Page 135 of Risky Passion

“I’m sorry. So, so sorry, my love,” I murmured, wiping my sweating palms on my jeans.

Crouching, I grabbed the tarp and dragged her toward the shack. The soft, uneven ground made dragging her body harder, and with each step, her weight seemed to become heavier. Four wooden steps led to the back porch, and by the time I'd hauled her up them, my arms shook and my back was pure agony. I eased her onto the weathered boards as gently as I could, then collapsed into one of the timber chairs facing the water.

My lungs burned as I sat there, gulping in the salty air. The chair creaked beneath me, its wood worn smooth by decades of fishermen watching the tide. When my breath finally steadied, I forced myself up with a groan and tried the back door. The handle rattled uselessly. Locked.

“Bloody hell.” I made my way around to the front, battling through knee-high weeds that slashed at my legs like tiny whips. The front door was locked too. I almost laughed. Who were they trying to keep out? There would be nothing worth stealing inside.

Sighing, I retraced my steps to the van and grabbed my bag. As I returned to the back porch, my back twinged with every step.

How the hell am I going to dig a grave for her?

Shoving aside that impossible question, I used the butt of the gun to smash the tiny window in the door. I reached through to unlock the door and swung it open.

The musty scent of damp wood and dust confirmed the shack hadn’t been used in a long time. Good. The darkness was absolute, and I fumbled for the light switch. Nothing.

“Of course,” I muttered, pulling out my phone.

The beam of phone light illuminated the space. The interior was exactly as I remembered: a double bed with a sagging mattress in one corner, its thin blanket a patchwork of pretty flowers that Alice had loved. A tiny table and two mismatched chairs were pushed against the wall with a rusty kerosene lantern in the middle. Fishing and crabbing gear hung from hooks near the door. Using matches next to the lantern, I touched the flame to the wick, and the shack took ona warm glow.

In the tiny kitchen, I opened a cabinet. A few tins of food lined the shelves . . . baked beans, tuna, peaches. I moved to the fridge, pulling the door open. It wasn’t running, but inside, five bottles of XXXX beer still sat on the racks.

I grabbed one, twisting off the cap. The warm, bitter liquid burned pleasantly as it slid down my throat, and by the time I’d drained half the bottle in one go, the tension in my chest had eased enough for my thoughts to sharpen again.

With the beer in hand, I stepped outside. The moonlight cast a soft glow over everything, giving enough light to see all the way to the ocean. Crossing the small patch of grass, I was surprised to see the hammock still hanging between two leaning trees, its fabric weathered but stubbornly intact.

We’d strung it up together twenty years ago. I could almost feel the warmth of those long afternoons, the two of us swaying gently in the breeze, our sun-kissed skin cooling as we lost ourselves in our books.

I pushed the memory aside and made my way to the narrow strip of sand. The beach stretched endlessly in both directions, untouched and pristine. Rocks jutted up from the shallow water like the backs of resting turtles.

The sight tugged at a memory, pulling it to the surface. Alice and I had stood in this very spot, watching a sea turtle lumber her way up the sand to lay her eggs. Alice’s eyes had sparkled as she’d stayed with that turtle for hours.

Moments like that had been rare. Too rare. And now, they were gone.

She was gone.

“How can I live without you, Alice?”

Tears welled in my eyes, blurring the moonlit beach. I blinked them away and took another sip of the beer, forcing down the bitter warmth as I stared out at the ocean. The waves were small, rolling into the shore like liquid whispers, their rhythm soothing in a way that felt at odds with the storm raging inside me.

How had it come to this? Decades together, only to end like this—both of us alone. The hell we’d fought through, the punches we’d taken, the bastards who’d tried to break us.

“Maybe Ishouldwrite it all down,” I murmured. As I took another sip of the beer, the idea grew clearer with every heartbeat. “That’s what I’ll do. Detail everything. Every person I killed. Where I buried them. Why they deserved it.”

I nodded to myself, the resolve settling into place. I didn’t give a shit whether or not the world understood me, but I wanted them to know what they did to us . . . especially Alice. She wanted that. She’d hated the secrets. They’d eaten away at her. Maybe writing it all down would finally set her free.

I wish I could see their faces when they read my notes. Let them call me a monster. Let them choke on their outrage. But what did that make the bastards who had violated us while hiding behind their spotless reputations? They were monsters long before I ever became one.

It’s time their families knew. It’s time the whole world knew exactly who they are . . . and the cowards who helped bury their vile crimes.

I returned to the shack and sat the empty beer bottle on the top step. The kerosene lamp inside cast a dim glow through the window, the flickering flame pulsing like a heartbeat.

I squatted by Alice’s body and rested my hand on her shoulder, hating how rough the tarp was beneath my palm. I inhaled a shaky breath.

“The beach is still perfect, Alice. Just like we left it.” My throat tightened, but I smiled through it. “You’re going to have the best view for the rest of eternity.”

A chuckle escaped me, soft and bitter. “And guess what? I’m finally going to write down our story. Every last bit of it.”

I straightened, and my knees protested the movement as I stepped inside the shack. I grabbed the tiny table and carried it out to the back porch, setting it so I could write and watch Alice and the view. The night air was cool, and the moonlight and waves were perfect.

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