Page 164 of Not Quite Dead Yet

Luke blinked.

‘Was it him?’ she said. ‘Your father?’

Luke ran his hand over his too-short hair, a hissing sound, the wind picking it up, dragging it away.

‘He looked out for me.’

That was all he said.

Returned to the gate, to watch the burned-down building, the wind howling, screaming through the gaps in the rubble.

Jet turned her back on him, followed her headlight beam back to the truck, opening the passenger door, struggling with the gun.

She got it open, leaned in, put the gun back in the glove compartment. Slammed it, a growl in the back of her throat.

‘Jet,’ Billy said, climbing in the driver’s side. ‘Are you OK?’

She didn’t answer.

Her mind was somewhere else, trailing down Billy’s guitar case, to the little black square stuck on its neck.

Her eyes circled it, forming an idea.

She reached out, slid her fingernail underneath it, peeled it off.

‘Jet, where are you going?’

Back to Luke.

Leaves scattering away from her.

Jet joined him at the gate, side by side. Brother and sister, silhouettes against the blackened ruins.

‘I know you didn’t kill me, Luke,’ she said. ‘But I think you might be the reason I’m dead.’

She reached over, touched his arm. Luke could be scary, but he wasn’t now, a muscle ticcing in his jaw, silent tears. Jet let her hand fall away, moving it down, dropping the little square into Luke’s pocket.

‘I’m sorry you couldn’t change.’

She walked away.

Into the truck.

Shut the door.

Another crack that split the night.

Billy released the parking brake.

‘Where –’ he began.

‘– Home,’ Jet finished.

32

‘Has he moved yet?’

Jet looked over at Billy, too jittery to sit down, spider legs up her spine, more inside her head, multiplying. An itch behind her eye.