Page 134 of Not Quite Dead Yet

‘Her death was an accident,’ she said, sharpening that last word into a point. ‘The timing is just a coincidence. You were there, Billy, you saw it: Emily was alone and it was just an accident. Nothing to do with this.’

‘Yeah,’ Billy said, staring at the screen, a silver reflection on the surface of his watery eyes, the scrolling words of two ghosts imprinted there, rippling when he blinked.

27

Andrew Smith was slumped over the table in the farthest corner of the bar, head tucked into the crook of his elbow, passed out. People moved around him, talking, laughing, like the drunk man in the corner was invisible to them.

Jet hung back as Billy approached the table to return Andrew’s keys, carefully sliding them into the pocket of his jacket, hanging on the chair. Billy didn’t come back, not right away; he went to the bar first, grabbed a glass, and filled it with water. Left it there on Andrew’s table, for when he woke up. Such a Billy thing to do. Jet smiled to herself, watching him just be Billy, walking back over to her.

He didn’t make it again.

‘Billy!’ Allison called from behind the bar.

Billy made a face just for Jet, then turned, nodding to his boss. ‘Allison.’

‘You told me you were sick. That’s why you’ve missed your shifts this week. Don’t look sick to me. Saw you buying a beer earlier.’

Billy didn’t say anything, hid his hands behind his back.

‘If I can’t rely on you to turn up to work,’ Allison said, pursing her lips, ‘then I’ll have to hire someone else, you know that.’

‘Sorry.’ Billy nodded, eyes like he meant it. ‘It’s just … I have something, m-more important.’

Allison’s hands went to her hips, widening her eyes, a question in them.

Billy didn’t answer it, didn’t even try.

He walked away, pressing one hand against Jet’s back, guiding her toward the door.

‘Billy,’ she whispered, something tightening in her gut. ‘You shouldn’t get in trouble for me. I won’t be here –’

‘– Maybe it’s not for you,’ he said softly, holding the door open for her, the breeze snatching Jet’s hair, throwing it across her eyes.

Billy rounded the corner, following the street, heading for his apartment.

Jet stopped, that thing in her gut pulling her the other way. She caught Billy’s arm.

‘Can we just …’ she began, feeling stupid, trying not to feel stupid. ‘I don’t know … walk?’

Billy turned, one thumb over his shoulder, pointing toward the stairs. ‘You don’t want to read more of Emily and Nina’s messages?’

‘We’ve looked for hours,’ she replied. ‘We’re not going to find anything. And I don’t think learning that Emily’s first kiss was with Chris Allen is going to help me solve my murder. I think … I want to walk.’

‘Oh.’ Billy took a few steps, back to her side. ‘You want to go talk to your mom now? Ask her what Emily overheard? I guess it’s late but –’

‘– No.’ Jet sucked in the air, filled herself with the darkness, breathed it all out. ‘I think I just want to walk. People do that sometimes, don’t they?’ She turned, slowly, heading back beyond the bar. ‘Don’t need a reason to, or a place they’re going, or a dog to tire out. They just walk … for them.’

Billy walked beside her, a smile, its edges turned down, both confused and amused. ‘Yeah, people do do that.’

‘Doo-doo,’ Jet snorted, waiting for a car to pass.

‘I just thought you’d be worried … about not having time.’

Jet thought she’d be worried about that too, but her guthad other ideas – her heart too, picking up against her ribs, a different kind of song.

‘I have time,’ she said as they crossed the street.

They walked, just walked. Like people did. Billy on her left side, two of Jet’s steps for every one of his, arm nudging against hers. Jet breathed in the night air, spiced with autumn and the first falling leaves, the earthy smell of half-rotting pumpkins on people’s doorsteps. Jet looked at the jack-o’-lanterns, but she didn’t glare back, didn’t feel like it anymore, almost smiled instead.