Page 35 of Dead Girls Don’t Forget

“That’s not how this works.”

“It’s forty percent of your grade.” He leaned back. “You want a partner who can actually carry their weight or not?”

I stared at him. He looked back, completely unbothered, like he’d already won. I turned back to my notebook and wrote harder than necessary. Jackson's knee bumped mine under the desk and stayed there.

“You’re insufferable,” I muttered.

“You keep saying that,” he said lightly.

Chapter 14: I Want This

The next day Jackson texted at four forty-five. Outside.

We'd agreed to meet after class to start on the project. Apparently "partners" also meant he got to organize my schedule.

I grabbed my bag, checked that I had what I needed, and headed outside.

He was parked at the curb in the same dark SUV from Saturday night, engine running. As soon as I stepped outside, he got out, circled the car, and opened the passenger door for me.

I got in without comment.

The drive toward the east side of town took about fifteen minutes. The streets changed gradually, commercial blocks giving way to quieter residential ones, then to something still quieter. I watched through the passenger window, noting entry points, sight lines, the thinning foot traffic.

The gate to pack territory appeared sooner than I expected. Solid iron set into a stone wall that stretched out of sight. A guardhouse sat to the right, manned, with a camera angled for plates. I noted the model, the angle, the blind spots.

The guard recognized Jackson's car and waved it through without stopping us. I noted that too.

"The grocery store is down that way," Jackson said, nodding left as we passed a junction. "Opens at seven, closes at nine. Bakery next to it does everything fresh. There's a gym, a medical clinic, a school for the younger kids." He glanced at me. "It's self-sufficient. That's the point."

I wondered if he realized what he was giving me. The layout. The rhythms. The points of entry. Maybe he did. More likely, he'd decided it didn't matter.

We passed a narrower road lined with older trees that arched overhead. At the end of it, set back and elevated, sat a larger, older house. Stone facade. Wide porch. Gravel drive. The alpha's house. Thomas Black's house. I had studied it from satellite images, but seeing it in person hit different. Power built into the architecture.

Jackson didn't mention it and I didn't ask.

His own house was three minutes farther in, a two-story white clapboard on a corner lot with a wide porch and cars in the driveway.

My research had told me he didn't live in the alpha's house. That had been one of the first things I confirmed before I ever set foot in this town. The whole community sat on pack land, every house inside the gates owned by the pack in some way, but there was a difference between living under your father’s roof and living three minutes down the road with roommates. Jackson had chosen the latter. What that said about him, whether independence, practicality, or something else, I still hadn’t decided.

He parked and we got out. The front door opened before we even reached the porch. Jason stood there grinning.

"She actually came," he said to Jackson.

"Don't make it weird," Jackson said.

“I’m not.” Jason stepped back to let us in, still smiling. “I’m just saying… I win.”

Jackson sighed. “What did you win?”

“A private victory,” Jason said cheerfully. “Rick’s in the kitchen. Lia’s upstairs.” He raised his voice. “Lia!”

The house felt lived-in — open floor plan, worn hardwood, bookshelves stuffed full, a couch that had clearly seen years of use. It smelled like someone had been cooking.

Rick appeared from the kitchen, dish towel over his shoulder. “Hey.”

“Hey,” I said.

Footsteps came down the stairs. Lia appeared, took us in, and descended at her own pace.