Page 4 of Risky Passion

Whitney was Rosebud's coroner, and he shouldered the grim task of identifying these lost souls. Of the twelve skeletons we'd first unearthed, only three had reclaimed their names and received proper burials.

I checked my watch: nearly eleven. Whitney had planned to head up to the orphanage to help me after finishing an autopsy this morning.

I snapped a photo of the skull and texted him:Got some more work for you.

His reply dinged back.Already? Just one, I hope.

3!

My phone rang immediately. "Tell me you're joking about three bodies."

"I wish I was, brother. This place is a fucking nightmare."

He huffed.

"How far away are you?"

"About halfway,” he said. “Should be there around one."

I squinted at the blazing sun. "Grab some snacks. We'll be here a while."

"Snacks! It was your turn."

"I'll pay you back."

Whitney groaned, his default response to everything. Then again, spending his days with corpses probably dulled his conversation skills. I never could understand why he chose to be a coroner. He was damn good at it though.

"Is Parker coming?" I asked.

"Nah, he can’t make it today."

"Damn. We could use the help."

"Just try not to dig up any more bodies before I get there."

"No promises."

He groaned again, then hung up.

Parker, my other triplet, breathed life into cold cases for a living, but even he'd hit walls with this place. Evidence was as scarce as rain out here, and the orphanage predated computers. All records hadbeen handwritten in ledgers, most of which were conveniently missing.

My brothers and I were convinced those documents hadn't just vanished. They'd been destroyed by the very authorities who should have protected these kids. Finding any of their bodies was a miracle.

Forty-four years ago, the discovery of tattooed serial numbers on the orphans' wrists, which bore a chilling similarity to Nazi death camps, had finally shut down this hellhole. The survivors had been scattered to foster homes across the country. Sadly, their scars, both visible and invisible, had faded in silence.

Then one of those tattoos had surfaced again; a faded serial number on the wrist of a dead would-be assassin who'd tried to kill Australia’s Prime Minister, Cameron MacBride. That shocking revelation had reignited interest in Angelsong Orphanage, yanking its dark history back into the light and leading Aria, head of Wolf Security, and her team to these cursed grounds, decades after it was abandoned, to dig up more buried secrets.

I’d already unearthed three graves this morning, and I’d only been here six hours. The other cops at Rosebud Police Station, where I was stationed, and Aria and her team had been right . . . there were more unmarked graves here. Likely many, many more.

Each fragile skeleton revealed unspeakable cruelty. In my fifteen years as a cop, my K9s and I had uncovered enough bodies in different cases to build a tolerance to the sight of death. Or so I’d thought. But this was different. These kids weren't just missing. They'd been forgotten.

Just like my sister.

Twenty years had passed since she’d vanished, and her case file had been buried beneath mountains of unsolved disappearances. The cops had moved on, but my brothers and I hadn't forgotten about Charlotte. We never would.

A gust swept through the towering trees, sending dead leaves swirling across the brittle grass and into the fresh pit before us. It was as if nature was trying to protect the little body in the dirt.

Onyx's gaze snapped toward the orphanage, and her nose twitched as she sampled the air. I followed her line of sight, squinting against theblazing sunshine to study the crumbling structure. Angelsong. The name itself felt like a sick joke. The monsters who worked here were no angels.

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