Page 53 of Not Quite Dead Yet

‘Hi, Billy,’ she said, ‘it’s me. It’s Jet.

You know, next-door neighbor, childhood best friend.

’ She was nervous, the blood rushing to her face.

‘Um, yeah, so, I’m at the police station.

They’ve arrested me. They think I’m the one who burned down Mason Construction, which is …

Anyway, this isn’t about that. It’s about you.

’ She took a breath, but it didn’t work, her voice breaking anyway.

‘I’m so sorry, Billy. I’m so sorry. You are the last person in the entire world I wanted to hurt.

I didn’t know what I was doing – I’m not making an excuse.

But I think, my whole life, I didn’t know what I was doing, just ob-obsessed with this idea, of achieving something big, of proving to my parents that I can be like Emily, I can do what she would have done.

’ She sniffed. ‘That’s why I did it, your mom.

And I think … I think I’ve spent so long waiting for it all to begin, for life to really start, that I missed out on what it was really all about.

It’s not law school, or the big fancy job at the big fancy firm, or solving your own murder because it’s your last chance to prove something.

It’s about all of those small moments I missed while I was waiting.

I haven’t been able to see it until now.

Racing bikes, doesn’t matter who wins. Cold beers.

Writing songs just because it makes you happy.

Laughing. I haven’t laughed so much my whole life as I have the past few days with you.

And that’s saying something, because I got murdered a week ago.

Being brave, being useless, and not caring that I’m useless around you, letting you help me.

Sitting on the floor mostly because it bugs you.

Looking up at the stars. It didn’t even look like a frog, Billy, not really.

’ She smiled, tears gathering across her lips, salt on her tongue.

‘I said I didn’t want to stop because I was having too much fun.

I was just being … well, me , being an asshole, but I think that, maybe, I accidentally stumbled on it, I just didn’t realize.

Because, Billy, this past week, I haven’t really been dying.

I think, maybe, it’s the opposite. I’ve finally been living.

And that’s all because of you. You showed me.

It’s the best thing anyone’s ever done for me, and I’ll never forget it.

And I wanted you to know, that it was all you, before it’s too late.

’ Her breath stuttered, a wet sucking sound up her blocked nose.

‘Gross, sorry. I’m sorry, Billy, and I hope you listen to this, and you find some way to forgive me.

Because I’m an asshole, and I can’t die knowing that you hate me, because I –’

‘– You have reached the voicemail limit. To send, please hang up, or press one to rerecord your message.’

Jet swallowed.

Replaced the receiver to hang up.

Wiped her eyes. One eye, then the next.

‘You done?’ Mr Finney’s voice behind her.

‘I’m done,’ she said.

He didn’t put the cuffs back on, just put a hand on her shoulder, walked her back to the holding cell, silent, pretending he hadn’t heard her one-way conversation with Billy. Jet didn’t care that he had; she meant every word.

Jack pushed the door shut, squealing hinges, mouth in a sad downward line as he locked it, looked at Jet through the bars, face creasing, sorry.

‘Hey, Mr Finney,’ Jet sniffed, blinking to try and stitch him back into one person, the concrete floor unsteady beneath her. ‘Can I borrow some more paper? And a pen?’

He glanced over his shoulders, one way, then the other.

‘You’re not supposed to have anything in there.’

‘Please,’ she said, wrapping her hand around a bar, holding herself up. ‘We both know what’s going to happen. I’m probably not going to see anybody again, won’t get a chance to say goodbye. But I can write them letters. I have to say goodbye.’

Mr Finney chewed his lip, nodded.

‘How many pages do you need?’ he asked.

‘A lot.’

‘OK.’ He nodded again. ‘I’ll be right back.’

‘Thank you.’

Jet sank to her knees, giving in to her legs, sliding back against the wall, feet out in front of her, eyes up. The cell didn’t feel quite so small anymore, not as cold.

‘Here.’

Mr Finney was back, bending down to slide a small pile of printer paper through the bars, shushing along the concrete. Too clean, too white. He rolled a ballpoint pen through, no cap.

‘Sorry, I could only find a red one,’ he said.

‘That’s OK.’ Jet picked up the pen, then the first sheet of paper, laid it on the floor, legs hooked around it, one foot pressed to the corner to hold it in place.

‘I’ll come check on you in a few hours. Bring you some food.’

His footsteps clicked along the corridor, taking him away, through the door at the end that Jet couldn’t see.

Couldn’t much see the paper in front of her either, her eyes unfocusing, losing their way. But Jet wouldn’t lose hers.

She was brave, and she was useless, and that was all fine with her.

She gripped the pen in her left hand, the wrong hand, the hand she never wrote with, wasn’t sure she could.

She started. She tried.

D ea r M o m

So slow, the letters squashed and childlike. Red ink crammed together, then spread too far, slipping up and down, out of line, like it was her first time writing, not her last.

It was going to take hours, like this.

But Jet had the time.

She took a breath, steadied herself, anchored herself, looked through her doubled vision, beyond it.

She pressed the pen to the paper and began her goodbyes.