Page 162 of Risky Passion

We had never forgiven ourselves for that.

“It’s still so shocking,” Mom said, pulling me from my spiraling thoughts. Her hands curled around her teacup like she was trying to draw strength from the warmth of the green tea. “What happened at that orphanage. Those poor kids, what they went through. It’s just . . .” Her voice faltered as she set her cup down.

“And everything that’s happened in the forty-six years since, triggered by what went on in that house of horrors,” I said, reaching for my beer. “We’re still making arrests. Drug smugglers, human traffickers, people who took bribes left and right. And we’re hunting down the bastards who let it all happen at the orphanage decades ago. The ones Beatrice didn’t kill, anyway.”

“Jesus,” Whitney muttered, raising an eyebrow. “They’ve got to be in their eighties by now.”

“Yeah,” I replied, my tone flat. “Unfortunately, a lot of them died before the truth came out.”

“Two killed themselves this week,” Parker added, shaking his head.

“Yeah. Right after the news broke about the documents I found at the orphanage.” Whitney grinned like he’d just hit the jackpot.

I bit back a laugh. If I had a dollar for every time he mentioned saving those boxes from the fire, I could finally treat myself to some premium beer. Not that he ever remembered to add that Tory and I were the ones who helped haul them out. She damn near died for those boxes, but I would let him take the credit. It wasn’t often Whitney got recognized for his work.

My thoughts drifted to Tory. We’d called each other every day since Beatrice’s death, and we both had returned to our own homes. Between work, life, and everything else getting in the way, we hadn’t caught a real break to spend proper time together. But the calls, the texts, and the occasionalspicyFaceTimes had my cock thumping to a desperate beat. She was fun, sharp, and easy to talk to, and our conversations never stalled.

If anything, the distance was making us stronger. And making medamnhorny. I hoped she was ready for me when I saw her tomorrow.

“What are you smiling at?” Mom asked, her eyes glinting in the dining room lights.

I forced down a smirk. “Nothing. How many cold cases have you solved because of Beatrice’s notes so far, Parker?” I said, yanking a question out of thin air to steer the conversation away from me.

“Only seven are completely solved,” Parker said, shrugging. “But there are heaps more getting attention again.”

“It may not be the closure those families were after,” Mom said, sighing heavily, “but it’s better than nothing.”

The weight of Mom’s words hit home, and we all fell silent as the clinking of our cutlery became the only sound. Not a single Thursday dinner passed without Mom hinting at Charlotte. It was subtle, showing up in just a look or a phrase, but it was always there. Like she was afraid we would forget her.

We would never forget her.

Until the day we found her or her body, we would keep searching.

“All those families shattered because of those monsters,” Mom murmured, slowly slicing into her pork roast.

“Yeah. And because of greed.” I shook my head. “I’ll never understand how those close to them don’t question where the extra money comes from. Like that guy who got a $150,000 payout and bought himself a brand new Range Rover. His wife never asked him where he got the money. What the hell did she think—he got a raise? People can be so blind.”

Whitney grabbed his beer and leaned back, his expression deadpan. “People don’t want to believe the truth, even when it’s laid out for them on a cold slab. I’ve told plenty of wives that their husbands had sex right before they died, and it wasn’t with them. And yet, they think I’m lying. Or that it must be a mistake. Like I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Parker grinned, jabbing his fork in Whitney’s direction. “Well, to be fair, you don’t know what you’re doing half the time.”

Whitney shot him a look. “Says the guy who thought microwaving aluminum foil was a good idea.”

“That’s not a fair comparison,” Parker muttered, grinning. “That’s called a learning curve.”

I reached under the table with a slice of roast pork, and it vanished from my fingers in a flash. I scratched Onyx behind her ear. Whitney was right . . . for some people, oblivion was the only way they could cope. It wasn’t for me, though. I wanted the cold, hard truth, no matter how much it hurt.

I pushed my peas around the plate. "In the last month, the team found twenty-one more kids buried in the back paddock at the orphanage. And Whitmore's remains, too. His family's devastated. Can't blame them. Finding out he's not just dead, but also a monster who preyed on children? That's a hell of a thing to process."

Mom set her fork down with a quiet clink. "I'm glad you gave Beatrice and Alice a send-off. I know what they did was wrong, but they went through so much." She dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. "Those poor little girls."

Parker leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. "Makes you wonder if any of this would have happened if Beatrice and Alice hadn't been treated the way they were."

Beatrice's confession and her reasons had been debated at length between my brothers and me. Who were the real monsters? The lines were certainly blurred with this case.

After Whitney completed the autopsies, a few of us decided to give Alice and Beatrice a better ending—not as victims, but as women who had suffered more than anyone should. Maya had been the driving force behind it, and I suspected something in her past fueled her insistence on giving these women a proper farewell.

A few days ago, we drove up to Stanage Bay and released their ashes to the outgoing tide. The sea breeze carried them far from the cruelty they'd known in life. As we’d stood at the water's edge in silence, our quiet vigil seemed like a fitting end to our conflicted emotions.

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