Page 149 of Not Quite Dead Yet

‘This is a very serious offense,’ the chief said. ‘A class B felony. You understand that, right, Jet?’

‘Yes. And do you understand that I have about thirty-six hours to live because someone murdered me a week ago?’ Voice even stranger, flatter. Jet looked at Jack instead, his eyes kinder, more familiar; not quite Billy’s, but the closest she’d find in here. ‘You have to let me go.’

‘I’m afraid we can’t do that,’ the chief cut in.

‘I’m dying!’ Jet smacked her left fist on the table, a flash behind her eyes, that fiery edge of hell inside her head now, almost falling in.

‘That doesn’t make a difference,’ he sniffed. ‘The law is the law. We have enough evidence to place you at the –’

‘– What evidence?’

The chief sighed, reaching for the file, the file sighing too, against the table.

‘You told us you were at Billy Finney’s apartment all night on Wednesday, November fifth.’

‘Yes, I was.’

‘We know that’s a lie, Jet,’ Jack said, like it hurt to do it, avoiding her eyes.

The chief removed something from the file, a photograph printed on paper. He slid it across and turned it around so Jet could see.

It was a picture of her truck, taken from behind. The world dark around it, lit only by the moon and the flash of the camera. It was parked up on the side of the road, near the entrance to Mason Construction.

Jet didn’t react, pushed the photo away. ‘It’s my dad’s company, I’ve been there a lot. This could be any time, doesn’t prove anything.’

The chief’s chair creaked as he shifted forward. ‘The metadata tells us that this photograph was taken right by the driveway into Mason Construction, at 11:22 p.m. on Wednesday evening.’

Fuck.

Jet didn’t blink.

‘The smoke alarm inside the building was triggered at 11:17 p.m., and the fire department arrived at 11:31 p.m. So, Jet.’ He steepled his fingers. ‘Why was your truck parked outside during the time of the fire, if you were at Billy’s apartment all night?’

Jet pressed her lips together. Fuck, they had her. Jet needed to get out of here, now – what could she say to make that happen? But another question forced its way in front of that, another glance at the photograph.

‘Who took that photo?’ She asked it. Because who the fuck was there, taking photos, at 11:22 p.m., while Jet and Billy were almost burning to death inside? She kept that part of the question to herself.

The chief coughed into his fist. ‘A witness.’

‘What witness?’ She sat up.

‘I can’t tell you that.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I can’t.’

Jet leaned forward, pressed one finger against the photo, dragging her right hand with it, the chain on the handcuffs clattering against the table.

‘You didn’t think that if thiswitnesswas at the scene around the time of the fire, maybe they could be yoursuspectinstead?’

The chief shook his head.

‘This witness had a legitimate reason to be there at that time. You, however, did n –’

‘– What legitimate reason? Who is the witness?’

Her chest tightened around her phantom heart. Jet knew she didn’t set the fire, so if someone else was there at the same time, thiswitness, it was probably the person who really did it – who tried to kill her the second time. And maybe the first time too. Was this how it ended, how Jet solved her own murder, sitting here in cuffs, accused of something she didn’t do?

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