Page 4 of Dead Girls Don’t Forget

Using his good arm, he started dragging himself toward me, inches at a time, teeth bared, pure hate in every movement.

His eyes flashed yellow. For a second the wolf surged forward. Claws punched through his fingertips and scraped across the concrete. He swiped at my ankle and missed by a foot.

I clicked my tongue. “All that size and nothing to show for it.”

The claws stayed out. His chest heaved. The wolf wanted out badly, but shifting took control, balance, and working limbs. I had taken those away the moment I cut his tendons. He was stuck in human form, half-shifted and helpless, and he knew it.

I crouched beside him while he wheezed. “You know what your problem is, Colton?” I kept my voice pleasant. “You’ve spent your whole life picking on people who couldn’t fight back. You forgot how to actually fight.”

He spat blood. “I’m going to kill you.”

“You’ve said that already.” I stood. “You need a new line.”

He reached for my ankle again. I shifted just enough and brought my boot down hard on his good wrist, pinning it to the concrete. He bucked and twisted like a worm, trying to wrench free while his ruined legs flopped uselessly. I leaned more weight onto the boot until the bones in his wrist creaked. The wolf claws finally retracted.

“A hundred pounds on me,” I said, looking down at him. “All that muscle. All that pack status.” I tilted my head. “And a little woman with a knife has you bleeding on your own basement floor.” I smiled. “How does that feel, Colt? Really. I want to know.”

He said nothing. His chest heaved with pain, rage, and underneath it all, humiliation.

Good. I wanted him to feel every inch of it.

“The last time we met,” I said, “I was thirteen years old and I couldn’t stop you or the others.”

I lifted my boot just enough to grab his wrist with my left hand. He immediately started thrashing again, weak and desperate. I dropped my knee hard into his stomach, driving the air from his lungs. While he gasped, I wrenched his arm up and slammed his hand palm-down onto his own chest.

He tried to jerk free. I leaned forward and put my weight behind it. His hand stayed exactly where I wanted it. The shoulder wound and ruined legs left him with almost nothing.

I kept the knife in my right hand and drew the blade slowly across each finger, pausing long enough for him to feel the promise.

“Look how things change.”

His eyes locked on the knife. He started to tremble. “Wh-what are you going to do with that?”

“Shhh. I want to play a game,” I whispered.

“A game?” His voice was barely there.

“Truth or lie. Tell the truth, you keep your fingers. Lie…” I pressed the blade just enough to dimple the skin. “You won’t.”

Silence.

“Understand?”

“Y-yeah,” he stammered.

“Good. First question.” I kept my tone almost conversational. “How many little girls have you raped?”

“Wh-what?”

“Don’t play stupid. How many?”

He looked away. “Just you. I swear, it was just you.”

I cut off his pinky. The blade bit clean through the finger but also sliced into the meat of his chest as his hand jerked. Blood welled up immediately.

His scream bounced off the concrete and he bucked hard enough to nearly throw me off balance. When he was done panting, I tilted my head. “Let’s try that again.”

“And your sister,” he choked out, tears cutting tracks through blood and grime. “Just you two. That’s all, I swear to god.”