Page 5

The room was silent, but the world was not. It carried on; a high-pitched beep from a machine, a low-pitched scream down the corridor, the fall sun beaming through the window because it didn’t care about her and her little problems.

What kind of choice was that? Jet couldn’t even decide what to have for breakfast most days. Die now, or die in a week? Toast or cereal? Both?

There was a humming too, but that wasn’t down the corridor; it was in Jet’s head, behind her eyes, playing with her heart. A symphony of the damned. Her throat constricted; she wouldn’t let the others hear it.

‘Damn,’ Jet said. ‘You sure there isn’t a door number three?’

Her mom replied before the doctor could.

‘Everything’s going to be OK, sweetie. It’s obvious which choice to make,’ she sniffed, her grip tightening until it hurt. ‘One of them has a chance, the other doesn’t. I can’t lose you. You have to choose the surgery, Jet. Quickly. The doctor said every minute counts.’

‘Mrs Mason –’

‘– Not much of a chance.’ Jet looked at her. ‘Less than ten percent chance of survival. I know it’s been a while since high school for you, but that’s not great math, Mom.’

‘Don’t make this a competition, Jet.’

‘How was I making it a –’

‘– You have to have the surgery.’ Mom’s eyes filled but they didn’t spill. ‘I can’t lose another daughter. You can’t do that to me.’

The humming became a roar of thunder. Jet could normally leash it, back down and walk away, but maybe that had gotten broken too.

‘I didn’t bash my own fucking brain in, Mom. I’m not doing this. Not everything is my fault.’

Dad stepped forward. ‘Jet, your mom didn’t mean it like that. She only wants what’s best for you. We all do, baby girl.’

He hadn’t called her that in years.

‘Yeah,’ Luke said gruffly, like that added anything.

‘But you’re going to choose the surgery,’ Mom said, tears released, chasing each other down her cheeks. ‘You know that’s the right decision, don’t you? Scott, help me.’

Dr Lee cut in, rising from her chair. ‘This really has to be Jet’s decision.’ Her voice softened. ‘You don’t have to make it right this moment. The police are outside. They’ve been waiting for you to wake up. They need to ask you some questions about your assault, before you decide.’

‘In case I choose the surgery and don’t make it,’ Jet said, seeing through the doctor’s words.

‘They’re here, now, to i-i-in …’ What was the word?

Ah, fuck, you know the word she meant. What you do to get a job, same thing when the police ask you questions.

Sounds like … Jet couldn’t remember what it sounded like. ‘I-in …’ What was that fucking word?

‘Interview?’ Luke offered.

‘Yes. Interview.’ Jet smacked her hand down on the bed. ‘What was I saying?’

Dr Lee’s eyes narrowed. ‘Jet, are you having trouble finding your words?’

‘No.’

Yes. Not some of them. Like Fuck, fuck, I’m going to die, fuck. But she couldn’t find the word for that thing resting around Dr Lee’s shoulders. That long thing with earbuds and a metal disc, for listening to hearts. Jet didn’t need one; her heart was too loud already.

Dr Lee nodded, like she could read minds, even if she couldn’t fix this one.

‘One of the blows was to the side of your head here.’ Dr Lee gestured to the stick-on bandage.

‘The left hemisphere, where the brain’s language center is.

Sometimes trauma to this area can cause problems with understanding or producing language, called an aphasia.

Your comprehension and speech seem mostly unaffected, so it’s likely anomic aphasia, the mildest kind.

’ She paused. ‘You may have trouble retrieving certain words, specifically ones you don’t use too often.

It can be temporary, may only last a few weeks or months, and can be treated with speech therapy. ’

Jet shrugged. ‘I don’t have weeks or months, though, do I?’ Not really a question.

‘If you have the surgery, Jet –’ Mom began.

‘– I think we need to let Jet speak to the police now.’ Dr Lee gestured with Jet’s medical file, sweeping Dianne to her feet.

Luke lingered by the door.

‘Who was it, Jet?’ he asked, mouth in a grim line, hiding his teeth. ‘Who did this to you?’

She exhaled. Three words she definitely knew how to find: ‘I don’t know.’

‘Come on, Luke.’ Dad patted him gently on the back. ‘Let’s let the cops ask their questions. There’s not much time.’

Mom pressed her hand to the lump of Jet’s foot, beneath the sheet. ‘I’ll be right outside, sweetie.’

The doctor was the last to leave, looking back at Jet, a sad half-smile. The smile of an execu-exec– fuck, what was that word? You know: the people who wore hoods in movies, swung the ax or dropped the platform?

‘She’s ready for you,’ Jet heard Dr Lee say outside, muffled by the door swinging shut. ‘Please don’t press her too hard. I’ve just broken the news.’

The news.

Ha.

Extra, extra, read all about it. Jet Mason’s got a time bomb in her head.

The door was going to open any second now. Was that enough time to scream?

The hinges creaked. No. Not enough time. To scream. To live.

A man in a suit was the first in, a file clutched in his white-knuckle hands. All this paperwork; lucky her.

‘Margaret Mason?’ he said gently, overenunciating. ‘My name is George Ecker. I’m a detective with the Vermont State Police.’

‘It’s Jet,’ said another voice, one she recognized. Billy’s dad – sorry – Jack Finney walked into the room, his badge glinting at her. ‘She likes to be called Jet.’ His face was wrung out, sleep deprived, but at least it was familiar under all of that.

Chief Lou Jankowski was the last in, shutting the door behind him with a click. He nodded. ‘Hello again, Jet.’

George Ecker cleared his throat. ‘The chief said you might want Sergeant Finney in here. That you know each other.’

‘All my life,’ Jet said.

Jack bowed his head, like it hurt to hold her gaze.

Mourning her before she even had the good grace to really be gone.

Pre-dead. Un-dead. Fuck sake, a zombie, that’s what she was.

Talk about foreshadowing. And Jet was surprised she could talk about it – shouldn’t that be a word lost to the black hole in her head? So many syllables.

The three of them stood around her bed, like silent sentries, Jet’s neck craning to look up at them.

‘I didn’t see who it was,’ she said. ‘Before you ask. They attacked me from behind. I didn’t get a chance to turn around.’

Detective Ecker clicked and unclicked a pen, scribbled something in his file. ‘Did you hear or see anything that might help us identify them?’

Jet swallowed. ‘So you don’t know who it was either? Isn’t there evidence or something?’

‘The scene is still being processed,’ the detective said. ‘Anything at all?’

‘Footsteps,’ Jet answered. ‘Coming up behind me.’

‘Did they sound heavy?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Could you tell what kind of shoes? Boots? Sneakers?’

‘I don’t know, it was just footsteps. It was so fast.’

‘One set or more?’

‘One. It was one person.’

Detective Ecker flicked to a previous page. ‘Do you know what was used to hit you?’

‘No.’ She paused. ‘Wait, so you don’t have the murder weapon either?’

She didn’t even realize until she’d just said it.

The murder weapon. That’s what it was, though, wasn’t it?

Because Jet hadn’t just been attacked, or assaulted – those paler, one-size-fits-all words.

She’d been … murdered. Someone had killed her.

More than ninety percent killed her, unless Jet was due another miracle and the surgery actually worked.

‘The weapon was not recovered at the scene,’ Ecker said, omitting the vital word that made them all uncomfortable.

Jack removed his cap, held it by his side.

‘Who found me?’ Jet asked him, not this stranger with her file. ‘Was it Mom and Dad?’

Jack coughed. ‘Billy found you.’

‘Is he OK?’ she asked. A strange thing to ask, for someone who was much less than OK. But Jet was tough, everyone said so. Billy was soft. Used to cry when Jet stomped on spiders.

Jack didn’t answer.

‘Margaret – sorry – Jet.’ The detective pressed closer, bringing her attention back. ‘Can you think of any reason, any reason at all, that someone might want to hurt you?’

She wanted to make a joke, to trick that drumbeat in her head, cobbled together with wire mesh and screws. Who, me? I’m fucking delightful. But she couldn’t this time, couldn’t drown out the dread.

‘No,’ she said, voice almost failing her. ‘I can’t think of any reason someone would want to kill me.’

But someone had had a reason. You didn’t smack someone three times in the skull if you didn’t. The why was almost as confusing as the who. Would Jet ever know the answers? Not if she chose the surgery and the percentage played out as percentages tended to do.

The detective clicked his tongue and Jet wanted to rip it out.

‘Can you tell us where your ex-boyfriend is?’ He paused to read out the name from his notes, finding it with his finger. ‘JJ Lim. Know where he is?’

Jet clicked her tongue too. ‘I dunno if anyone’s told you, but I’ve kind of been unconscious in the hospital.’

Ecker raised his eyebrows.

‘No, I don’t know where he is, Detective. Why?’

‘We’ve been unable to reach him. He’s not answering his phone. We’ve spoken to his brother – Henry – who doesn’t know where he is either. Says he left town suddenly on Friday night, on Halloween. Didn’t say where he was going.’

Jet straightened up, peeling away from the pillows.

‘You don’t think he’s a suspect, do you?’

But by the looks on their faces, they clearly did.

‘How long were you together?’ the detective asked.

Why was that relevant?

‘Almost two years,’ she answered. ‘Look, JJ didn’t do this.’

‘But you didn’t see your attacker?’ the chief chimed in now.

‘No. I didn’t. But …’ Jet didn’t know where that was going, left it dangling in the stale room.

‘One last thing we need to ask you,’ Ecker said, turning another page. ‘Your cell phone is missing. Do you know what model it is?’

‘They took my phone?’