Page 88 of Risky Passion

I could still see it clearly in my mind’s eye as though I’d been there only yesterday and not over twenty years ago. The fishing shack had been small, weathered by salt and sun, but cozy in a way that made it feel like home the moment we stepped through the door. Alice loved it there. We both had.

It was during the time when we’d dared to believe the horror was behind us.

We’d spent those days swimming in the cool, turquoise waves, the saltwater washing away the weight of everything we’d been through. Afternoons were lazy as we stretched out in the hammock together, reading books. She liked the mysteries, the ones where the bad guys always got what they deserved.

At night, when the world was still and the only sound was the rhythmic crash of the waves, she would curl up in my arms, just like she did when she was a teenager. I would hold her close and feel, for the first time in forever, like we were safe. Like the darkness couldn’t touch us there.

That little shack had given us a taste of something we’d never known before: bliss.

I swallowed hard, my throat tight. That was where Alice wouldwant to be. Of course it was. That little shack, that little slice of heaven. It was the only place we’d ever truly felt free.

By some miracle, it wasn’t far. A few hours’ drive at most. Even better, it was secluded, tucked away from prying eyes. No neighbors, no busy roads. Just the ocean and miles and miles of sand, and our beautiful memories.

Tears burned at the corners of my eyes, but I blinked them away.

“I’ll take you there, Alice,” I whispered. “I’ll take you home.”

The thought steadied me, like a weight lifting off my chest. For the first time since I’d learned that her body had been dug up, I felt like I had a plan. A real plan.

The fishing shack. That was where I would lay her to rest.

Where we’d both known what it felt like to be happy.

The hum of traffic surrounded me as I merged into the steady flow of trucks, semitrailers, and cars towing caravans. I kept my speed in check, sticking to the limit. Just another car on the road. Just another nameless driver.

No one would look twice.

“Shit,” I muttered, my stomach twisting as realization hit me. I wasn’t just another anonymous car. I was driving a goddamn cop car. I stood out like a fucking black eye.

My hands tensed on the steering wheel as another realization slammed into me.

The car wasn’t just a problem because it stood out.

It was trackable.

Of course it was. A cop car! A rolling beacon packed with God-knew-how-many tracking devices: GPS, radio systems, maybe even a hidden transponder I couldn’t disable. The second Cooper didn’t report back, an alert would go out, and this cop car would be pinging on every scanner in the region.

Fuck.Fuck!

My heart hammered as I flicked a glance at the dashboard. Was it already too late? Had someone already noticed Cooper was overdue? Had they flagged the car?

I forced myself to look in the rearview mirror, scanning the stretchof road behind me. Nothing. Just distant headlights and the occasional flash of a reflective road marker. For now, I was alone.

But for how long?

I gripped the wheel tighter, forcing my breath to steady, forcing my mind to focus. Panicking wouldn’t help. I needed a plan.Fast.

I needed a new car.

Something ordinary. Forgettable. A family sedan, maybe, or an old station wagon. Anything that wouldn’t raise an eyebrow when it passed by.

My thoughts churned as I weighed my options. The longer I stayed on this highway, the more exposed I was. I needed to get off the main road and find somewhere quiet to ditch this car, and “borrow” another.

“Hang on, Alice,” I muttered. “I’ll get us out of this mess. I promise.”

I checked the fuel gauge. Half a tank left. Decent. It was enough to put some distance between me and this highway before I abandoned the cruiser.

The pale glow of the half-moon bathed the endless expanse of the Bruce Highway ahead, stretching like a silver ribbon through hectares upon hectares of pine trees framing the road.

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