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People were starting to leave now, werewolves and serial killers jostling her.

A ginormous cat costume headed her way, a mismatched human head bursting from its white-and-ginger-furred shoulders, cat head tucked under one arm.

Jet recognized the human part: bald head and dark brown skin, eyes magnified by circular glasses.

It was Gerry Clay. He was on the board of village trustees with Mom.

Actually, Gerry was chair and Mom was vice, and Mom said she didn’t mind that when she was elected, but Mom was a bad liar.

Cat-Gerry was walking between two police officers. Not costumes this time, uniforms. Shields on their chests and guns in their belts. Lou Jankowski, their newish chief of police, and Jack Finney, who lived opposite the Masons; always had.

‘Hello Jet.’ Jack gave her a familiar smile, tall and broad-shouldered, the gray in his dark hair creeping into his stubble. Sophia used to call him a silver fox when they were teenagers, even though the silver part was pretty new.

‘Hi Mr Finney.’ She was supposed to call him Sergeant or something, but it had never stuck. Mr Finney was an improvement on Billy’s dad at least, and that’s what Jet had called him for most of her life.

‘Billy was looking for you,’ he said, like he’d read her mind.

Wow, Jet was Miss Fucking Popular tonight.

‘Sorry, Lou,’ Jack added. ‘This is Jet. Scott and Dianne’s daughter. Don’t know if you’ve met?’

‘Don’t know if we have,’ Lou said. His face looked mean, hard eyes, but his voice didn’t match, too soft.

Yellowy-gray hair, close to mustard, and ketchup-ruddy cheeks.

Clearly the man had never heard of retinol.

‘It’s been a pleasure working with your mom, and Gerry of course.

Oh, that’s my wife, that scarecrow waving at me. Excuse me a minute.’

‘A pleasure?’ Jet said, watching the chief go. ‘He must have the wrong Dianne Mason.’

‘Ha!’ Gerry shouted it, not really a laugh. ‘You’re a funny one.’

Jet already knew she was a funny one. Sometimes that was all she had.

‘What do you think of your new boss, Jack?’ the half-cat half-Gerry asked, his attention on the retreating chief.

‘Don’t tell anyone I said this, Jack, but it should have been you.

Made so much more sense to have a chief who’s lived here for decades, not some out-of-towner who doesn’t know anyone.

Of course I voted for you. I don’t know why the other trustees – shit, don’t tell anyone I said that. But … it should have been you.’

Jack’s shoulders dropped. He glanced away awkwardly, probably for somewhere else to look, finding a perfect distraction in the stall behind them, where Jet’s parents were selling bags of candy corn, fundraising for the town’s Green Spaces.

All sponsored by your friendly local home construction business, of course.

The ones who built mansions next to those Green Spaces.

Jack coughed, coming back to them. ‘I’m sure you picked the right man for the job.’

How had Jet found herself in yet another conversation she didn’t want to be in?

‘Cool,’ she said, trying to break the tension. ‘If you want to arrest someone to cheer yourself up, Mr Finney, I nominate my brother. Think we both know he deserves it.’

Jack didn’t smile at that, clearly still lost in what Gerry had said.

‘Oh,’ Gerry piped up. ‘There’s my kid, Owen, the one taking the photos. He’s starting a photography course soon. Let’s get a picture, Jack.’

Gerry looped one thick cat arm through Jack’s and dragged the poor man away.

‘Hey, Jet.’

For fuck’s sake, could she just get one minute?

‘Billy Finney.’ She turned to face him, her fakest smile. ‘You found me. Thank god, because I’ve hardly spoken to anyone tonight.’

‘Really?’ he said.

‘No. I’m sick of people.’

‘Am I people?’

‘You sure look like one.’

A tall one, with dark brown curls that skimmed his wide-set watery blue eyes. A mouth that was always open and always slightly crooked, even when he wasn’t smiling. He raised his eyebrows at her. She knew that look; Billy hadn’t changed much since he was ten years old.

‘What?’ Jet asked.

‘I just spoke to your mom, and she asked me my name.’

Jet snorted.

‘I literally grew up next door, spent more time at your house than I did my own.’ Billy shrank somehow, even though he towered over Jet. ‘She was joking, right? She hasn’t forgotten who I am?’

Poor, sweet Billy.

‘Don’t take it personally, bud.’ Jet clapped him on the arm. ‘I never do.’ Which was, maybe, her biggest lie tonight. ‘Is that why you wanted to find me … sorry, what’s your name again?’

‘I’m not ready to joke about it.’ Billy frowned.

‘Actually, I was going to ask if you wanted to come to the bar on Tuesday. We’re doing another live music night.

It’s me, actually, I’m the one who’s playing, I – I think I told you before, a few times.

Guitar, singing some songs, some I wrote.

’ Why was he talking so fast? And – was he sweating?

‘Just wondering if you could make it this time. N-no – no worries if not.’

Jet sucked in a breath. She couldn’t, not the last time he asked, not now. Because what if he was terrible and she laughed and then it became this whole thing? ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I can’t this week. Really busy. Maybe next time?’

He shrank again. ‘Yeah, cool.’ Billy nodded, his turn to fake-smile. ‘There’ll be a next time, don’t worry.’

Jet wasn’t worried but didn’t get a chance to say so because a clown was bounding toward them, slipping and stumbling on the grass. A drunk clown, beer bottle in hand.

‘You OK?’ Jet asked.

Now she recognized him, only a clown from the neck up, a half-assed red nose and wig. Underneath that, it was just Andrew Smith. He rocked on his feet, his eyes unfocused, setting on fire when they found her.

‘You,’ he slurred, pointing the empty beer at her. ‘Where’s your brother? I need to speak to him.’

‘Luke?’ Jet shrugged. ‘I think he left.’ Lucky prick.

Andrew laughed, a dark, whistling sound. ‘Your fucking family. Think throwing this fucking party every year makes up for any of it?’

Billy stepped closer to Jet, into the line of fire. Well, beer.

‘All of you. Destroy everything you touch!’ Andrew spat.

‘I – I think you’ve had a little too much to drink, huh, Andrew?’ Billy said, raising his hands, palms exposed. ‘That’s OK. How about I get you some water?’

‘Don’t tell me what to do, boy! Always telling me what to do!’

Andrew half charged, half fell into Billy, shoving him backward. Billy didn’t fight back, let himself get pushed.

‘It’s OK, Mr Smith,’ he strained to say, the clown throwing weak drunken punches at his chest.

Why wasn’t Billy doing anything?

‘Hey,’ Jet yelled, doing something, but it was done before she could reach the scuffle.

Billy’s dad – shit, old habit, try again – Jack had appeared out of the thinning crowd, Chief Lou on his heels.

Jack grabbed Andrew, wrenched him away from Billy.

Andrew tripped over his own feet, into Chief Lou, who held him in a barrel grip.

‘Calm down, sir!’ Lou barked into his ear, the softness gone from his voice. Not super calming.

‘I’ve got this, Chief.’ Jack gripped one of Andrew’s arms. The clown’s head lolled onto Jack’s shoulder. ‘You OK, Billy?’ Jack asked his son, over Andrew’s head.

‘Yeah, fine, Dad,’ Billy answered. ‘Just a misunderstanding. He needs to go home, sleep it off. Please don’t arrest him.’

‘You know this man?’ Chief Lou asked Billy’s dad.

Jack nodded.

‘Know where he lives?’

Jack nodded again. ‘He lives in the apartment next to Billy’s.’

‘All right.’ The chief righted his uniform. ‘Can you escort him home, Sergeant? Make sure he gets a drink of water.’

‘Yes, Chief.’

‘Next time,’ Lou spoke down to the clown, ‘it’ll be a night in the cell and a charge of disorderly conduct.’

‘Come on, Andrew,’ Jack said, leading the man away, toward the road and the streetlamps, holding the clown upright, the man too.

The chief turned to speak to Billy, and Jet slipped away.

She was done talking to people and done with this Halloween Fair.

Maybe she’d pretend she was sick next year.

Actually, it didn’t matter: next year she wouldn’t even be here anymore.

She’d be in Boston again, maybe back in law school, or maybe running her new company. There was time for that. She had time.

‘What was that about?’ Dad asked when she finally reached their stall.

‘Andrew Smith.’ Jet dropped her zombie mask on the table. ‘Drunk and sad again.’

‘About his house?’ Mom said, distracted, counting cash into a lockbox, her sharp haircut swinging around her neck.

‘No, probably about his only daughter killing herself last year.’

Dianne hissed, an intake of breath. ‘Jet, I wish you wouldn’t.’

‘Wouldn’t what, Mom? Speak? Exist?’ Her mom gave her a look, those fierce green-brown eyes magnified by her glasses, but not softened.

‘Ah,’ Dad groaned suddenly, bending double, his hand pressed to his side.

‘Bad again?’ Mom turned, a wad of twenties in her hand. ‘Take some painkillers when we get home. And don’t say no, Scott; you’re going in for another checkup.’

Dad could only grunt. He was sweating, his thinning hair stuck down to his temple, new lines etched in his face, pain bracketing the wrinkles.

‘A heating pad and a whole bunch of water,’ Jet said with a sad smile. ‘That works best for me. You can borrow mine.’

She understood the pain. In fact, she was the only one in the family who could. Mom and Luke had never spent weeks at a time pissing blood, or unable to walk because of the pain in their side. Them and their normal kidneys.

‘Well.’ Jet clapped her hands. ‘It’s been a pleasure, but I’m going home.’

‘You can’t,’ Dianne snapped. ‘You said you’d stay till the end and help us clear up. People are leaving now. You can make yourself useful and take the chairs back to the hotel.’