Page 125 of Risky Passion

Skipping over the stack of photos, I reached for a ledger buried at the bottom of the box. Its cover was worn and faded, and the year “1978”was scrawled across the top in crooked handwriting with a black felt pen.

I flipped it open to a record of children who had been admitted into the orphanage.

Each entry listed a date of admittance, a date of birth if known, sex, and, if known, the names of the mother and father along with how they had died. There were columns for the last known address and next of kin, but most of those were blank, just empty spaces where basic details should have been written.

I scanned through the names, searching for anything that stood out. My heart twisted as I realized how little information some of the children had. For many, their entries were heartbreakingly sparse. No family, no history. Some didn’t even have a name, and that implied that they had been abandoned, or left on the orphanage steps like they didn’t matter to anyone.

I turned the page, and a name leapt out at me like a bolt of lightning:Kincaid.Specifically, the five Kincaid brothers: the bastards who’d changed their names as they grew older and then unleashed hell on our tiny towns.

The brothers had all been admitted to Angelsong on April 19th, 1978. Their mother and father were listed as deceased. No known relatives. No last known address.

Mark Kincaid - Born 1973

Robert Kincaid - Born 1967

Ryan Kincaid - Born 1965

Henry Kincaid - Born 1964

Fred Kincaid - Born 1963

“Hey, guys, I found the ledger detailing when the Kincaid brothers were admitted to the orphanage,” I said, spinning the book around and pointing to the names.

Everyone leaned in to see the handwritten entries.

“Unfortunately, it doesn’t give us any intel we didn’t alreadyhave,” Cobra said, his tone grim. “Except for the exact date they were admitted. We knew it was 1978 because of the tattoos on their wrists.”

Billie shuddered, wrapping her arms around her baby. “I still can’t believe they did that to those poor kids.”

“Me neither,” I murmured. Just the thought of that cruelty sent a chill down my spine. I turned a few more pages until another name caught my eye. “Oh, hey, I found Thomas Wexler’s admission record.”

I turned the book around again, and Ryder leaned over the table to get a better look.

The others crowded around as I pointed to the entry.

The record read:

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