Page 136 of Risky Passion

In the kitchen, I opened the bottom drawer, which used to hold maps, fishing guides, and a takeout menu from the local shop, and the one thing I needed . . . a notepad and a pen. The top page had a list of contact numbers scrawled on it: the local store, the shack’s owner, a local fisherman. Ambulance and the cops.

“I won’t be needing them.”I chuckled.

I tore off that page, tossing it aside, then grabbed the pen, another beer, and the lantern and took them outside.

Now for the shovel. It had better still be there.

I walked around the side of the deck where the weeds brushed against my legs and found the shovel leaning against the shack, next to the hose and water tank. It was like it hadn’t been moved since I’d put it there. The wooden handle was weathered by time, and the blade was covered in rust.

This had better bloody work . . . because I didn’t have a plan B.

As I carried the shovel back to the steps, I pictured Alice laughing as we buried fish heads and crab shells in the sand with her long blonde hair blowing wild from the sea breeze.

“It’s like we’re feeding the beach,” she’d said, grinning. “We take, and we give back. Balance.”

I smiled at the memory, yet a pang of loss stabbed through me. Gripping the shovel, I headed back toward the beach.

The middle of the night was the perfect time to dig a grave. The air was cool, and the moonlight gave me all the light I needed. Digging this grave would take hours, but that didn’t bother me. I’d dug plenty of graves in my life.

I found the perfect spot just beyond the shack, at the edge of the sand, overlooking the water. Alice would have liked it here.

I pushed the shovel into the ground, grateful that the earth was soft. But as I leaned into the motion, my back spasmed, sharp and unforgiving as searing pain shot up my spine.

Gasping, tears sprang to my eyes. “Fuck!”

I gripped the shovel for support, my breaths coming shallow and uneven. The tears spilled down my cheeks, but I didn’t wipe them away.

“Goddamn it, Alice,” I whispered hoarsely, my voice cracking. “I can’t believe I’m burying you for a second time.”

Saying it out loud shattered something deep inside me, and my sobs came fast and hard, tearing through me like a storm. They hollowed me out, leaving me trembling, gasping for air, consuming me with anger and a sorrow so deep it felt endless.

I crumbled onto the sand, and as grief crushed me, I howled—a raw, guttural sound that ripped from the depths of my soul. Just like I’dhowled the day we found out Alice’s cancer had returned. Just like I’d howled the day she made me put an end to her pain.

The grief tore through me, wild and uncontrollable. But, as it always did, the tears slowed, the sobs softened, and silence settled over me.

I wiped my face with the back of my hand, dragging myself upright. My legs wobbled beneath me, and I leaned on the shovel for support, heaving a shaky, uneven breath.

“Get it together.” I moaned.

Gripping the shovel, I steadied my stance and dug. Again. And again. And again. Each thrust of the blade into the earth felt like both a punishment and a release.

When the pain in my back and shoulders flared to unbearable, I retreated to the porch. Slumping into the chair, I wiped the sweat and tears from my face with trembling hands. My body ached, but my mind was a red-hot mess of dates and names of bastards and the evil things they’d done to us. And how I’d eliminated them.

I reached for the pen with stiff, aching fingers and pulled the notepad closer.

“Here we go, Alice,” I muttered. “The story of our lives.”

The first words came easily as if they had been waiting for this moment all along:

This is a story about love.

And monsters.

CHAPTER 32

Jaxson

Awareness crept in slowly,then hit me like a thunderbolt. I snapped my eyes open, and my heart raced before my mind caught up to where I was. Tory was still curled against me, her breathing deep and steady. Her clean, floral fragrance mingled with something else. A strong coffee odor.

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