Page 141 of Dead Girls Don’t Forget

“And they’re still sitting there.”

“Yeah.” I looked away. “I always pull them afterward, but with everything that happened…”

“I’ll get them.”

I met his gaze. “You don’t know where they are.”

“Tell me where.” His hand settled on my thigh, heavy and warm. “I’ll have them out before anyone even notices he’s missing.”

Later that night the room was lit only by the desk lamp. Jackson lay behind me with his arm across my waist, careful of my ribs, his chest warm against my back. Neither of us was sleeping.

“Tell me something about your mother,” I said.

He took a moment before answering. “When I was young, my mother used to sing in the kitchen,” he said, voice low. “She was terrible at it. Genuinely awful. She’d turn the radio up and sing along at the top of her lungs, and if she caught me watching she’d only get louder on purpose.”

His thumb moved slowly across my side.

“She knitted me a sweater once. It was too small, the wrong color, and it itched like hell, but she was so proud of it that she made me wear it to school anyway. I think I still have it somewhere.”

“The stupid things stay with you,” he murmured.

I stayed quiet for a long moment, his words stirring something deep in my chest. For once, I didn’t fight the memories when they rose.

“My mother served herself last,” I said. “Every meal after my father died. She always gave us the bigger portions and ate whatever was left.”

Jackson didn’t interrupt. His hand stayed steady on my waist.

“She had these old pink slippers that were falling apart, but she wouldn’t replace them. Dad had given them to her, and everything he gave her she kept like it was sacred.”

I swallowed.

“Harmony hummed when she read. Constantly. She didn’t even realize she was doing it. She tried to teach me how to braid my hair once and gave up after twenty minutes. Told me my hair was made of rope and there was nothing she could do for me.”

A dry sound, almost a laugh, escaped me.

“She laughed at her own jokes. Every time. She’d get halfway through the punchline and crack up so hard she couldn’t finish, then try again while everyone else was already laughing at her. She never cared.”

The silence that followed felt heavy.

“Sometimes I think she’d be ashamed of me now,” I whispered.

Jackson turned me gently onto my back. His hand cupped my jaw, thumb brushing my cheek.

“No,” he said. “She wouldn’t.”

I searched his face for any trace of doubt and found none. Something in my chest loosened. He kissed me softly, then settled beside me again with his arm curled around my waist.

We lay there a long time.

“My parents were fated mates,” I said eventually.

Jackson’s breath hitched.

“My mom always said her cat knew before she did,” I continued, staring at the ceiling. “The moment they saw each other, it was done. No questions. No hesitation.”

His arm tightened around my waist.

I remembered the way she used to tell that story, the absolute certainty in her voice, the way she always smiled when she talked about my father. Then I thought about Jackson. About how my cat had practically launched herself at him from the very first moment while I had spent weeks making excuses.