Page 31 of Dead Girls Don’t Forget

Closing the app, I finished the rest of the cold coffee. The anger was still there, sharp and familiar. The sister I never got to bury. The family that had been wiped out and forgotten. That loss was the reason I had come here at all. It was still the reason I stayed, even as other things started to complicate the edges of the plan.

I unpacked the last of the boxes stacked against the wall. By the time I flattened the cardboard and carried it out to the recycling bin, the restless energy hadn’t eased.

I couldn’t sit still any longer, so I changed into purple leggings and a matching racerback, pulled a black zip-up jacket over them, and tied my hair into a high ponytail. Water bottle, earbuds, phone.

Twenty minutes later I pushed open the door to the local fighting gym. It sat on a quiet side street between a laundromat and a shuttered convenience store. The place smelled of old sweat and stubborn ambition, and I'd liked it from the moment I found it. A ring took up the center, surrounded by mismatched equipment. A handwritten schedule hung taped to the front desk.

It was quiet for a Sunday. A few people worked the machines while two men sparred in the ring. After a quick stretch, I let the music take over, shrugged off my jacket, and stepped up to an open heavy bag.

The first punch landed with a clean thud. I fell into a rhythm, letting the restlessness drain out of me one strike at a time.

My thoughts drifted to last night. Cassidy had texted this morning to confirm she was alive. Jackson had texted too. His message had been simple: good morning.

How he'd gotten my number, I didn't know. The next hit landed harder.

I wasn’t sure what had made me dance with him. Naomi had been part of it, yes, but not all of it. The truth was simpler and harder to admit. There were moments in the past week when I felt less like a cold monster collecting on old debts and more like a woman who was simply alive. The distinction mattered. While others had died, I had survived, and survival had never felt like living. I'd forgotten what it felt like to do something because I wanted to instead of because it served the mission. For a few stolen minutes, I'd let myself be just another woman dancing with a guy. I could still feel the warmth of his hands on my skin.

I jabbed the bag and tried to lose myself in the rhythm, but the memory refused to fade. Frustration tightened my jaw. With a muttered curse, I let the bag swing away and stepped back. Thirty minutes had slipped by without me noticing.

After a long drink from my water bottle, I glanced toward the ring. The two men had picked up their pace—the taller one showing decent footwork while the shorter one kept telegraphing his right hand. A sharp crack echoed through the space as the taller fighter took a clean hit and stumbled.

“What a tool,” I muttered.

“You think he could have blocked that?” a voice asked from my left.

I turned. A guy on a nearby rowing machine was already looking my way, one corner of his mouth lifted. One breath told me he was a bear shifter.

“The way the guy in the blue pants is projecting,” I replied, “it wouldn’t be hard.”

His eyebrows rose. “You know fighting?”

“Some. Self-defense, a little sparring.”

He gave me an appraising look, more curious than dismissive. “Most people who say that have never taken a real hit. You spar much?”

“Enough to know what I don’t know,” I replied.

He let out a short laugh. “Fair enough.” He wiped sweat from his forehead with the hem of his shirt. “I’m Tom.”

“Harper.”

He studied me for a second, then nodded toward the ring. “If you ever want real practice, I could give you some pointers. No bullshit. Most women who come in here get sold a bunch of feel-good techniques that won’t work when it actually matters.”

There it was. The subtle condescension wrapped in helpfulness.

I let a small smile touch my lips, playing along. “That would be useful. Thanks.”

His expression brightened. “Yeah? I can talk to the manager, see if we can get some ring time today. I’ll go light.”

“Appreciate it,” I said, keeping my tone even.

He stood, rolling his shoulders. “Cool. Be right back.” He paused, glancing back at me. “Don’t go anywhere, Harper.”

I went back to my workout while Tom crossed the room. The manager glanced my way with a skeptical look, checked his watch, and then nodded.

“We're on after these two,” Tom said when he returned. “About thirty minutes.”

I nodded and kept working the bag. When the current spar ended, I rewrapped my hands, took a long drink of water, and stepped toward the ring.