Page 165 of Dead Girls Don’t Forget

We both knew the truth: Thomas wanted eyes on his son. He wanted to know every move Jackson made and every hour he spent with me. He was planning something. Something to separate us.

From the office cameras we watched him meet with two hypnosis therapists late at night. He asked detailed questions about memory suppression, suggestion, and how much could be erased without permanent damage.

The recordings left little doubt. If it came to it, he was looking for ways to rewrite Jackson’s mind.

He had also pulled the paperwork on Jackson’s trust. One afternoon we watched him spend hours on the phone, carefully learning what it would take to freeze the accounts or, if that failed, force them through himself. Money was the one leash he still thought he could pull.

Still, we kept moving.

We catalogued every dirty secret, every payment, every name. The evidence kept stacking higher, but none of it would matter unless the right people saw it at the right time.

Then we found the perfect stage.

Missy Harlan was turning sixteen. Her parents were wealthy and deep in Thomas’s inner circle, and they were throwing her a lavish birthday party at the packhouse main hall the following weekend. The highlight of the night was a video slideshow Missy had been preparing for months. The entire pack leadership would be there.

It was the cleanest stage we were ever going to get.

The plan came together piece by piece over the following days.

First Jackson went back to Thomas’s house the same way he had before. He pulled the cameras from the study, wiped every trace of them, and got out clean. Then, on a separate night, he entered the packhouse itself and installed two new high-resolution cameras in the main hall, one with a direct line to the projector feed.

Brian helped us build a remote override and a timed release package. The moment the slideshow switched, copies of the files, videos, and supporting documents would automatically be sent to every pack email address we could find. Even if someone killed the projector in the first thirty seconds, the damage would already be done.

I would be the one to press the button that exposed everything Thomas had spent decades hiding.

The night of Missy’s sweet sixteen, Jackson and I sat on the couch with the laptop open between us. Artemis was curled in my lap, purring contentedly as he kneaded my thigh, completely oblivious to the storm we were about to unleash.

The live feed from the packhouse main hall filled the screen. The party was already in full swing. Colorful streamers and balloons hung from the ceiling. Shimmering fairy lights wrapped the pillars. The dance floor was packed with teenagers moving under the music. Around the edges of the room, parents and pack higher-ups stood in small clusters with drinks in hand, doing the usual quiet elbow-rubbing while the kids celebrated.

Jackson’s fingers drummed restlessly against his leg. “Almost time.”

I remained still, gaze locked on the screen. Ready.

At nine o’clock, the lights dimmed. A hush fell over the crowd as the large projector screen at the front of the room flickered to life. The first images were soft and sweet. Missy as a baby. Family vacations. Birthday parties from years past. Soft murmurs of affection moved through the room as people watched.

I waited for the right gap between photos, then triggered the switch.

The screen went black for half a second. Then it lit up with the first clip.

Thomas sat behind his massive oak desk, speaking into the phone.

“I don’t care how you do it,” he said coldly. “Squeeze them harder. Thirty percent of their income isn’t enough anymore. Tell the enforcers to start collecting early. If they cry about rent or medical bills, remind them who owns this pack.”

The clip ended.

A stunned silence gripped the room for several seconds. Then the first murmurs started, low and uneasy. The second clip began before those whispers could fully settle.

Thomas sat in the same office, speaking with two of his closest advisors.

“Nineteen years and that boy is still out there. He has a stronger claim than I ever will if the old laws are ever invoked. I want him found.”

One advisor hesitated. “At some point we have to consider he might be dead.”

“No.”

The advisor exchanged a glance with the other man. “And if he’s found?”

Thomas leaned back, eyes cold. “The pack doesn’t need another heir.”