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‘Oh my god,’ she whispered.

‘What?’

‘This is one of our dish towels, from the kitchen,’ Jet said, the hair rising up the back of her neck, a thousand cold fingers tracing her spine. ‘Mom has a set of three. Didn’t realize one was missing.’

She brushed more dirt away with the spade, carefully, even more carefully, revealing the rest of the grimy, folded dish towel. Lumpy, because it was wrapped around something.

‘Shit, I need gloves.’

‘Work gloves?’ Billy suggested, pointing at the row of watching builders.

‘No.’ Jet shook her head, eyes following his outstretched finger. ‘Plastic gloves, like the police use. It –’

Her eyes snagged on something else, in one of the builders’ hands. Not gloves, but lunch: a clear plastic bag, resealable at the top, a triangular sandwich inside. One was already half eaten, balanced in his mouth.

‘That will do,’ Jet muttered, scrambling out of the hole toward him. He froze when he saw her approaching. It was the same guy as before, eyes petrified and wide, or maybe that was how he always looked.

Luke grabbed her arm, got in her way.

‘Jet, can you tell me what –’

‘– Not now, Luke. I’m a little busy.’

‘This is my site. Mine.’ His fingers dug in. ‘I’m in charge here, and you’re not allowed to just –’

‘– Man, Luke, you are going to feel real stupid in about thirty seconds. We found it.’

‘Found what ?’

Jet shrugged him off, an extra jab with her elbow.

‘Hi, Creepy Eyes. Me again. Thanks for the sledgehammer. Can I just –’

Jet took the sandwich bag out of his hand. She upturned it, the other sandwich falling to the mud-churned ground, flapping open.

‘PB and J, dude? You twelve?’

‘It’s my dessert sandwich,’ he said weakly, recoiling back.

Jet walked away, sliding her hand inside the clear bag, avoiding a large smear of peanut butter. The plastic formed a glove around her fingers, awkward and misshapen and sticky on the inside.

Back into the trench, Billy taking her arm, helping her down.

Jet dropped to her knees beside the dish towel, not too close.

Her breath loud, but there was a new sound too, echoing through the late-afternoon sky, growing, a high-pitched wail, blaring up and down.

‘That’s the cops,’ Billy said, ‘coming down the street.’

Jet reached over, fingers outstretched in their clear bag.

She pinched the corner of the dish towel, just the very corner, and flicked it open.

Clumps of mud and soil rained over her, scattering around her knees.

Jet blinked.

There it was, lying against the white inside of the towel, almost clean.

Her iPhone.

The screen shattered, glass split into delicate little fronds.

The frame buckled, under the weight of all that concrete.

And next to the phone, tucked up against it, was a hammer.

Black handle.

Metal head.

Flecks of brown on the blunt end that might have been dirt or –

‘That’s –’ Billy began.

‘– The murder weapon,’ Jet finished.

This little thing, right here. No more than sixteen inches long. Head like a metal bird, a few strands of blond hair caught in its mouth.

This was it. This was what killed her. The thing that had broken open her head, shattered her skull, left a sliver of bone where it shouldn’t be.

This, right here.

The thing that took Jet’s life before she’d even lived it, stole her future, all of her later s and all of her tomorrow s, leaving her with just a handful. Leftovers. Scraps.

It wasn’t even very big.

The siren was almost on top of them now, splitting the sky, the clouds roiling above to mend the cracks.

Billy was on his knees too, right here in the dirt with her. He placed his hand on her back.

‘Jet,’ he said softly, from another world, the one that belonged to the living.

The touch of his fingers brought her back, warm and clammy against her shoulder.

‘Your phone,’ she sniffed, dropping the sandwich bag to hold out her hand. Grime was caked under her fingernails, dirt and concrete dust staining her palm gray.

Billy didn’t hesitate, placed his phone face up in her filthy hand.

Jet swiped for the camera and leaned forward, over the hammer.

She held her breath, the siren screaming in her head and her head screaming back.

Took a photo. Hand closer. Took another, and another, moving from its head to the claw, down its black spine, rubber ridges for better grip.

Stopping over the logo at the bottom. A yellow circle with pointed ends, the brand name Coleby printed inside.

Took a photo. Tapped the screen to make it focus, took another.

The siren cut off, leaving just a phantom in Jet’s ears.

Three doors slammed.

‘What the hell is going on here?!’

They were all behind the gate now, yellow hats replaced with dark police caps, officers securing the scene, waiting for the forensic teams to turn up. More black-and-yellow tape – CRIME SCENE – DO NOT ENTER – being spooled across the flimsy gate.

‘You think you can get DNA from it?’ Jet asked Detective Ecker, knowing she didn’t have time for DNA. ‘Fingerprints?’

Ecker’s eyes flashed, mouth set in a grim line.

‘You should have called us.’ His voice was gruff, an edge of impatience.

‘You’re lucky we turned up when we did. You’ve heard of chain of custody, right?

’ He tapped his pen against his notebook.

‘Some lawyer hears about the stunt you pulled here, they might be able to get that evidence thrown out in court.’

‘That’s a strange way of saying, “Thanks for finding the murder weapon for us.”’

‘Jet, please,’ he sighed. ‘You can’t do this.’

‘Do what?’

‘Get in the way of the investigation like this.’

Jet cracked her fingers, her back warm and aching. ‘ In the way? I’ve made more progress than you have.’

‘Jet –’

‘– I’m running out of time. And I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty. See.’

She held them up for him, crusted with dirt and dust.

‘Jet –’

‘– I know you think it’s JJ, but doesn’t this change things?

’ She gestured at the site. ‘Finding my phone and the murder weapon here. JJ has no connection to this place. But someone else does. Andrew Smith. This was his old house. He’s been watching the work, could have known the concrete was going in the morning after.

He was wearing the exact same red wig as JJ on Halloween, so the hair at the scene could have come from him too. ’

Ecker faltered, chewing the air. ‘How do you know about the hair at the scene?’

Jet blinked. ‘I … guessed?’

Ecker glanced over his shoulder, back at Jack Finney in his uniform, standing over there with Luke, Billy, and Jet’s parents. Shit. Sorry, Jack. Now he really would be in trouble.

‘But if there was a red wig hair found at the scene,’ Jet continued, ‘that makes Andrew Smith just as much a suspect as JJ. And don’t just tell me you’re not ruling anything out, again.’

‘I’m not ruling anything out, suspects either. And the red hair doesn’t limit us to just two options.’

‘Well, the other matching red wig was on an eleven-year-old girl, so I think –’

‘– Hairs can transfer, Jet. Synthetic ones too.’ His mouth twitched, watching Jet’s eyes spin, like he was scoring points, firing back.

‘Just because this wig hair was at the scene, doesn’t mean the perpetrator had to be wearing the wig.

All it could mean is that they had contact with somebody wearing that wig, that a hair transferred to them, and then to the scene. ’

‘Oh,’ was all Jet could say. And all she could think was: You stupid fuck, thinking you were good at this.

‘You said you spoke to JJ at the fair, when he was wearing that wig?’ Ecker asked, taking aim again. ‘Did you have any physical contact with him?’

Jet shrugged. ‘He might have touched my arm. I can’t remember.’

‘Right.’ Ecker nodded, the winning shot, eyes softening, but smug all the same. ‘So the hair might have transferred from JJ to you, and you’re the one who transferred it to the scene.’

Jet didn’t like this, being on the receiving end. She wanted to be the smug one, and now she felt … flat, the win snatched from her, arms too tired to snatch it back.

‘So, you’re saying the killer could be anyone who had contact with either JJ or Andrew Smith at the fair. Or if the hair was transferred from JJ to me, then the killer could be … well, anyone?’

Ecker exhaled, put his notebook away.

‘Please don’t get in the way of the investigation again,’ he said.

‘Cool.’ Jet blew out her lip. ‘Good talk. Always a pleasure.’

She sidled over to her family.

‘Oh, Jet, look at you, sweetie,’ Mom said. The past day must have been hard on her, her face grayer and gaunter somehow. ‘You’re filthy.’

‘Yep.’ Jet’s arms slapped down to her sides.

‘Why don’t you come home? I’ll run you a nice bath.’

‘No.’ Jet sniffed, sleeve to her nose, rubbing more dirt on than off. ‘I don’t have time for a nice bath and I’m not coming home. I’m not giving up, not this time, Mom. I can do this. I’m doing it, see. I just found the murder weapon. Not the police, me. I have to do this. I’m supposed to do this.’

‘But, Jet –’

‘– It’s supposed to be hard,’ Jet said, trying to convince herself too.

A lot harder now, her suspect pool shifting, opening up from two to …

anyone. No, not anyone. Someone who had a connection to this construction site, who knew that the concrete was going in the morning after, that this would be a perfect place to hide the phone and the weapon.

That narrowed it down a bit. Maybe a lot.

‘Dad.’ Jet turned to him. ‘Can you get me a list of all Mason Construction employees? All contractors and subcontractors, anyone who could have known about this site?’

He nodded, hand pressed to his side, knuckles white. Jet knew what that meant, knew the unrelenting pain.

‘Luke can get that for you, honey,’ Dad said.

Jet turned to her brother, eyebrows raised. ‘As quick as you can, Luke.’

He sniffed. ‘This project was already delayed, and now it’s shut down. Now it’s a crime scene.’

‘It’s not a crime scene because I smashed up your foundations, Luke. It’s a crime scene because the killer came here to bury the evidence, probably someone you know or someone you employ. Be mad at them, not me.’

‘Luke’s not mad at anyone,’ Dad said. Because Dad had no idea. None at all.

‘Sergeant Finney!’ Ecker called. ‘A word?’ Beckoning him over.

Jet pursed her lips, shot Jack a look, said sorry with her eyes as he wandered away.

She pulled out Billy’s phone, still in her pocket, swiped into the photo reel.

‘This is the hammer, Dad.’ She showed him. ‘See the brand. Coleby. Is that one you use at work, that your employees have?’

Dad took the phone from her for a closer look, squinting at the screen.

‘No, it’s not the kind we usually order in.’ He cleared his throat. ‘But contractors will often use their own tools.’

‘Know anyone who uses this type?’

Dad’s chin dipped, moving side to side. ‘Sorry, kiddo.’

‘Luke?’ She showed him the screen.

‘Not off the top of my head.’

‘No, it was off the top of my head, Luke. The back actually.’

‘You feeling OK, Jet?’ Mom interrupted, stepping between them.

‘I feel like I just spent an hour playing with a sledgehammer.’

‘Billy.’ Dianne’s gaze fixed on him, sudden and surprising. Ah, so she did remember his name. The same thought spooled behind Billy’s eyes; Jet could tell, the twitch in his parted lips. ‘Are you making sure she’s getting enough rest?’

‘Well, I –’

Dianne didn’t let him answer.

‘– Jet, come home. Please.’

‘I can’t.’ Jet folded her arms in front of her heart, hiding it, protecting it? ‘I have to keep going. Come on, Billy.’

Billy came on.

‘I’ll take good care of her, Dianne. I promise,’ he said.

‘And Luke,’ Jet called, opening the truck door. ‘That list. ASAP. ASAP meaning I’ll be dead in less than five days, got it?’