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‘It wasn’t on you and it’s not at the scene.’

‘iPhone. A 14, I think.’

‘That’s what your father guessed.’ Ecker made a note. ‘And – finally – you were wearing an Apple Watch during the attack. We have it now. Can you tell us the passcode, so we can access the data? It would help speed the process along, so we’re not waiting on telephone records.’

Jet glanced at her bare wrist. ‘Yeah. It’s 0709.’

‘You sure?’ Ecker eyed her.

‘Yes, I’m sure. My passwords didn’t get knocked out of my head.’

The detective sniffed awkwardly, and that’s when Jet knew, realized why he was double-checking.

If she chose to have the surgery – if she died on the table like chance said she would – then this was their final chance to speak to her.

That’s why they had to be sure. Because they were talking to a dead woman.

‘0709,’ she said again.

He wrote it down, Jet’s eyes following the swish of his pen. He nodded, glancing over at Chief Lou and Jack, closing the file.

‘I think that’s everything we need from you now, Jet,’ he said.

‘No, wait.’ She sat up, brought her knees closer to her chest. They couldn’t be done, because if they were, that meant it was time for Jet to decide, to make her choice. And maybe, maybe she could put it off just a few minutes more. Not right now. Later. Later. Let her choose later.

‘It’s OK, Jet,’ Jack said, voice gruff and raw, like it had been overused since she last saw him. But his eyes were kind, glittering with the threat of tears. ‘I promise you, kiddo. We will get the person who did this to you. I promise. I will do that for you.’

Jet locked onto his eyes, blinked. Didn’t he know? She couldn’t let people do things for her, because what did that prove? That her mom was right; that Jet was born useless and would die that way too? Now she had no time to prove anything at all. This wasn’t fair, it couldn’t be happening.

Jack wiped his eyes, following the other officers to the door. He thought she was going to choose the surgery, didn’t he? That this was goodbye.

‘Goodbye, Jet,’ Detective Ecker said, leaving no room for doubt.

The door swung shut, taking them away, Jet’s last hope with them.

She was out of time.

Alone for less than four seconds before the handle twitched again, Mom in first, followed by Dad and Dr Lee.

‘Luke, come on,’ Mom barked, beckoning him into the room too.

Dr Lee stood there, holding her own hands, arms crossed in front of her, watching the family assemble around Jet’s bedside. Luke was breathing so heavy that Jet couldn’t think, and she needed to think; they were here for her choice, and she needed to think.

‘Luke, shut up,’ she snapped.

‘I didn’t say anything.’

‘It’s time, Jet,’ Dr Lee said, quiet and serious. ‘We would need to get you prepped for surgery right away. Do you know what your choice is?’

‘Of course she does,’ Mom said, running her hand over Jet’s shoulder, gripping on. ‘The surgery. She’s choosing the surgery. It’s the only choice, the only hope.’

‘Jet?’ Dr Lee pushed.

Jet looked up at her mom, that drumbeat doubling in her head, tripling, her heart throwing itself against the cage of her ribs. The song building to its end.

Mom looked down at her, eyes unwavering.

Jet blinked.

‘Come on, sweetie.’

‘I don’t …’

‘She’s choosing the surgery. We all are.’

‘Mrs Mason, please.’ Dr Lee raised her voice. ‘Jet. What do you want?’

What did she want? She wanted her life back.

She wanted to go back two days and unbreak her head, make sure none of this ever happened.

She wanted what she’d always wanted. To do something, achieve something big, something undeniably great, to prove that she could.

So that life could finally begin. Jet had played the waiting game too long, and now she was out of time.

She’d run out of road, and she’d run out of later.

Someone had taken them from her.

But not all of it.

Die now or die in seven days.

Jet didn’t have hope, but she could have that week.

To do what?

Jet swallowed, stared straight ahead, turning her mom’s face into a blur.

‘I’m not choosing the surgery.’

Dr Lee looked almost relieved. Mom did not.

Her face cracked open.

‘What are you talking about?’ Voice grating against her throat, against her teeth. ‘Doctor, she doesn’t know what she’s saying. She must be confused. We’re doing the surgery.’

‘No, Mom, we’re not.’

‘Yes, Jet. We are.’ Her eyes were wet but full of fire. ‘I just knew you would try to pull something like this. Scott, tell her!’

Dad didn’t move.

‘Luke.’ Mom tried again. ‘Tell your sister. Tell her she can’t do this to us.’

‘I’ll die in the surgery, Mom.’ Jet fired up at her. ‘Everyone else knows that.’

Dr Lee had known it, the way her shoulders had slumped, the weight of Jet’s death gone from them.

‘There is no hope. And if it’s die now or die later, I choose later.’ Jet kicked off the sheets, baring her legs.

‘Jet, no!’

‘It’s my catchphrase, isn’t it?’ She swung her legs out, toes dropping to the cold floor. ‘That’s what you always say, huh? I’ll do it later. Why change a habit of a lifetime? I’ll die later.’

‘Jet, you can’t do this! Scott?!’

Jet stood up, unsteady on her feet, taking one step, legs firing up.

‘Luke.’ Jet pointed. ‘Go catch the cops. Tell them to wait up.’

‘No, Luke!’ Mom shouted at him instead, snapping her fingers.

‘Luke, I’m the one that’s dying. Do me a favor, huh?’

Luke didn’t say anything, slipped out the door before anyone else could yell at him.

‘Stop it, Jet. You’ve made your point. Get back into bed.’

Jet ignored her.

‘Doc, my skull is all stitched back together, right? Brain’s not gonna fall out if I walk out the door right now?’

Dr Lee nodded, a glint in her eye, ignoring Dianne too. ‘Just change the dressings every day.’

‘Where are my clothes?’ Jet looked at her dad.

‘Evidence,’ he coughed, almost too scared to speak.

‘Jet, stop!’ Mom screamed. ‘Please stop!’

‘I can’t, Mom. I don’t want to die now.’ She was listening to her head and her heart, and they both said the same thing, throbbing in tight, panicked couplets: Not now, not now, not now. ‘I choose the seven days. I want that time. I need it.’

‘For what, Jet?’ Mom snapped, and it wasn’t the words that hurt; it was the spaces between them: what Mom really meant. That Jet had had twenty-seven years of time and done nothing significant with it; what difference would a week make?

All the difference.

‘I’m finally going to do something, Mom. Something important. And I’m going to see it through to the end. This time will be different. It has to be different, because it’s my last chance.’

‘Do something?’ Mom cried. ‘What do you mean? Do what?’

Something great.

Something no one had ever done before.

‘I’m going to solve my own murder.’