Not Quite Dead Yet, page 21
“Best week of your life, huh, Billy?”
“You said it, Jet.”
* * *
—
The trees loomed over them, thickening the darkness, hiding the moon. They shook their leaves, some kind of ancient warning, snatches of sugary red and fiery orange in the headlights. One perfect leaf dropped onto the windshield, making Billy swerve.
“Nervous?” Jet said.
“Nope,” he answered too quickly.
They were on Hartland Hill Road, the road out of town, not quite out of it yet, and they never would be, because Dad’s offices were coming up on the left.
“Pull up over here.” Jet pointed through the windshield. “Don’t go down the drive. There’s a camera on the gate.”
Billy pulled off the road, tires scraping gravel, coming to a sudden stop in the grass, his foot clumsy on the brake.
“Careful!” Jet said.
“We’ve already had this discussion.” Billy pulled up the parking brake. “If I’m driving, you’re not allowed to criticize.”
“Actually, we said I was allowed to criticize twice per trip. I got one more left.”
“Not my fault anyway,” Billy said. “Brakes are too sensitive.”
Jet gasped, placed her left hand on the dashboard, leaned forward to whisper: “He didn’t mean that, baby.”
“So what’s the plan?” Billy turned to her, across the darkness, whites of his eyes and whites of his teeth.
“I’ll go inside, cover the cameras, turn off the security alarm.” Jet swallowed. “Go find some incriminating spreadsheet or something, which explains Luke’s behavior, points right to my killer, and we solve my murder and go home and get a large beer. Easy-peasy.”
“No problemo,” Billy answered.
“Keep the change, ya filthy animal.”
“Yippee ki-yay,” Billy said, leaving the best bit for Jet:
“Motherfucker.”
“OK, let’s go.” Billy opened his door, stepped out.
“You’re coming in?” Jet got out. “I thought you were staying in the truck?”
Billy smirked. “And let you have all the fun?”
“Ah, so you are having fun? It kinda suits you.”
Billy’s smile deepened, pushing out one side.
“But wait, really.” Jet grabbed his arm, wearing the duct tape like an oversized bracelet. “You know you can still get in trouble, right? I’ve got a get-out-of-jail-free card. It’s called dying. You don’t.”
Billy looked down, gently pressed Jet’s bandage, one corner that was peeling off.
“I’m obviously coming in with you,” he said. “I go where you go. Best friend shit, yeah?”
Thank fuck, because Jet really hadn’t wanted to go in alone. Not that she was scared—no, remember, she couldn’t get scared anymore. But it was just nice, to have a Billy again. She grinned at him, her gut unclenching, heart spinning, both at home when Billy was right here beside her. How had she forgotten, for so many years, this easy feeling she only had around him? Nothing to prove, and no reason to try.
“Yeah,” she agreed. “We’ll make up a handshake later.”
Billy flared his nostrils. “You’ve forgotten our handshake?”
“Come on.”
Billy hesitated, glancing back at the powder-blue truck.
“Won’t someone spot the truck, driving past? Not exactly subtle.”
Jet shrugged. “Nah. They’ll probably think it’s just two teenagers, screwing around, because his parents are religious and hers are light sleepers.”
“Your mind,” Billy muttered, shaking his head, following her down the drive.
“I know,” she said. “You can keep it, when I’m gone. Pickle it, in a jar.”
“Jet, stop.”
She did stop, because the gate was right up ahead.
Jet grabbed a handful of Billy’s shirt, dragging him off the drive and into the tree line.
“Camera faces this way.” She didn’t let go of him. “We can sneak up behind it, cover the lens with tape.”
“Have you done this before?” Billy whispered.
“What?”
“Crimes?”
“No,” Jet snorted. “But I’ve watched TV, so…”
They walked slowly, together, skirting the thick undergrowth that lined the drive, eyes on the gate, the big white-and-blue sign that read: Mason Construction. A little boxy logo of a house, two windows and a roof.
Jet pointed out the small white camera, mounted on one of the posts.
They approached it from behind, hidden in the shadows, in its blind spot.
“I’m too small,” Jet said. “And one-armed. Can you…?”
Billy took the duct tape from her wrist, pulled a section free—hissing like a trapped wasp—and tore it off with his teeth. He reached up and around, pressing the tape over the front of the camera, adding another piece to be sure.
Jet walked over to the gate, stepped in front of the taped-up camera, and flipped it off. She’d only said it as a joke, but maybe she really was having fun. Billy too, joining her in front of the blind camera, raising his shirt up, flashing the pale flesh of his tight belly, even giving it a nipple.
Jet laughed, crashing into him.
Billy held her up, pointing to the keypad in the middle of the gate.
“You know the code?”
“Yeah.” Jet clicked on the flashlight, pointing the beam at the metal keypad, trying to ignore that she saw two beams where there should be one. “I came to work here, actually, for a couple months, after I left Boston. Had to leave because Luke was too annoying about it, thought he’d start pissing in all the corners, claiming his territory. I didn’t want to be here anyway.”
She handed Billy the flashlight, freeing up her hand.
Pressed her finger to the buttons, the metal cold, stinging her skin.
“022492,” she said aloud as she punched it in. “Emily’s birthday.”
The gate buzzed, grating in her ears as it swung open, letting them through.
“Breaking and entering,” Billy muttered, following Jet as she turned the corner, the brick-and-metal building sitting there, waiting for them against the dark sky.
“Just entering for now,” Jet corrected. “Haven’t broken anything. Yet.”
They passed a parking lot, regimented rows of white vans with the Mason Construction logo emblazoned on the side. A small army, Woodstock’s own.
“There’s a camera on the main entrance too.” Jet pointed, Billy’s flashlight following her finger. “Careful,” she hissed, “don’t let it see the light. If you hide behind the wall and reach over, you should be able to get the tape on it.”
“Yeah, I can do that,” Billy said, sizing it up. “You wait here.”
He passed the flashlight back, fingers grazing hers, and hurried over to the wall, using it as cover. He tore off a long bit of tape, dropped the roll into his pocket, and pressed his back to the wall, pausing to shoot two thumbs up at Jet.
She shot one back, just one, all she had.
Billy sidled over to the corner, peered around, his hand following his eyes, reaching. Reaching harder.
“Two inches up,” Jet said.
He found it, pressing the tape over the lens, winding the spare around the back of the camera.
“Nailed it,” Jet said, patting him on the back.
“They don’t record sound, right?”
“Just picture.”
“They’re gonna know someone was here, though.” Billy glanced over his shoulder, wincing as the wind rattled the trees, throwing whispers at them. “That the cameras were tampered with.”
“Nah, I doubt Dad even checks them,” Jet said. “Unless he has reason to.”
Billy nodded. “Let’s not give him a reason to, then.”
“Yep,” Jet agreed. “We’ll leave everything as we find it. Don’t worry, they’ll never know.”
Billy pointed to the lock on the front door, the building pitch black behind the glass.
“Got the key?” he asked.
Jet pressed her lips together. “Not exactly.”
“Did TV teach you how to pick a lock, Jet?” Billy shot her a look.
“Don’t need to. There’s a lockbox.” She pointed to the little black box mounted against the wall, behind a plant pot, a combination lock across its face. “But I love your faith in me as a master criminal. Let’s keep that energy going.”
She shuffled the pot out a few inches, bent down, started sliding the numbers of the lock.
“Emily’s birthday again?” Billy asked.
“No.” Jet strained, the plant tickling her face. “It’s actually just zero- zero- zero- zero. Kept telling Dad that wasn’t very secure. Got it.”
She pulled the front of the lockbox open, scrabbled inside for the key. Passed it to Billy, who slid it into the lock.
“OK, don’t freak out,” Jet warned him. “The alarm will start to beep. But it’s fine, I know the code to disable it before it goes off. And that is Emily’s birthday again.”
“Won’t freak out.” Billy twisted the key and pushed open the heavy door.
The alarm woke up, started to chirp, ushering them through into the darkness inside.
Billy held the door for Jet, his hand on her back, closed it behind her.
“OK.” She approached the alarm, eye height on the inside wall, its screen illuminated, counting down. 57 seconds, 56. System armed, it said. Enter code?
Yes, she was going to. Pressed the rubber buttons: 022492 enter.
The alarm beeped at her, in between the chirps.
Code attempt 1 of 3, it said.
Jet’s heart made a break for it, thrumming in the base of her throat.
“Fuck.” She smacked her fist against the wall. “They’ve changed the code.”
“OK.” Billy’s voice behind her, breathy and panicked. “Now I’m freaking out. Try something else? Another birthday?”
40 seconds. 39.
Jet tried Luke’s next: 051695 enter.
The keypad beeped again, angrier now.
Code attempt 2 of 3.
“Fuck,” Jet hissed. “Not Luke’s.”
“Jet.”
22 seconds. 21. 20.
One last attempt, one final chance.
Jet pressed the buttons: 120597. Her birthday, exactly one month away. She hadn’t noticed that, hadn’t registered the date. Would never make it to twenty-eight.
11 seconds.
10.
9.
“Jet.”
She pressed enter.
A high-pitch tone erupted, clashing with the chirps, and then…
Silence.
Just the ringing in Jet’s ears, a ghostly echo trapped inside her skull.
Code entered. System disarmed.
“Oh thank god,” Billy said, dropping his head, chin to his chest.
“Well, would you look at that.” She turned to him. “My birthday. Guess Dad really is all about being fair. One dead daughter for the gate, another dead daughter for the alarm.”
Billy bent forward, blew out two chipmunk cheeks of air.
“You’ll live, Billy,” Jet said, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “Come on, the office part is upstairs.”
“Lights?” Billy asked, pointing to the switch.
Jet steadied her flashlight instead. “Let’s keep them off—someone might spot them from the road.”
“Right.” Billy pulled out his phone, swiped the screen to bring up the flashlight.
They walked through the warehouse, several towers of pallets wrapped in clear plastic, piles of shimmering blue bathroom tiles stacked inside. Beyond them, rows of huge wooden timber beams, long enough to mock the trees they came from. Twenty years ago, Jet would have tried to balance-beam on those, but Luke and Emily could always stay on longer. Not the kind of siblings who ever let her win.
“This way.”
Through the show kitchen at the back of the warehouse that Jet always found creepy: a kitchen where no kitchen should be, stools at the breakfast bar where only ghosts ever sat.
Through the door, down the corridor to the base of the metal stairs.
Their steps hollow and too loud as they walked up, two beams carving through the darkness. Well, actually, four beams and double darkness, but don’t tell Billy that.
Jet shouldered the door at the top, metal becoming carpet underfoot.
She swung the flashlight across the open-plan office space, the beam reflecting off the windows and sleeping computer screens, winking back at them.
“How many people work up here?” Billy asked, trying to count the desks.
“Think there’s about fifteen full-time in this office.” Jet ventured forward, checking her path with the light. “Dad has his own separate office down the hall, next to the kitchen.” She showed Billy with the beam. “Luke doesn’t have his own office, but Dad let him have a partition. This way.”
She led Billy through the office to the back right corner. Luke’s corner. A folded screen made of white-painted wood and thin glass, to separate his desk from the others. Not quite his own office, but all he was going to get.
Jet dropped into Luke’s chair, way too high, her feet dangling above the ground. It squeaked as she took it for a spin, hand on the desk to catch herself.
Luke’s MacBook screen caught the flashlight, held it there, open on the desk, connected by HDMI to a larger external monitor.
“OK,” Jet said, wiggling the mouse, clicking to wake the computer up.
It blinked into life. The lock screen was a family photo of Luke, Sophia, and Cameron taken on the Fourth of July, sprinkles of fireworks dripping onto their shoulders from the background. A gray box blocking out the baby’s eyes, asking Jet for the password.
“I’m guessing this can’t be Emily’s birthday too?” Billy said, deflating, kneeling beside Jet, head almost as high as hers.
“No.” Jet stretched the fingers of her left hand. “But there’s a high chance it’s the same password he uses on his iPhone.”
“And you know that?”
“You know it too.” Jet sniffed. “He told us this morning, about thirteen hours ago, when I unlocked his phone to check his messages with Sophia.”
Billy’s mouth dropped open, a twinkle in his eyes. Impressed. “You remember that?”
“I’m good at remembering numbers and all other kinds of useless shit, Billy,” Jet said, pressing 213024 on the keyboard. “That’s how I passed all my exams. Must have had a good math teacher.”
She regretted it almost instantly, wincing, the guilt reacting to the sudden change in heat, simmering away.
Billy blinked. “Better math teacher than she was a mom.”
Jet hesitated. Should she say something; did Billy want her to? “That’s not true, Billy.”
“Shitty math teacher too?”
“No, she was a good mom. You used to talk about her all the time. I actually used to get a little jealous.”
“Yeah,” he sniffed, voice hollow. “She was. Probably my best friend after you found Sophia instead. Until she decided to leave me and Dad with no explanation.”
Jet didn’t know how to respond, so she didn’t. She pressed enter and crossed her fingers…not literally, had no fingers to spare.
The home screen jumped out at them, icons and files covering every inch of the desktop.
“It worked,” Jet hissed, catching Billy’s eyes across the darkness.
She picked up the mouse and guided the on-screen arrow, double-clicking on Finder to bring up Luke’s files.
“Doesn’t take two of us to go through one computer.” Billy straightened up. “I should keep looking. Does he have files in his desk or…?” He opened a couple of drawers; just pens, a calculator, a tangled yarn ball of cords with different-shaped heads and metal teeth.
“There’s a whole room of filing cabinets.” Jet turned to him. “I think Dad’s old-school, likes to keep hard copies of invoices and whatever. It’s the little room, beyond the kitchen. That way.” She pointed with her flashlight.
“OK, I’ll go look in there.”
Billy walked away, then came right back, the flashlight on his phone pointed up at his face, distorting it with strange upward shadows.
“Um,” he said. “What am I looking for?”
“Anything,” Jet replied, unhelpfully.
“Anything. Yeah, cool. Got it,” Billy muttered to himself, walking away and out of sight, the darkness claiming him.
“Yell if you find anything,” Jet called to him.
“Yeah, you too,” his voice floated back, Jet smiling as she caught it.
She turned back to the screen. Where first? She clicked on Documents and about fifty blue file icons filled the page. Hmm, this could take a while.
Instead, Jet clicked on the little magnifying glass to bring up the search bar.
Coleby hammer, she typed into it, frustrated at how slow it was, typing with one hand, and her weaker hand at that.
Pressed enter.
No results.
Just Coleby, deleting hammer.
No results.
Fuck it, fine, wasn’t going to be that easy. Not a document that said, Oh hey, Jet, I see you’re looking for your murder weapon. Here’s a handy little order form with the exact employee who owns that tool kit.
The hard way, then.
She clicked on a folder named Important Work Files, then Finances, then 2025, then kept going, clicking through an entire Russian doll of folders, each one eaten by the last.
Eventually she found an Excel spreadsheet called October 2025 Payroll, last edited a few days ago. Double-clicked to open it up, dragged it over to the larger monitor.
She rubbed one eye and then the other with her left hand, tried to read the screen, even though every letter and number had more edges than they should.
It helped when she squinted, sharpened it a little.
