Page 37 of Dead Girls Don’t Forget

Relief arrived before I could stop it. I wasn't sure how I felt about that.

The silence that followed felt different.

I had nothing clever to say, no deflection that would land, so I looked away, studying the notebooks on his desk, anything but him.

“Okay,” I said finally. "We should get started."

His eyes searched mine. Whatever he found eased the tension in his expression. He nodded once and reached for his notebook.

Chapter 15: I Remember Everything

A few days later I stood in my bedroom late at night and rolled my neck slowly, working out the tension that had been sitting there since morning. I crossed to the full-length mirror and ran through striking combinations, checking form and posture until each movement felt automatic. By the time I finished, a thin sweat covered my skin and my mind had settled into the clean focus I needed.

I topped up the small bleach bottle from the one under the sink. The simplest way to destroy DNA. Then I sat on the floor, emptied my mini medical kit, and ran through the checklist methodically: tourniquet, occlusive dressing, superglue, hemostatic gauze. I hoped I wouldn’t need any of it.

My fingers brushed the corner of my mouth as I walked back to the mirror. The scars were faint now, softened by years of careful treatment, but I still saw the girl who couldn’t stop what happened to her. A permanent reminder of what started all of this.

Keeping my eyes on my reflection, I braided my hair tightly against my head before pulling on a beanie and changing into fresh black leggings and a fitted long-sleeve shirt.

Black hid blood well. My boots and gloves were already stashed in the woods. I laced up spare black sneakers for the walk, gathered the bleach and medical kit, and slipped out of the house.

The forest swallowed me the moment I crossed the treeline. My shifter eyes adjusted, turning darkness into clear shades of gray. The hollow tree was easy to find. I had been back more than once in the last few weeks, checking the gear, replacing what needed replacing, making sure everything still worked the way I needed it to.

I added the bleach and medical kit, then checked the rest of the contents by feel in the dark. Everything was still in place, including the one item I had prepared specifically for Richard. I changed into my boots, tucked the sneakers away, adjusted the pack on my shoulders, and set out for a measured jog. No reason to arrive winded.

An hour later I crouched in the shadow of a retaining wall near Richard’s house. Weeks of watching had shown he lived alone. Some nights the house stayed dark and quiet. Others were loud enough that the neighbors never bothered looking outside anymore.

I drew a slow breath, held it, released it. My heart hammered, but my thoughts stayed clear. Only an idiot wouldn't be afraid walking into something like this.

Richard had a keyless lock, a gift. I had placed a pinhole camera weeks earlier to capture his code. Four digits, punched in the same order every time, because people were creatures of habit even when they should know better.

5-6-8-9. The lock beeped softly. I pushed the door open slowly, testing for resistance and listening for any movement inside. Nothing.

I stepped inside and closed it behind me.

The entry hall was dim, lit only by the glow from the narrow pane of glass beside the front door and a warm strip of light under the kitchen door at the far end. I had been inside once before, mapping the layout and placing the cameras while he was at work.

The creaking floorboards, the staircase to the right, his bedroom at the top. All of it was committed to memory.

Today's feed had shown him on the couch at nine with a beer. He'd been in bed for twenty minutes by the time I stepped inside.

I moved silently toward the stairs, passing the alcove beneath them, when he came out of nowhere. One moment I was moving, the next I was slammed against the wall, a massive body pinning me. His hands locked around my throat and squeezed.

His face hovered inches from mine, whiskey breath hot and sour.

“Who the fuck do you think you are,” he growled, “coming into my house?”

The pressure on my carotids was already cutting off blood flow to my brain. I cupped my hands and slammed them into his ears as hard as I could. Both eardrums gave beneath the blow. He roared, raw and animal. His grip loosened for the briefest instant, and I drove my elbow up into his jaw. He staggered back a step as I stumbled away, coughing hard and fighting for air. He recovered faster than I did. I brought my arms up for his next swing, but I was too slow. His fist caught the side of my head. The world lurched and I crashed hip-first into a side table and tumbled onto the sofa.

He was on me before I could get up.

I grabbed a heavy glass ashtray and hurled it at his face. He blocked it with his forearm, giving me just enough time to roll off the sofa and scramble to my feet, but he was already on me. His boot crashed into my ribs. Pain exploded through my side and drove the air from my lungs, but I forced myself to keep moving.

He came again. I slipped the first punch but the second clipped my jaw, stars bursting behind my eyes. Still, I drove a fist into his nose, felt the cartilage give, then followed with a kick to his gut that folded him slightly. I backed up, trying to create space and catch what little breath I could.

He straightened, blood already running from his nose. He touched it, saw the red on his fingers, and laughed, low and ugly.

“Lucky shots,” he said. “Won’t happen again.”