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‘Sorry,’ Jet said in his direction, then back to the chief. ‘I’m dying, and having sex in a truck was on my bucket list, OK? That’s why I was there. We didn’t even know about the fire. We heard the sirens and got out of there. That’s all.’

The chief shook his head. ‘I don’t believe you. I know you did this.’

‘Do you have any evidence that I went inside the building?’

The chief glanced over at Jack, a silent conversation, cop speak for no.

Jet leaned forward. ‘Then let me go.’

Jack ran a hand over his stubble, like he was torn between his uniform and the man beneath, Jet’s neighbor, someone who’d known her since she was born. ‘We can’t,’ he said. ‘The judge issued a warrant for your arrest.’

Warrant! That was the fucking word.

Jack was still speaking. ‘The prosecutor has to decide whether to move ahead with charges.’

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘So charge me and let me go – I don’t care, it won’t matter after tomorrow.’

A slight shake of his head. ‘If you’re charged, we have to hold you until morning. You’ll go to an arraignment before a judge to enter your plea. You may request bail, and the judge may grant it, but you’ll be held in the county jail until it’s posted.’

‘I don’t have time for that.’ Jet’s voice rose, but the fire went out, just a trail of smoke from her gut, soot coating the back of her throat, making her cough. ‘What about now? Can I leave? Is there any way I can leave?’

Another small shake of his head, the other way. ‘We have to hold you until the prosecutor makes a decision about filing charges.’

‘How long can you hold me?’

‘Forty-eight hours.’

Jet’s throat closed up the rest of the way, cutting off her breath, the room tilting, doubling, tripling, suffocating her.

She closed her eyes.

‘So, this is it,’ she said. ‘This is how I die. Alone. In a cell. That’s how it ends.’

Concrete floor, white-painted brick walls that weren’t white at the bottom, grimy and gray. A metal toilet in the corner, connected to a drinking fountain, where Jet could refill her plastic cup.

But she’d broken it. Ripped it in half. Then into tiny pieces, scattered around her like snow, like ash.

Sitting on the floor, because it hurt less than the bench. And if Jet stretched out her legs, she could reach the other side of the holding cell. It was tiny, less than Jet squared.

Too cold, a draft blowing in through the black bars from the corridor beyond, the exposed flesh of her arms rippling into small bumps, a shiver up her spine.

Jet was going to die in here.

She was going to die in this tiny cold room with bars instead of a door, and she just had to get used to that, stop crying.

Stop crying now, Jet.

She couldn’t.

She blinked and they just kept coming.

It was over.

She’d failed.

Jet always failed; why had she thought this time would be any different?

So many unanswered questions she was going to die with.

What did Nina Diaz-Smith know about Mom?

What was the secret Emily overheard about Luke?

Did Luke kill Emily when they were kids, hold her underwater until she drowned?

Did Luke mean to kill Jet when he set fire to Mason Construction, to the company he’d worked his whole life to take over?

Was he sorry that he sent the cops after Jet to save himself, stealing her final hours?

Who owned the Coleby tool kit? Where did the red wig hair come from? Who killed Jet on Halloween and why?

Had she deserved it?

Jet sniffed, wiped her nose on her sleeve.

But there was something worse than all of that put together.

That she was going to die while Billy hated her.

That was worse.

A black hole that spread from her chest, hungry, taking every last bit of her with it.

Leaving her with just Billy’s pale eyes.

That frozen, distant look in them as he’d walked away from her. The last time she’d ever see him, and he’d ever see her.

Who would have thought, this time last week, that Billy Finney would be her most important thing?

Not just poor, sweet Billy. So much more than that.

Home.

But this was where she was going to die. Here. In this holding cell. Meant to be temporary, not a tomb.

A door creaked, footsteps, lots of them, echoing down the corridor, getting closer.

Jet sniffed, stood up. She walked to her bars, peered through.

Four men. Two in uniform, two not. One with his hands cuffed behind his back, being escorted through.

‘JJ?’ Jet said, face pushed up against the bars.

‘Jet?’ His head snapped in her direction, eyes dark and panicked, brows drawing together, confused. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Don’t speak to her,’ Detective Ecker growled, tightening his grip on JJ’s elbow.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ Jet said as the tangle of men passed her cell.

‘They’re taking me to the judge.’ JJ tried to stop in front of her, struggling against Ecker and the chief. ‘They’re charging me. It wasn’t me, Jet. I didn’t do that to you.’

‘Move!’ Ecker barked.

‘I know,’ Jet said.

‘I wanted to call you. They wouldn’t let me call you.’

JJ grunted as the chief shoved him against the wall, moving him on.

Jet pushed her face through the bars, watched them go, JJ pinned between the chief and Ecker, Jack Finney two steps behind, blocking JJ from view.

‘I wanted to tell you I was sorry,’ JJ’s voice trailed back, strained, fighting. ‘About the loan. It was for Henry, I was desperate. I’m sorry.’

‘I know,’ Jet said again, head spooling around one of those unanswered questions. Last chance to ask it. ‘Wait, JJ, did you touch me at the fair?’ she called through the bars. ‘When you were wearing the red wig, did you grab my arm? I can’t remember.’

‘Keep moving.’

‘No, I didn’t – didn’t touch you. And I didn’t do it! And I’m sorry that you –’

The door crashed shut at the far end, taking JJ away; Jet heard it, couldn’t see that far.

‘I know,’ she whispered, because she wasn’t the only one who was going to die in a cell.

JJ didn’t do it, and Jet didn’t either, but she couldn’t scream about it anymore, there was nothing left.

Well, there was something left.

One set of footsteps, coming back.

It was Billy’s dad, stopping in front of her cell, sharing a sad smile.

‘I’m sorry about that, Jet.’ He sniffed. ‘I said we should have taken him out the back. He shouldn’t have spoken to you.’

But Jet was glad he had, because she was sticking on something JJ had said, something else left behind that the black hole hadn’t gotten to just yet.

‘Phone call,’ Jet said, resting her forehead against the cold bar. ‘Mr Finney, don’t I get a phone call?’

‘Yes. You do.’

‘Can I … can I do it now?’

He glanced through the bars into the cell, the shredded plastic cup around Jet’s outline, a phantom version of her, left behind.

‘Sure.’

He reached into his pocket for the keys, unlocked the cell door. A metallic scream from the hinges as he swung the bars open.

‘I’m … I’m supposed to cuff you,’ he said quietly.

‘OK.’

She couldn’t hold her wrists together for him, only one. Mr Finney had to bring her right arm around, lock her hands together, the cuffs looser than when Chief Jankowski had done it.

‘This way.’

He led her to the right, down the corridor, through the door, and into an office area. Desks and papers and windows, the fading afternoon light. And a landline phone attached to the wall. Black receiver on a thick metal wire, well-worn buttons.

Mr Finney led Jet over to it, hand soft on her shoulder.

‘You should call your dad,’ he sniffed. ‘He can get you the kind of lawyer that might be able to get you out of here, given your circumstances. He can afford that. Call your dad, Jet. He can fix this.’

Jet looked up at him, blinked. Call Dad.

He could fix this, like he’d fixed things before, get Jet out, give her back her time, time to finish what she’d started.

Her head agreed with Mr Finney, but her heart was back, beating in the base of her throat, pulling her another way.

A choice between the two, one or the other.

‘I only get one phone call, right?’ she asked.

‘That’s right,’ he replied.

Jet nodded.

‘Then there’s only one person I need to call.’

She chose.

‘What’s Billy’s number?’

Jack blinked down at her.

‘You sure?’

‘I’m sure.’

He turned to the phone, lifted the receiver, pressing the buttons with his other hand.

‘It’s ringing,’ he said, passing it to her.

Jet tried to take it, her dead arm too heavy to raise that high, dragging her other hand down. ‘I can’t.’

Jack took her hands, unlocked the cuffs. ‘Don’t tell anyone,’ he said, placing the receiver in her left hand. ‘I’ll just be over there, give you some privacy.’

Jet nodded, raised the phone to her ear.

It rang.

Still ringing.

The sound chiming around her head, through the cracks.

She closed her eyes.

Come on, Billy.

It rang.

Still ringing.

‘Pick up, Billy,’ Jet whispered, barely making a sound. ‘Pick up, pick up, pick up.’

A click.

Jet’s eyes snapped open.

‘Hello,’ a robotic voice cut in. ‘Welcome to Verizon’s voicemail service. I’m sorry but Billy Finney ’ – Billy’s name in his real voice, Jet’s gut reacting to it, flipping over – ‘is unable to take your call right now. Please leave your message after the tone.’

It beeped, too shrill, and Jet wasn’t ready, but she had to be.