Page 81 of Risky Passion

The flames grew brighter as we approached, licking up the side of the old building like the devil himself was dead-set on claiming it.

Whitney’s Tesla was still parked near the front steps, its polished surface reflecting both the moonlight and the flickering orange glow of the fire.

A body lay crumpled on the ground, twisted on its side.

Oh, fuck. No. No. No.

Tory’s breath hitched. She spun to face me, her eyes wide with fear.

My heart clenched.

If that’s Whitney . . . No. It’s not him. It can’t be.I’d know if he was dead. He’s my brother. My triplet. My fucking blood.

Tory and I crouched at the edge of the tree line, ducking behind hip-high grass that was dead still in the humid night air.

Onyx stood tense at my side, her nose twitching nonstop as she worked the area.

The flames made shadows dance and flicker across the clearing, throwing wild shapes against the ground, blurring everything and making it harder to tell what was real and what wasn’t.

“Tory,” I whispered, my voice sharp and commanding. “Stay close.”

She nodded, her jaw tightening as her eyes darted back to the crumpled body.

It felt damn good having her with me.

The thought hit out of nowhere, cutting through the chaos like a stray bullet: the only partner I’d ever needed was my K9. Until now.

I broke into a run, Onyx pulling hard on the lead as we closed the distance. Tory was right behind me, but all I could hear was the pounding of my own heart.

Please don’t be Whitney. Please.

The heat hit me like I’d stepped into a furnace, and the acrid stench of burning wood and old paint clawed at my nose. But I locked my gaze on the crumpled figure lying next to the Tesla.

“Whitney,” I breathed, my chest tightening.

As we grew closer, the body sharpened into focus. Male. Facedown. Blood pooled beneath him, dark and shiny in the firelight. My stomach dropped, but I forced myself to assess. The physique was wrong. Too big, too broad.

“It’s a cop,” Tory whispered.

Relief hit me so hard it nearly buckled my knees. Not Whitney.

Thank Christ.

Whitney’s Tesla was to the left of the front steps, and beside it lay a motorcycle with the tires punctured and a bullet hole in the engine block.

We dodged broken glass and then crouched by the car, its own tires flattened to useless rubber. The windshield had exploded, scattering glass across the ground. I scanned the pale, slack face of the man on the ground.

“Jesus.” Tory gasped. “That’s Cooper Heathcote.”

“Fuck!” My stomach bottomed out. Cooper worked alongside Parker at Rosebud Police Station.

The relief that the body wasn’t Whitney evaporated in an instant.

Whoever had killed Cooper could still be here.

And Whitney was still missing.

I crouched beside the body, pressing two fingers to his neck even though I already knew the truth. No pulse. But the blood was still pooling. Cooper hadn’t been dead long.

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