Page 55 of Dead Girls Don’t Forget

A faint half-smile touched his mouth. “She still lives on the far side of the compound. I see her every week. She asked about you, actually.”

“Great,” I muttered.

“She thinks I’m handling this badly.”

I huffed a small breath. “Are you?”

“Depends who you ask.”

He reached for his water, then met my eyes again. “Your turn.”

I chose my words carefully. Anything I told him could find its way back to Thomas. I had to assume it would. So I gave him the version I'd told people for years.

“My father died when I was eleven. Car accident on a rainy night. He hit a tree two miles from home.”

He listened without interrupting.

“We had a little farm. Vegetables, chickens. My mother kept it running afterward. She was a teacher.” My throat tightened. “My sister was Harmony. Three years older. They both died the same night. House fire.”

I kept my voice even. “After that I went to live with my aunt Janet and her husband Brian.”

Jackson’s gaze stayed steady on me the whole time. When I finished, he said quietly, “I’m sorry.”

I shrugged. “It was a long time ago.”

His mouth softened. He reached across the table slowly, giving me time to pull away. I didn’t. His hand settled over mine, warm and solid, thumb brushing once across my knuckles.

We sat like that for a long moment. No words needed.

When the waiter approached, he slid his hand back. We skipped dessert. He paid before I could reach for my wallet.

Outside, the air had turned colder. Jackson opened the passenger door of the SUV, waited until I was in, then got behind the wheel. Instead of heading back toward Ridgeview, he turned the opposite way. The streets of Hawthorne gave way to darker roads, the lights of town fading behind us as we climbed into the hills.

I watched the unfamiliar turns for a minute before I spoke. “This isn’t the way we came.”

He glanced over, one hand loose on the wheel. “I want to show you something.”

I studied him for a second, then settled back into the seat. “Okay.”

The road narrowed, trees pressing close on both sides as we continued upward. After ten minutes he turned onto a gravel track that wound through dense pines before opening onto a wide, flat clearing at the edge of a long cliff. He killed the engine.

The view hit me hard. Hawthorne glittered in the valley below like scattered embers, Ridgeview a faint glow further north. The river caught moonlight in broken silver lines. Stars crowded the clear sky.

The silence was deep.

“I found this spot a few years ago,” he said. “Drove up here one night when I needed to get away from everything. I’ve been coming back ever since.”

“Alone?” I asked.

“Until tonight.”

I didn’t reply. The weight of that sat between us.

He got out, came around, and opened my door. Cold air rushed against my bare arms and legs, but I barely noticed. I walked to the edge of the clearing. He followed, stopping just behind me. Close enough that I could feel the heat of his body without him touching me.

I stood there another few seconds, feeling the night air and the solid presence of him at my back. No pressure. No demand. Just him, waiting. That kind of patience was rare. Dangerous, even. My cat liked it. I did too, more than I wanted to admit.

I turned.