Page 16 of Dead Girls Don’t Forget

She launched into a story about her smoke detector going off at six that morning. I nodded along, half listening, until a faint scent brushed past my senses.

My cat focused instantly.

I kept my expression neutral and scanned the room. Nothing obvious. The scent lingered for a moment, then slipped away.

My gaze drifted past Cassidy’s shoulder and landed on Jackson at the start of the line. He was talking to another guy, relaxed and laughing. He paused mid-sentence and looked over.

Our eyes met for a single charged heartbeat.

My cat perked up, ears forward, leaning inside me like she wanted to press her face to the bars of a cage. Curiosity rolled through her, bright and hungry.

Absolutely not, I told her.

She ignored me.

I looked away first, jaw tight. I was not doing this again.

Cassidy followed me to a table and slid into the seat across from me before I could even sit. “I figured we could eat together,” she said, as if it was obvious.

I didn’t argue.

She kept talking between bites, bouncing from topic to topic. My cat stayed alert, one ear still tuned toward Jackson.

“You’re really quiet today,” Cassidy said around a bite of salad. “Even more than usual.”

“I’m fine.”

She gave me a look that said she didn’t believe me, but she didn’t push. That was one thing I appreciated about her.

We finished eating. Cassidy waved goodbye and headed off. I dropped off my tray and made it through two more lectures before heading to the gym.

By the time I reached the athletic center two hours later, the halls were full of athletes. I changed quickly, tied my hair back, and stepped into the weight room.

The men’s team was there.

I stood in the doorway for one second too long. Cassidy walked into my back.

“Oh,” she said, looking past me. “Right, I keep forgetting to mention. Joint sessions on Fridays and Saturdays. Men’s and women’s track together.” She paused. “Jackson’s on the men’s team, by the way.”

My cat had already located him across the room and seemed utterly delighted about it.

I sighed. Of course he was.

I walked to my rack and did not respond, which was safer for everyone.

Coach Ramirez, who oversaw the weight room, called out reminders near the whiteboard. Metal clanged. Music thumped. The room smelled of sweat, rubber, and too many bodies. Cassidy peeled off toward her station.

My rack sat closer to the middle. Diagonally from mine, Jackson was at the bench press.

Naomi had already spotted him. She drifted toward his rack, ponytail swinging, smile dialed up high, slipping into the platform beside his even though her assigned station was elsewhere.

“Naomi,” Coach said without looking up from his clipboard. “Your rack is number six. Not two. Move.”

Her smile tightened. She shot me a glare like it was somehow my fault, then sauntered toward her spot. She lasted maybe a minute before grabbing a plate and drifting back toward Jackson, pretending she needed a different weight.

I rolled my eyes, adjusted my grip on the bar, and began my first set. My cat watched him the entire time and I pretended not to notice.

I was three reps into my second set when the scent hit me again. The same faint thread from earlier, now stronger in the enclosed space. I finished the rep, racked the bar, and added weight, using the motion to scan the room.