Page 115 of Risky Passion

Beneath the class photo were more pictures, which were more candid. Kids caught in fleeting moments of play, or at least what looked like attempts at it.

One photo showed a boy, no older than five, sitting on the steps of the orphanage. His knees were pulled tightly to his chest, his small body hunched in on itself like he was trying to disappear. His eyes were red and puffy, and though the photo was a little grainy, I was certain this poor boy had been crying.

Who would take such a photo?

I flipped it over. Written in faint pencil were the words: Thomas, April 14th, 1979.

Frowning, I set the photo aside with my mind swirling with questions. I grabbed a notepad and pen and jotted down that I had a photo, and I detailed the name and date written on the back.

The next photo showed a group of boys playing soccer. Their ball was tattered and deflated as they kicked it across a dusty yard. Their faces were blurred by motion, but their bony arms and legs told the same heartbreaking story as the others. Two of the boys stood out, though. They were taller, broader in their shoulders, and clearly older than the rest.

I flipped the photo over, hoping for information about them, but the back was blank. Deciding I would separate the photos into ones with information and ones without, I put it in a separate file to the Thomas one.

The next photo was of two girls sitting on the edge of a fountain. The angel statue in the center shimmered with the water cascading over the angel’s hands in delicate streams. The girls leaned in close to each other, their heads tilted together like they were sharing a secret.

“Hey, Whitney,” I called, sliding the photo across the table toward him. “Is this the fountain you were talking about?”

He glanced up, his brow furrowing as he reached for the photo. “Sure is. But the angel doesn’t look that heavenly anymore.” His voice dropped like he was speaking to himself. “The body Jaxson found, theone Beatrice took, was buried right next to this fountain.” He squinted at the image. “I wonder if one of these girls is Beatrice.”

“Can you see their faces?” I asked.

“Not clearly. Too much shadow,” he said, tapping the photo thoughtfully. After a moment, he waved it in the air. “Hey, Cobra! Can you put this up?”

Cobra bound over with Charlie nipping at his heels. Whitney handed him the photo, and Cobra returned to the wall and pinned the image up with the others.

I resumed shuffling through the remaining photos in the box. Each one told its own quiet story, but none of them shed any light on who the children actually were. No names. No labels. Just faces frozen in time.

Setting the photos aside, I reached deeper into the box and pulled out a manila folder. The edges were curling and smudged like the folder had been examined many times. The label on the front of the folder was smudged but still legible: Thomas Wexler.

“Hey,” I called out, tapping the folder to get everyone’s attention. “I think I’ve got something here. Thomas Wexler.”

“What about him?” Ryder shot up from his chair and strode to me with his brows drilled together. “The man who tried to kill me was Thomas Wexler.”

“His name is on this folder,” I said as everyone gathered around.

I flipped it open. Inside was a large photo of a young boy. His dark, messy hair stuck out in wild tufts, and heavy shadows smudged under his eyes, giving him an almost haunted look. Across the middle of the photograph was a bold red stamp: MISSING.

“Jesus,” Ryder muttered, leaning closer. His gaze flicked from the photo to me.

I blinked, stunned. “Do you think it’s the same person? This boy?”

I handed the photo to him, watching as he studied it for a long moment before shaking his head and passing it to Parker.

“No,” Ryder said. “The man who tried to kill me was in his early twenties. So he can’t be this boy.”

“He was killed, wasn’t he?” Parker asked as he examined the photo.

“Yes,” Ryder replied. “Whitney, did you do the autopsy on Wexler?”

“No, that was before I came to Rosebud. So it would have been Thomas Mulholland, though everyone knew him as Reaper. He was killed by Mason Kingsman.”

Whisper clicked her fingers. “Mason Kingsman was actually Mark Kincaid.”

“Who went to Angelsong Orphanage,” Parker said. “It’s all linked. The whole fucking mess behind the deaths and disappearances are all linked to Angelsong.”

“How did Wexler die? The one who tried to kill you?” I asked Ryder.

“Alice Turnur shot him. That’s Turnur with a UR, not ER.”

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