Page 67 of Dead Girls Don’t Forget

She left without another word. The door chimed behind her. I watched her walk past the window, shopping bags swinging at her sides, until she disappeared down the street.

My phone buzzed on the table.

Jackson: your people are acting up again

A link to a cat video followed.

I didn’t reply. I finished what was left of my coffee, still staring out at the street. Lia had come to test the waters. She would be back to dig deeper.

I paid the bill and walked home.

By two that afternoon, I was back at my desk, laptop open, a half-cold coffee beside my elbow.

The night Richard's body was found, I'd decided there probably wasn't a real witness. The past seven days had been about proving it. Every morning I checked the news. Most evenings I combed through forums, Reddit, Facebook and the pack-adjacent group chats.

Nothing had changed.

The Reddit post was still there. The neighbor who claimed he'd heard screams was still posting football scores, pictures of his dog, and complaints about traffic. If Thomas believed that man had seen or heard something, his life would have changed. It hadn't.

Inside the pack, there was only silence. The women's chats had spent the week swapping recipes and Sunday lunch plans.

Two pack men had been murdered in three weeks, yet no one mentioned it.

Outside the pack, the rumors spread unchecked. One hunting forum had locked its only thread after six posts. Near the end, someone asked whether "the thing" was being looked into. Not one person said witness.

Inside: silence. Outside: rumor.

A trap.

Thomas had buried the truth inside the pack and let speculation run wild everywhere else. If I'd believed there was a witness, I'd have started looking for one. I hadn't.

I closed the laptop.

My cat lifted her head. Nothing, I told her. He's trying to flush me out. She settled again.

I updated the mental file from probably none to operationally none, then reopened the camera feed.

John stood at his kitchen counter with a beer, half-watching a game on the small TV beside the toaster. Alone. Oblivious to the cameras hidden throughout his house.

I refined the kill plan until eight, then made a simple dinner and ate without tasting much of it. Afterward I lay in bed staring at the narrow strip of sky beyond the window.

I didn’t let myself think about Jackson.

It worked for about five minutes.

Chapter 24: Don’t Pull Back

Sunday evening the fighting gym was quieter than usual. Four men worked the machines while a pair sparred in the ring. Music drifted from someone's phone, low enough to fade into the background.

I had not been back since the day I sparred with Tom.

He was here tonight, working a heavy bag along the far wall. His shoulders rose and fell with each solid strike. When he spotted me, the punches slowed, then stopped. Tom wiped the sweat from his face with the back of his arm and gave me a small wave.

I lifted my hand in return and moved to an empty bag. After dropping my duffel, I rolled my shoulders and stretched my wrists until the tape felt right. A few light jabs woke the muscles, then I set my feet, breathed out, and let the first combination roll through me — jab, cross, hook. The bag rocked hard under the impact.

My body remembered the rhythm even when my mind was somewhere else. I kept going until the noise in my head softened. Footwork, breath, impact. Simple things. Predictable things.

After twenty minutes, Tom drifted over from his own bag.