Page 43 of Dead Girls Don’t Forget

“Okay,” he said, like that was enough for now, and turned back to the page.

Across from him, I forced my eyes back to my notes. My cat purred low in my chest.

What the hell was I doing?

I was thinking about sleeping with the son of the man at the top of my kill list.

Chapter 17: The Box

That evening I couldn't settle. Every time I picked up my book, I found myself staring at the same page. My thoughts kept circling back to the library. To Jackson.

My cat paced inside me just as restless, impatient and loud. I hadn’t let her out in over a week. That was on me, and she had reached her limit.

I pulled on loose shorts and an old tank, laced up my sneakers, and slipped out the back door. The night air hit cold enough that my breath fogged in front of me. I crossed the yard and stepped into the treeline, walking until the house lights disappeared behind the trees. Once I was deep enough, I stripped, set the clothes aside, and exhaled.

The shift came easy. Bones reshaped under my skin, fur rippled outward in a dark wave, and my cat stretched hard into the new body. She surged forward with a low, delighted growl and shook out her coat.

Then she ran.

Pine needles softened under her paws. The night air cut crisp and clean around her as she vaulted a downed log, cleared a narrow stream, and cut hard between two close oaks just for the pure thrill of the speed. The tightness in my chest loosened with every stride. It felt good to let her run. She had earned it.

After a few minutes, the cat slowed, then stopped at the edge of a clearing. Her head lifted, nose working the air.

Jackson.

His scent was faint but unmistakable. Woodsmoke, pine, and that particular warmth she had catalogued since their first meeting in these woods. Her interest sharpened. She was about to follow it when something else caught her eye.

A large cardboard box sat in the middle of the clearing, like someone had simply set it down and walked away.

Jackson was forgotten.

She padded forward and circled the box slowly, nose pressed to every corner and seam. Then she backed up a few steps, wiggled her butt, and launched herself inside.

She landed, turned once, then sprang back out as though the box had bitten her. She stared at it, tail flicking, then launched herself in again. Out. In. Out. Each jump faster and more committed than the last.

This is beneath you.

She finally stayed inside. The walls pressed in on all sides, a perfect fit. She stood up, back brushing the top flap, and turned in a tight circle. A deep, satisfied purr rumbled through her chest.

You absolute child.

Then the real fun began.

She jumped back out, rounded on the box, and attacked the flaps first, grabbing one in her teeth and yanking it backward. Cardboard tore with a satisfying rip. She batted the loose flap across the clearing, watched it skid, and immediately went back for more. She shredded the corners, peeled long strips from the walls, and eventually dismantled the floor from the outside, hind legs kicking furiously as she worked.

When she was done, the box was a scattered pile of cardboard confetti across the clearing.

She sat in the wreckage, one paw resting on a torn strip, looking extremely pleased with herself.

...I’m not cleaning this up.

That was when she noticed the black wolf.

He stood at the treeline, massive and still, a dark shape against the darker woods. It looked like he'd been there for a long time, watching her destroy the box. His posture held no threat. More like quiet amusement.

My cat looked at him without startling or backing away. She flicked her tail once, then gave a small, deliberate tip of her head. Come here.

The wolf stepped out of the shadows, moonlight catching along the ridge of his back. He approached slowly, giving her space, letting her decide. When he stopped about ten feet away, those pale eyes never left her.