Page 4 of Not Quite Dead Yet

Jack’s shoulders dropped. He glanced away awkwardly, probably for somewhere else to look, finding a perfect distraction in the stall behind them, where Jet’s parents were selling bags of candy corn, fundraising for the town’sGreen Spaces.All sponsored by your friendly local home construction business, of course. The ones who built mansions next to thoseGreen Spaces.

Jack coughed, coming back to them. ‘I’m sure you picked the right man for the job.’

How had Jet found herself in yet another conversation she didn’t want to be in?

‘Cool,’ she said, trying to break the tension. ‘If you want to arrest someone to cheer yourself up, Mr Finney, I nominate my brother. Think we both know he deserves it.’

Jack didn’t smile at that, clearly still lost in what Gerry had said.

‘Oh,’ Gerry piped up. ‘There’s my kid, Owen, the one taking the photos. He’s starting a photography course soon. Let’s get a picture, Jack.’

Gerry looped one thick cat arm through Jack’s and dragged the poor man away.

‘Hey, Jet.’

For fuck’s sake, could she just get one minute?

‘Billy Finney.’ She turned to face him, her fakest smile. ‘You found me. Thank god, because I’ve hardly spoken to anyone tonight.’

‘Really?’ he said.

‘No. I’m sick of people.’

‘Am I people?’

‘You sure look like one.’

A tall one, with dark brown curls that skimmed his wide-set watery blue eyes. A mouth that was always open and always slightly crooked, even when he wasn’t smiling. He raised his eyebrows at her. She knew that look; Billy hadn’t changed much since he was ten years old.

‘What?’ Jet asked.

‘I just spoke to your mom, and she asked me my name.’

Jet snorted.

‘I literally grew up next door, spent more time at your house than I did my own.’ Billy shrank somehow, even though he towered over Jet. ‘She was joking, right? She hasn’t forgotten who I am?’

Poor, sweet Billy.

‘Don’t take it personally, bud.’ Jet clapped him on the arm. ‘I never do.’ Which was, maybe, her biggest lie tonight. ‘Is that why you wanted to find me … sorry, what’s your name again?’

‘I’m not ready to joke about it.’ Billy frowned. ‘Actually, I was going to ask if you wanted to come to the bar on Tuesday. We’re doing another live music night. It’s me, actually, I’m the one who’s playing, I – I think I told you before, a few times. Guitar, singing some songs, some I wrote.’ Why was he talking so fast? And – was he sweating? ‘Just wondering if you could make it this time. N-no – no worries if not.’

Jet sucked in a breath. She couldn’t, not the last time he asked, not now. Because what if he was terrible and she laughed and then it became this whole thing? ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I can’t this week. Really busy. Maybe next time?’

He shrank again. ‘Yeah, cool.’ Billy nodded, his turn to fake-smile. ‘There’ll be a next time, don’t worry.’

Jet wasn’t worried but didn’t get a chance to say so because a clown was bounding toward them, slipping and stumbling on the grass. A drunk clown, beer bottle in hand.

‘You OK?’ Jet asked.

Now she recognized him, only a clown from the neck up, a half-assed red nose and wig. Underneath that, it was just Andrew Smith. He rocked on his feet, his eyes unfocused, setting on fire when they found her.

‘You,’ he slurred, pointing the empty beer at her. ‘Where’s your brother? I need to speak to him.’

‘Luke?’ Jet shrugged. ‘I think he left.’ Lucky prick.

Andrew laughed, a dark, whistling sound. ‘Your fucking family. Think throwing this fucking party every year makes up for any of it?’

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