Page 135 of Dead Girls Don’t Forget

Six months of constant observation followed. Every minute scheduled and monitored: breakfast, group therapy, lunch, individual therapy, dinner, more group therapy. I sat in circles with broken strangers and spoke as little as possible while they cried over things I couldn’t bring myself to care about.

I was surrounded by people and had never felt more alone.

Brian visited often after my suicide attempt. He never asked how I was feeling. Never brought flowers or cards or any of the empty gestures people usually offered. Instead, he brought books — thick volumes on history, strategy, survival. He left them on the nightstand and sat in the chair by the window, waiting for me to speak.

I didn’t. Not for weeks.

He kept coming anyway.

One afternoon during my third month in the ward, I finally broke the silence.

“How did you do it?” I asked. “How did you make me dead?”

Brian studied me for a long moment before answering, choosing his words carefully.

“The fire burned hot enough to destroy most of the evidence. They found your mother and Harmony quickly. When they started searching for a third body, I gave them one.”

I waited.

“I placed partial remains under the debris,” he continued. “Burned. Consistent with a thirteen-year-old girl. I made sure the DNA matched.”

I didn’t ask where he got the remains. Something in his eyes told me I didn’t want to know.

“Three victims,” he said. “Case filed as a triple homicide. It went cold fast. No one is looking for a survivor because there isn’t one.”

He leaned forward slightly. “You were listed as Jane Doe in the first hospital. I erased that record. Moved you here under a new name. New state. As far as anyone here knows, you’re Harper James — my wife’s niece who survived a home invasion.”

"How?" I asked.

Brian was silent for a moment. “I spent twenty years in the Navy before I retired. Then I started a security company.” He shrugged. “You meet a lot of people along the way. Some owe you favors. Some just answer when you call.”

“You can just... make records disappear?”

"Not usually." The corner of his mouth twitched. "Sometimes knowing who to call is enough."

“And the cops?” I asked.

“The hospital had to report your injuries. I made sure the right officers showed up. They came, checked the box, and filed nothing. As far as anyone here knows, your case is being investigated. It isn’t.”

The words settled over me like cold stone. Everything had been neatly buried. Me included.

“The men who did this,” I said quietly. “Do you know who they are?”

Brian’s expression hardened. “No. What do you remember of that night?”

“Thomas,” I said, the name tasting like poison. “He was in charge. Said my father owed him money. A loan. Mom didn’t even know about it.”

Brian pulled out a small notebook. “Tell me everything.”

I did. Every detail I could stomach.

Over the following weeks, Brian returned with stacks of photographs and files. I went through them slowly, one by one, until my finger stopped on a face that made my blood freeze.

“Him.”

Brian nodded. “Thomas Black. Local pack alpha and property developer.”

It took nearly a month to identify the rest—Colt, John, Richard. Brian kept coming back with new files, each one filling in another piece of their lives. Connections. Finances. Territories. What we found was ugly but unsurprising.