Page 102 of Dead Girls Don’t Forget

I let go of the stone and stood up slowly, then turned to the fourth grave.

My stone.

Harper Mitchell. Beloved daughter. Beloved sister. She was loved.

The dates were right. The shape matched the others. Janet had chosen the same gray granite, the same finish, the same font. She had made sure we looked like a family, even underground.

I kneeled in front of it. My fingertips traced the carved letters of my name. It didn’t feel like mine anymore. I wasn’t sure when I had stopped being her.

I laid the single white chrysanthemum at the base of the stone.

“For the girl who didn’t make it,” I murmured.

I stayed there until my legs went numb and the cold had worked its way deep into my bones. Over the years, the memories of their faces and voices had grown softer, the edges blurring. Their hugs. The sound of their laughter. Even the way they smelled. You never notice how much you’ve lost until those details start to fade, replaced by the things you never wanted to become.

I looked at the four stones one last time.

"I'll come back."

The walk back to the car felt longer than it should have. I sat in the driver’s seat for a long moment with my hands on the wheel before I finally turned the key and drove back toward Ridgeview.

Chapter 31: Wrung Out

The drive back to Ridgeview felt longer than the drive out.

Rain streaked across the windshield in thin, uneven lines, turning the world into gray shapes. The heater hummed low, but I barely noticed the warmth. My thoughts stayed behind in Lincoln Cemetery, circling the stones and the things I’d said to them. My cat lay curled somewhere deep inside my chest, unusually quiet. Even she seemed wrung out, as if the weight of the day had settled on both of us.

I stopped once for gas outside town. Afterward I sat in the parking lot with the engine idling, staring blankly at my phone while the rain ticked softly against the glass.

Three unread texts from Jackson.

8:14 a.m. Hey. Just checking in. You okay?

9:03 a.m. Talk to me when you can.

9:27 a.m. Harper.

My thumb hovered over the screen for a second before I locked the phone and tossed it onto the passenger seat.

I couldn’t do it today. Couldn’t explain the hollow feeling behind my ribs. Couldn’t explain why grief felt worse now than it had in years. Or why seeing my own gravestone had left something inside me quietly unraveling all afternoon.

I returned the rental at the lot and took a rideshare home instead. The driver let me out at the corner, and I walked the half-block to the house with my hood pulled low against the rain. Halfway up the sidewalk, unease prickled across the back of my neck.

I slowed and glanced behind me.

The street sat empty under the gray afternoon light. Rainwater streamed along the curb while tree branches swayed overhead.

Nothing.

Still, the feeling lingered. The same prickling I'd felt leaving pack territory weeks ago, that same low animal warning that said eyes were tracking me from somewhere I couldn't locate.

My cat stirred uneasily beneath my skin.

I stepped off the sidewalk and crossed the street instead of heading straight home, pretending to adjust my hood while I checked reflections in parked car windows. Rooftops. Tree line.

Nothing. No footsteps. No visible tail. No movement where there shouldn’t be movement.

But the prickle refused to fade.