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‘It’s a wig hair.’ Jet sat down, pulling her notebook across the sofa, opening the page. ‘A red costume wig hair.’ She looked up at Billy. ‘And we all know who was wearing a red wig for Halloween.’

‘Yeah.’ He sucked in a breath.

‘JJ –’

‘– Andrew Smith,’ Billy said at the same time.

They stared, pointed at each other.

Spoke at the same time again.

‘JJ had one –?’

‘– Andrew Smith was wearing a red wig?’ Jet’s eyes narrowed, voice lowered.

‘He was a clown, Jet.’

Jet searched her memory. ‘I remember the painted red nose. He had a wig on too?’

‘One hundred percent.’ Billy dropped down on the sofa next to her.

Jet closed her eyes to peel back the time, to see the scene playing out before her.

‘Yeah, but clowns have rainbow-colored hair, don’t they? And it’s curly, like, coiled? This hair at the scene was straight, like five inches long.’

Billy closed his eyes too, trying the same trick. Jet watched him, blew on his face when he took too long.

‘You know, you haven’t changed much since you were eleven,’ he said.

‘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 from It. ’

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 lot of 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 hidden parts 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.

‘Sorry, sorry. Oh god.’

‘Are you going to faint, Billy?’

‘Not if I can help it. There. Done.’

He lifted the bandage away, the air cool against the exposed back of her head. Too cool.

‘Did they shave my head, Billy?’

‘Um,’ he answered. ‘It’s … it’s not your best angle. Bit crusty. Little bit bald. Let’s get this covered up, nice and clean.’

The sound of ripping plastic behind her ears.

‘Here we go. I’m just going to place this on, very carefully, then tape it down. OK?’

Jet waited for him to get close. Closer.

‘AH!’ she cried suddenly, making Billy jump out of his skin, falling back into it and off his knees.

‘Jet, that’s not funny!’

She cackled, deep and gravelly. Because it was, actually. And so was the look on his face.

‘Don’t do that again.’

Jet turned off the bathroom light, closed the door behind her as she stepped into the darkened living room.

Billy was already tucked up on the sofa, his head against one of the patterned cushions, using the matching throw as a blanket. It wasn’t long enough, and neither was the sofa, Billy’s bare feet dangling over the end. Eyes glowing as they watched her approach.

‘I’m done in there now, thanks for the toothpaste,’ she said.

‘No problem.’

Jet picked her way past the sofa, toward the bedroom, the small lamp glowing inside. She hesitated, turned back.

‘You can come with me,’ she said to the darkness. ‘In the morning, to talk to Owen Clay. If you want?’

Only because she knew Billy wanted to. Then at least she didn’t have to worry about him worrying, or hear about it after.

‘I’ll be there,’ his voice found her, across the dark room.

Jet slipped inside the bedroom, the bed ready and made, a glass of water on the nightstand that Billy must have just put there.

‘Night, Jet.’

‘Night, Billy.’