Page 10 of Dead Girls Don’t Forget

I already knew. The son of an alpha disappeared every year for training. It was not public knowledge, but it left enough traces for someone willing to look. Jackson Black was a branch from a rotten tree.

But whatever Jackson was, he was not my concern. Not yet.

His father was.

The rest of the day passed without incident, and by ten I was already in bed, exhaustion settling into my bones. I scrolled through the news one last time before turning off the light.

A headline stopped me.

They found him.

Body discovered at residential property on Elmwood Drive. Cause of death under investigation. Identity of victim withheld pending notification of next of kin.

I read the short article twice, committing the details to memory. When I finished, I placed my phone on the nightstand and let my head sink into the pillow.

Ten years I had been carrying this. Ten years of building toward something most people would call monstrous, and I had long since made my peace with that. Colt was the first. There were three more, each one a debt that had been outstanding far too long, and I intended to collect every single one.

One down. Three to go.

Chapter 5: Predator Meets Predator

On Thursday, after morning practice, I climbed the steps to the Behavioral Analysis lecture hall. The room was already humming, students filling the fold-down seats with coffee in one hand and phones in the other. A projector screen glowed at the front, the podium still empty.

I took a seat near the back, off to the side where I could see everything, and opened my notebook.

A handful of wolves came in together a minute later and settled halfway down the left side. They leaned in close, voices low. Not low enough.

Jackson Black was back.

Fourth day, right on schedule, exactly as Cassidy had said.

Apparently the summer had been good to him. Bigger, broader, something about his jawline. I had never seen him in person, but the way people talked you would think he was some returning hero instead of a senior who skipped the first three days every year.

Yesterday, the campus had buzzed about the murder. Today Jackson had reclaimed the spotlight. At least for the girls.

Professor Sterling walked in at the hour and set his bag beside the podium. Tall, unhurried, the kind of man who did not need to raise his voice to command a room.

“Behavioral Analysis,” he said. “Chapter four. Organized versus disorganized offenders.” He clicked to the first slide, a stripped-down crime scene diagram. “By the end of today you should be able to look at a scene and tell me something meaningful about the person who created it. Not who they are. What they are.”

A voice from the middle of the hall cut in. “Professor, what about the Elmwood Drive case? Would that be organized or disorganized?”

The room sharpened. A roomful of half-present students became fully alert.

Sterling did not pause. “What do you think?”

“Disorganized? Because of how violent it was?”

“Common assumption. Frequently wrong. High levels of violence do not indicate disorganization. They indicate intent.” He moved to the next slide. “An organized offender plans. They control the environment, manage evidence, and anticipate consequences. The emotional content of the act is separate from its execution. You can want something very badly and still be completely methodical about how you take it.”

I wrote that down.

“My roommate’s dad is a detective,” another girl said. “He told her there was almost no forensic evidence.”

Sterling lifted an eyebrow. “Then your roommate’s dad should be more careful about what he shares.” A faint ripple of amusement moved through the room. “But hypothetically, a lack of evidence supports organization. It suggests planning, control, and experience.”

He moved on.

I kept writing, taking notes on a lecture that described in clean academic language exactly what I had done Sunday night. The methodology. The control. The psychology of someone who could plan with that level of precision and walk away without a trace.