrugged. ‘I don’t think I want that. I just write songs because I like
to do it, that’s all. Makes me happy.’ Was he joking? ‘But,’ she said, ‘what’s the point in doing it, if it’s not to achieve
something big?’ ‘Maybe there is no point.’ Jet felt a flash of annoyance warm up her neck, sitting straighter with it. ‘But there has to be a point. Otherwise you’re just wasting your time.’
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Billy shrugged. ‘Is it a waste of time if I love every minute?’ Jet chewed her lip, studied his face. ‘Yes, Billy. You’ve literally just
described a waste of time.’ He laughed into his beer. ‘It’s not funny,’ Jet exhaled into hers. ‘You’re lucky you found the thing you’re good at. I never did find mine. And I looked a lot.’ ‘What are you talking about, Jet? You got into UPenn, one of the best law schools in the world.’ ‘… And dropped out after two semesters.’ ‘Then you worked at that fancy bank in Boston.’ ‘… And quit because the hours were too long, and I never had time to drink enough water, so I kept pissing blood, which is not good for you, apparently.’ She held out her bottle to Billy’s on the table, cheers-ed it.
Billy’s smile turned down at the corners. ‘I think you’re too hard on yourself.’ Jet shook her head. ‘Not hard enough. Yeah, I haven’t actually finished anything I’ve started … ever.’ She rubbed her eye with her sleeve – Billy’s sleeve – came back with a grin, used it as a shield. ‘Actually, that’s not true.
When I was ten, I did come first in the regional spelling bee, beat all the teenagers.’ Billy’s eyes flickered. ‘Wasn’t that the same day that –’ ‘– Emily drowned, yeah. Forgot you were there that day.’ ‘I didn’t forget.’ Billy abandoned his beer, chewed his thumb instead.
Could he still hear her mom’s screams too, if he searched his memories far enough?
Jet cleared her throat. ‘You know, I was never allowed to have my hair long after that day. Mom forced me to cut it short, even though I hated it.
Guess it kind of stuck with me.’ Jet fiddled with the ends of her hair, skimming her shoulders. ‘I remember,’ Billy said. ‘No one was allowed to go in your pool unless there were two adults there, constantly watching. And no swimming under the surface ever, especially anywhere near the drain.’ Jet sniffed. Looked into Billy’s watery eyes. She could just tell him.
She’d never told anyone before – not Luke, not Sophia, not JJ – and if she didn’t now, it would probably die with her. ‘You know, I …’ She stopped herself, false start. Pushed herself to try again. ‘My mom, she blames me for Emily’s death. Said it was my fault.’
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Billy blinked. ‘What are you talking about? You weren’t even there.’ ‘Exactly,’ Jet said. ‘It was my fault both my parents were out that afternoon, watching me at the competition. If I hadn’t reached the final, Mom and Dad would have been at home, and Emily wouldn’t have died.’ Jet dropped her chin, hiding it behind Billy’s collar. ‘I overheard Mom saying it to Dad, right after the funeral. That it was my fault Emily died.’ Billy shuffled, his shoes pressing against hers. ‘That’s crazy.’ ‘She blames your dad too,’ Jet sniffed. ‘It always has to be someone’s
fault.’ ‘My dad?’ ‘Yeah. Apparently they passed him on the way to the competition, and my mom asked your dad if he could check in on Luke and Emily in a couple of hours. Emily was sixteen, Luke was thirteen, and man did they fight all the time. I guess she was worried about them killing each other while they were out. And I guess your dad never did go check.’ Billy shook his head. ‘Emily’s death was a freak accident; it wasn’t anyone’s fault her hair got stuck in the –’ ‘– I know,’ Jet interrupted him. ‘But my mom doesn’t know that. I think she’s punished me for it ever since.’ Jet tapped her foot, nudging against Billy’s. Something else she’d never told anyone: ‘Those were all Emily’s plans, you know. She was the one who wanted to go to Dartmouth, then UPenn for law school. I tried, but …’ Had she really tried, though? Survived Dartmouth – never felt at home there, never made any lasting friends to fill the hole Sophia left – just buckled down, eyes on her shiny future. And then it was there, Jet had it, just as shiny as she’d imagined, and she’d given up law school as soon as she found any reason to, like she’d been waiting for a way out. Why was that? ‘You remember what Emily was like, don’t you? So cool, so sure, so smart, she didn’t even have to try. Effortless. I wanted to be just like her. She won that same spelling bee, you know, when she was ten too. Being Emily, it just came so easy to her. But it wasn’t easy for me. Guess I never really filled those shoes, huh?’ Billy pressed his toes against hers, a half-smile. ‘You’ve only got little
feet.’ Jet snorted, kicked him away. ‘I know your mom is hard on you,’ he said, dropping the smile. ‘But she does it because she cares.’
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‘Really?’ ‘Well, she didn’t up and leave when you were eighteen, sent two birthday cards then forgot the rest, no phone call ever, no explanation, no idea where she is.’ Billy ran his hands through his hair, finger tracks breaking up the curls. ‘That’s a mom who doesn’t care, Jet.’ Jet caught his eye, a warm creep of guilt stirring in her gut.
‘I’m sorry about your mom, Billy.’
‘And I’m sorry about yours. Moms, huh?’
‘Moms.’ They clinked beer bottles. ‘Right, let’s stop being depressing,’ Jet said. ‘Acting like somebody died over here.’ ‘You’re doing that on purpose now, Jet.’ ‘Let’s go back to talking about you becoming a famous singer.’ ‘Let’s not.’ ‘Is that a Tile tracker on your guitar case?’ She pointed. ‘Yeah.’ Billy traced it with his fingers. ‘It’s my baby.’ ‘Oh please,’ she snorted again. ‘Don’t Oh please me, you’re the same way with your truck.’ ‘That truck is my baby,’ she said. ‘You’re never allowed to drive it.’ ‘And you’re not allowed to play my guitar,’ he said.
‘Fine.’ ‘Finer.’ ‘Sooooo.’ Jet leaned across the table to prod Billy in the arm. ‘That song you wrote, it’s about a girl you like, huh?’ She leaned even closer, whispered: ‘Who is she?’ Billy tipped back in his chair. ‘No one. It’s not about anybody, I made it up.’ ‘Oh, come on,’ Jet said. ‘You can tell me. I’ve known you forever. Who could be a better wingwoman? Let me help – it’s my dying wish. Does she work at the bar?’ Billy fiddled his fingers, stared down at them too hard, acting strange and un-Billy-like. Which was all the yes Jet needed. ‘She does, doesn’t she?’ she hissed. ‘Is it Allison? It’s Allison, isn’t it?
You wrote the song about her?’ ‘No,’ he coughed. ‘It’s not. The song isn’t about anybody. It’s just a song.’
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