Page 45 of Risky Passion

Flames erupted into the sky, a towering column of fire that lit up the night in a blinding burst of orange and red. For one horrific second, it was as if the entire world had been swallowed by light.

Shards of burning metal and shattered glass rained down around us, hissing as they embedded themselves into the damp earth. The acrid stench of smoke and gasoline hit like a punch to the face, choking the air.

The shockwave followed, rolling over us like a physical force. It drove me harder into the ground as the impact rattled my bones. My ears rang, drowning out everything but the crackling roar of the fire.

I raised my head, coughing as acrid smoke filled my lungs. My Jeep was a blazing wreck with twisted metal glowing red-hot, flames hungrily consuming what was left. Everything was gone, obliterated in an instant: the tires, the cabin, the seats. Our one shot at escape was a metal fireball.

Tory whimpered beneath me, trembling as she clutched my body.

Onyx pressed herself low to the ground, her whine barely audible over the crackle of flames.

The fire roared louder, and as the heat licked my skin, panic rose in me like a demon.

Fuck! We’re in trouble.

CHAPTER 13

B

As I zoomedalong the Bruce Highway, the Indian Scout snarled beneath me like a predator eager for blood. Much like me.

This motorcycle had belonged to Alfonzo, a man whose ambition had far outpaced his intelligence. He’d begged, of course. They always did. Pleading for his miserable life as if words could undo what he’d done. He’d screamed until the moment I tipped him overboard, bricks anchored to his ankles. The splash had been satisfying, final.

I tried to count how many men I’d fed to the sharks. Six? Nine? Maybe more. Their faces had blurred into a single, panicked mask, their pleas indistinguishable by the end. But what they'd done to me remained as sharp as glass. Every betrayal, every ounce of pain they'd inflicted on me, on Alice, on my boys was seared into my mind like a brand.

I never forgot. And I made damn sure none of them did either.

As I twisted the throttle harder, the engine roared louder as the speedometer climbed past ninety. Speeding tickets didn’t concern me. This bike had been rotting in my garage for two years, and the cops who searched for it, along with Alfonzo, had never connected either disappearance to me.

Sometimes, I imagined them finally connecting the dots – all those "unsolved cases" scattered across decades like breadcrumbs, leadingstraight to my door. Each death, each disappearance, fitting together like a perfect, blood-soaked puzzle. What a shame I wouldn't be there to see their faces when they realized how long I'd been operating right under their noses.

Maybe I should leave them a memoir. A detailed confession of every life I’d ended, every body I’d buried, every hypocrite who had taken my money and then preached about justice. The corrupt cops who'd looked the other way, the teachers who'd stolen children's innocence, the doctors who had become evil when the doors closed. I could name them all and drag their pristine fucking reputations through the mud they'd created.

But they’d never believed me back when I was young and innocent. They wouldn’t believe or understand now.

They would count the bodies and label me a monster.

They would never see the abused child behind each murder. Or understand that every death was an echo of justice the system had denied us. They would never admit that the real monsters hid behind respectability while destroying lives.

No one would want to hear my reasons.

It would be easier to call me evil than face the truth – that they created me.

The sun hung low, bleeding orange across the horizon as the mile markers blurred into a haze. My phone lit up on the console bracket with one of the calls I’d been waiting for. Cooper Heathcote.

I pressed the helmet’s Bluetooth receiver.

“Tell me something useful,” I said, my voice clipped over the engine’s roar.

“I’m at Angelsong,” Cooper said, but something was off. His usual cocky tone was replaced with a nervous edge. That wasn’t like him. “Neither of the brothers are here.”

Fuck! I clenched the handlebars, knuckles aching. “And the body?”

The word tasted wrong . . . bitter and unnatural. Alice reduced to “the body,” as if forty-six years of love and devotion could be wiped away with a single, clinical label. The rage permanently coiled beneath my skin flared white-hot, threatening to consume me.

Cooper hesitated. Bad sign. “The body’s still here.”

“What?” My voice cracked with fury. “And nobody is with her?”

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