Page 18 of Dead Girls Don’t Forget

It was Jackson Black.

Chapter 8: Paired With the Problem

Fuck my life.

The wolf from the forest stood three feet away from me in a crowded gym like the universe had decided to play a joke I was not ready for.

I set the dumbbell back on the rack harder than I meant to. The clang turned a few heads. I didn’t look at them. I didn’t look at him. I finished my sets early and walked out without a backward glance.

The corridor air was cooler. I stood there for a moment and breathed.

Jackson Black was the son of my final target, a complication I could not afford. I had come back here for one reason only. One promise I had made a long time ago to people who deserved better than what they got.

I was not going to let one six-foot-five distraction derail ten years of planning.

I changed quickly in the locker room and stepped outside. The day's heat had started to fade. I crossed the path toward home, pulled out my phone, and opened the app for the cameras I had planted in Richard's house a few days earlier.

I scrolled back to two nights ago as I walked. Richard sprawled across his couch in nothing but underwear, beer in hand, attention glued to the football game. One hand scratched lazily at his chest, stomach spilling over the waistband.

My grip tightened around the phone. The comfortable, oblivious rhythm of a man who had never once considered that anything he had done might come back to him.

The disgust that moved through me was cold and familiar.

He better enjoy it while he could. Soon I would be the one standing over him. And he would learn what real horror felt like.

I checked the rest of the clips for visitors or new details, then slipped the phone back into my pocket. My thoughts settled into the sharp clarity I trusted.

Whatever was happening with Jackson Black didn’t change the plan.

Saturday morning practice brought both teams to the track. The air was cool, the sky still pale. I stayed at the outer edge of the group, well clear of the cluster around the starting line where Coach Miller and the men's coach, Reid, stood with their clipboards.

And I was aware of exactly where Jackson was without looking. My cat had located him the moment we arrived and kept updating me. Somewhere to my left and slightly behind. Moving now. Stopping. Talking to Jason.

I worked through a shoulder stretch, eyes fixed on the far end of the track.

A guy from the men’s mid-distance squad peeled away from his teammates and walked toward me. Human.

“Hey,” he said, stopping a little too close. “You’re the transfer, right?”

I nodded once.

“I’m Drew. I heard you ran a crazy good time last week.”

“I could do better,” I said.

He grinned. "Confidence. I like that."

My cat rolled her eyes. I felt Jackson’s gaze settle on my back. I didn’t turn.

“If you ever want someone to run with, I’m around.”

Before I could respond, Cassidy slid in beside me.

“We’re warming up,” she told him.

Drew hesitated, then nodded and headed back to his teammates, still glancing over his shoulder once before he rejoined the group.

The female wolves watched from their cluster, glares sharp and coordinated. My cat flicked her tail, unbothered.