Page 45 of Not Quite Dead Yet

‘Neither have you.’ She prodded the side of his head, through to his memory. ‘Anything?’

Billy nodded. ‘It was definitely a red wig, just red, and I’m pretty sure the hairs were straight. Fluffy red. Like the clown fromIt.’

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 lotof 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.

‘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 hiddenparts 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.

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