Page 161 of Dead Girls Don’t Forget

“I’m in.”

“Copy,” I murmured, fingers tight on the edge of the laptop.

I heard the soft click of the lock, then the quiet sound of his footsteps as he moved deeper into the office.

“Inserting the USB now.”

The drive was one of Brian’s. Something his security firm had developed under the table and never put on any official record. The second it connected, the program went to work immediately, silently copying everything while Jackson continued through the room.

“I’m about to install cameras one and three,” he said. “Let me know if the angles work.”

The feeds flickered to life on my screen a few seconds later. One covered the hallway entry. The other framed the desk and the main door.

“Camera one and three are good,” I said. “No adjustments needed.”

“I’ll place camera two near the fireplace for the opposite angle.”

The third feed came up clean and wide. “Perfect.”

There was a short pause, then the faint metallic sounds of tools.

“Safe next,” Jackson said quietly.

My stomach tightened. “You’re good?”

“Yeah,” he answered. “Brian’s override worked. It’s open.”

The override was another one of Brian’s off-book tools, the kind of thing that was never supposed to leave his firm’s private lab. I held my breath as I heard the safe door open, followed by the soft rustle of paper.

“There’s a notebook,” he said. “Photographing every page.”

“Fast as you can.”

More paper shifting. “Done. Putting it back exactly as I found it.”

I checked the time on my screen. “Extraction. Pack rotation starts in three minutes. Grab the USB and move.”

“On it.”

A beat of silence stretched.

Then his voice came back, low and steady.

“I’m out.”

Ten minutes later, the relief that hit me when I saw his SUV pull up beside the rental car was almost dizzying. He got out, pulled the earpiece from his ear, and leaned through my open window. His mouth found mine in a hard, grounding kiss.

I searched his face. “No problems?”

“Clean,” he answered, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “He has no idea that we’re in his house now.” He pulled back slightly, eyes dark with satisfaction. “Let’s drop the rental and head home. Time to see what we got.”

Later that night we sat together at the desk, the laptop screen casting a cold glow across the mostly empty apartment. Jackson had barely spoken since we started going through the files. I stayed close, one hand resting on his thigh, offering what little comfort I could through touch and the steady pulse of the bond.

Folder after folder painted a damning picture.

Thomas had been systematically draining the pack for years. Embezzlement. Falsified records. Pack funds quietly funneled into private accounts and projects that only benefited him and a handful of loyalists. He had handed pack-owned businesses and rental properties to his inner circle for free.

While that was happening, the rest of the pack was left to rot. The communal garden was dying. The school and daycare had leaking roofs and outdated wiring. Members who lost their jobs or fell ill were still forced to hand over thirty percent of their income and received nothing in return.