Page 126 of Dead Girls Don’t Forget

“Tell me what you need,” he said.

I blinked at him.

“That’s it?”

His mouth tightened slightly. “No. It’s not it.” His hand came up to cup the side of my face gently. “Later, you’re going to tell me everything.”

Something in my chest twisted painfully at the certainty in his voice.

But all I managed was a quiet, exhausted, “Okay.”

He helped me dress in dark clothes, then pulled a knit cap over my damp hair so the wind wouldn’t catch it. When he was finished he stood at the foot of the bed and waited.

I closed my eyes for a second, mentally walking through the plan I'd hoped I'd never have to use.

“Bottom of my closet,” I said. “Behind the spare boots. There’s a black duffel.”

He went to the closet, pulled the duffel free, and brought it back to the bed. He set it down and unzipped it. Inside were single-use gloves, a bottle of scent spray, sealed plastic, and the folded blue tarp at the bottom.

He looked at the contents for a long second without speaking. Then he zipped it shut and looked at me.

“Garage,” I said. “Top shelf on the right. Grab the red gas can. The shovel’s behind the rake against the wall.”

He nodded once and went. A minute later he came back carrying the shovel in one hand and the gas can in the other. He set them beside the duffel, then knelt in front of me and pulled my boots onto my feet one at a time, tying the laces with steady hands. He didn’t look up while he did it.

When he finished he straightened, slung the duffel over one shoulder, hooked the shovel through the straps across his back, and grabbed the gas can. Then he held his free arm out.

“Lean.”

I leaned.

The walk took thirty minutes. He carried most of my weight through the trees while the last light filtered gold through the branches. My cat stayed alert enough to confirm we were alone. Once we reached the point where I had left the trail earlier, I pointed deeper into the trees.

“That way.”

Jackson glanced at the thick underbrush. “How far?”

“Half a mile. Maybe more. I’ll tell you when.”

Without another word, he adjusted his grip and stepped off the path. The underbrush caught at us immediately, but he took the brunt of every root and branch with one arm locked around my ribs. I kept my eyes on the ground and placed my feet where his landed.

We pushed deeper until the smell of blood cut through the damp forest air. Then the body came into view — grey-black fur, throat torn open, one ruined eye clouded pale beneath the dim light.

Jackson stopped walking. His hand on my waist went completely still.

“John,” he said.

His gaze lingered on the ruined body before lifting back to me.

“Harper. That’s John. From my pack.”

“Yes.”

“What the hell was he doing out here?”

“Later.”

“Harper.”