Page 50 of Not Quite Dead Yet

‘What?’ Billy asked.

‘Luke lied to me,’ Jet said, her finger coming away, Luke’s knuckles still unmarked, not a trick of the light. ‘The fucker.’

‘What?’

‘His hands. They’re all cut up, grazes on his knuckles. They were like that when I woke up.’ Jet stared into her brother’s eyes, her own reflected back in the dark screen. ‘I asked him about it, and he said it happened at a work site, Friday morning. That he tripped. But this is Friday evening and …’

‘There’s nothing wrong with his hands.’ Billy finished the thought for her.

‘Something must have happened, after this,’ Jet said. ‘Why would he lie to me about it?’

‘Maybe he meant Saturday morning,’ Billy offered.

‘He was already with me at the hospital by then,’ Jet countered.

‘You’re not thinking that Luke could have anything to do with …’ Billy trailed off, unable to finish.

‘He and Sophia were together at the time of the attack.’ So they said. But if Luke had already lied once … Jet couldn’t finish the thought either. ‘Well, he’s not wearing a red wig, so …’

Jet moved on, spooling through more photos, searching for any flash of red hair, the reason they’d come. They hadn’t come for Luke.

‘Wait, stop!’ Billy said.

Jet clicked one back.

A photo of Gerry Clay, with his human head now, grinning, bookended by two cops, his cat arms looped around Chief Lou and Jack Finney. All smiles for the camera.

In the background, in the far left, Jet could see herself, face frozen mid-frown as she looked up at Billy. But in the right side of the frame, behind Billy’s dad, was Andrew Smith, heading toward them, beer bottle paused on the way to his mouth. Blurred in the background, in motion, but still clear enough. A smear of red painted across his nose, black lines down his eyes, and on his head was a red wig. Billy was right: straight hairs, static almost, fluffy, the same length as JJ’s.

‘That’s it, isn’t it?’ Billy watched as Jet dragged that photo to the second monitor too, lining the photos up side by side, zooming in. ‘They’re wearing the exact same wig, aren’t they?’

Same burnt-red color, same texture, same length. Andboth looked like a match for that singular hair dropped at the scene, by Jet’s killer.

Jet nodded. ‘Probably bought it from the same place.’

‘Amazon,’ they said, accidental unison.

‘So.’ Billy drew back to his full height. ‘JJ and Andrew Smith.’

‘JJ or Andrew Smith,’ Jet corrected.

‘You really think Andrew is a suspect?’

‘He was drunk that night. He was mad.’ Jet stared at the screen, at the stumbling clown. ‘You heard what he said at the fair. That he hates all the Masons, death to all Masons –’

‘– Not quite what he said,’ Billy cut her off. ‘So what do we do?’

Jet stood up, stumbling, one leg still asleep. Billy held her arm, steadied her.

‘Well, JJ isn’t here for us to talk to,’ she said. ‘But Andrew is.’

Billy nodded, lips disappearing in a grim line. ‘I think I know where to find him.’

‘Come on.’

Jet walked out of Owen’s bedroom and straight into Owen, who was hovering by the open door. He darted away with a yelp, pressing up against the wall, making himself as small as possible.

‘Hey.’ Jet’s eyes burned into him. ‘You better not have been eavesdropping.’

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