Page 44

Near one of the side walls, Cobra stood in front of a makeshift evidence board.

He was putting up notes and photos in neat rows, creating a grim posterboard.

As I moved closer, my stomach twisted. The board was full of faces, names, and ages, some with the word deceased written next to them, and so many of them had died far too young.

Ryder and Whisper, my teammates from Border Force, were sitting at one of the tables.

Each was quietly focused on a box, their heads bent over papers as they sifted through the contents.

At another table, Jaxson’s brothers, Parker and Whitney, were doing the same.

Their expressions were a mixture of somberness and quiet curiosity.

It was easy to tell that they were triplets.

Although they weren’t identical, they all had the same nose, same stunning caramel eyes, same laser focus.

Yasmin must still be with her brother.

Cobra bounded over from the evidence board and at a box with an open lid, he pulled out a handful of paperwork.

“Is there a certain box I should start with?” I asked, breaking the quiet hum of the room. I didn’t want to risk disturbing any kind of order they might have been keeping.

“Take your pick,” he said. “There’s no set plan yet, so dig in. Every piece helps put this puzzle together.”

Nodding, I grabbed one of the unopened boxes from the stack. As I carried it to an empty spot at the table between Whitney and Whisper, the smell of smoke tickled my nose.

I set the box down and lifted the lid.

On top rested a class photo. The edges were curled and yellowed with age, but the image was still clear. The year was written on a chalkboard held by one of the kids in the front row: 1981. Two years before the orphanage was shut down.

The children in the photo were lined up in neat rows with stiff postures, as if someone had barked at them to stand up straight.

They were all different heights and sizes, but one thing united them: the sadness in their eyes.

Not a single child was smiling. Their faces were pale, their clothes ill-fitting, and their bodies were painfully thin.

It was creepy and painfully sad.

A lump formed in my throat as I set the photo aside. I didn’t know what I expected to find in these boxes, but I doubted any of it was going to bring a smile.

Beneath the class photo were more pictures, which were more candid. Kids caught in fleeting moments of play, or at least what looked like attempts at it.

One photo showed a boy, no older than five, sitting on the steps of the orphanage.

His knees were pulled tightly to his chest, his small body hunched in on itself like he was trying to disappear.

His eyes were red and puffy, and though the photo was a little grainy, I was certain this poor boy had been crying.

Who would take such a photo?

I flipped it over. Written in faint pencil were the words: Thomas, April 14th, 1979.

Frowning, I set the photo aside with my mind swirling with questions. I grabbed a notepad and pen and jotted down that I had a photo, and I detailed the name and date written on the back.

The next photo showed a group of boys playing soccer.

Their ball was tattered and deflated as they kicked it across a dusty yard.

Their faces were blurred by motion, but their bony arms and legs told the same heartbreaking story as the others.

Two of the boys stood out, though. They were taller, broader in their shoulders, and clearly older than the rest.

I flipped the photo over, hoping for information about them, but the back was blank. Deciding I would separate the photos into ones with information and ones without, I put it in a separate file to the Thomas one.

The next photo was of two girls sitting on the edge of a fountain. The angel statue in the center shimmered with the water cascading over the angel’s hands in delicate streams. The girls leaned in close to each other, their heads tilted together like they were sharing a secret.

“Hey, Whitney,” I called, sliding the photo across the table toward him. “Is this the fountain you were talking about?”

He glanced up, his brow furrowing as he reached for the photo.

“Sure is. But the angel doesn’t look that heavenly anymore.

” His voice dropped like he was speaking to himself.

“The body Jaxson found, the one Beatrice took, was buried right next to this fountain.” He squinted at the image.

“I wonder if one of these girls is Beatrice.”

“Can you see their faces?” I asked.

“Not clearly. Too much shadow,” he said, tapping the photo thoughtfully. After a moment, he waved it in the air. “Hey, Cobra! Can you put this up?”

Cobra bound over with Charlie nipping at his heels. Whitney handed him the photo, and Cobra returned to the wall and pinned the image up with the others.

I resumed shuffling through the remaining photos in the box. Each one told its own quiet story, but none of them shed any light on who the children actually were. No names. No labels. Just faces frozen in time.

Setting the photos aside, I reached deeper into the box and pulled out a manila folder. The edges were curling and smudged like the folder had been examined many times. The label on the front of the folder was smudged but still legible: Thomas Wexler.

“Hey,” I called out, tapping the folder to get everyone’s attention. “I think I’ve got something here. Thomas Wexler.”

“What about him?” Ryder shot up from his chair and strode to me with his brows drilled together. “The man who tried to kill me was Thomas Wexler.”

“His name is on this folder,” I said as everyone gathered around.

I flipped it open. Inside was a large photo of a young boy. His dark, messy hair stuck out in wild tufts, and heavy shadows smudged under his eyes, giving him an almost haunted look. Across the middle of the photograph was a bold red stamp: MISSING.

“Jesus,” Ryder muttered, leaning closer. His gaze flicked from the photo to me.

I blinked, stunned. “Do you think it’s the same person? This boy?”

I handed the photo to him, watching as he studied it for a long moment before shaking his head and passing it to Parker.

“No,” Ryder said. “The man who tried to kill me was in his early twenties. So he can’t be this boy.”

“He was killed, wasn’t he?” Parker asked as he examined the photo.

“Yes,” Ryder replied. “Whitney, did you do the autopsy on Wexler? ”

“No, that was before I came to Rosebud. So it would have been Thomas Mulholland, though everyone knew him as Reaper. He was killed by Mason Kingsman.”

Whisper clicked her fingers. “Mason Kingsman was actually Mark Kincaid.”

“Who went to Angelsong Orphanage,” Parker said. “It’s all linked. The whole fucking mess behind the deaths and disappearances are all linked to Angelsong.”

“How did Wexler die? The one who tried to kill you?” I asked Ryder.

“Alice Turnur shot him. That’s Turnur with a UR, not ER.”

Parker tilted his head, frowning. “Alice Turnur? Now that’s a name I know. She’s one of my missing person’s cases.”

“Yep, sounds about right,” Ryder said with a humorless laugh. “She was arrested last year after she shot Thomas Wexler. That was an accident, by the way. But someone took Alice from the hospital before she was released to face charges.”

“Just like Grant Hughes was kidnapped from the hospital,” Whitney chimed in, glancing around the room.

“What if we assume Beatrice took Grant and Alice Turnur, too?” Parker said, his tone growing serious. “She had to take a big risk doing that, so Alice must have meant something to her.”

“What if the fresh body near the fountain is Alice Turnur?” Whitney’s eyes widened as an idea seemed to click into place. “Her age would line up, wouldn’t it? And she was buried with some dignity. That has to mean something.”

The room fell into silence, everyone mulling over the possibility.

“Could be,” Cobra finally said. “If that body is Alice, that might explain why Beatrice went to so much trouble to retrieve her from the hospital.”

“Let’s keep going through this stuff,” Ryder said, his jaw tightening. “We have so much to go through and we’ve only scratched the surface.”

Everyone returned to their seats, and I flipped back through Thomas Wexler’s folder. The photos were endless. More shots of Thomas, along with images of other kids. No names, no details, just sad faces and poor living conditions .

Yasmin swept in, balancing a tray of steaming mugs. The rich scent of coffee filled the room. She made her way to Cobra, who plucked his SuperNerd mug from the tray before stealing a kiss.

"Making progress?" she asked, eyeing the scattered papers.

"Baby steps. Mountains of stuff left to dig through, though." His hand found her hip, pulling her close. "Could use those eagle eyes of yours. You always catch what we miss."

"That’s because you boys charge through everything like bulls in a china shop." She twisted away with a laugh, placing the tray on the table between the rest of us. "Coffee's here. Sugar and milk if you need it."

The group descended on the caffeine like it was salvation.

Yasmin grabbed a box and settled across from me, her eyes softening with concern. "You holding up okay?"

I wrapped my hands around the warm mug, breathing in the steam. "I am now."

I shuffled through more papers that made no sense and paused on a medical record.

The grainy photograph attached to the yellowed paper showed a little boy’s back, mottled with bruises.

My breath caught, and I winced as I imagined the boy’s bruises were from a beating.

The report was handwritten, dated June 16 th , 1980.

Four more medical records followed, each one incomplete but horrifying in its own way. The diagnoses scrawled across them were chilling: Malnutrition. Broken bones. Burns.

Jesus. This kid was tortured.

I spread the records out on the table, comparing them side by side. One thing jumped out—every single one was signed by the same doctor: Dr. Bryon Baldock.

I jotted his name down on my notepad and broke the silence. “Has anyone heard of Bryon Baldock?”

“Me,” Parker said, his head snapping up.

“And me,” Whisper added, her voice sharp.

Parker leaned forward, his expression darkening. “He’s an old missing person’s file. The case went cold decades ago.” He glanced at Whisper. “What’ve you got?”

Whisper rummaged through the stack of papers next to her box and pulled out a small black pocketbook.

She flicked through the pages, mumbling as she scanned them.

“I saw that name in here . . . ah, here it is.” Her finger jabbed at the page.

“It’s some kind of ledger. There’s a date, his name, and an amount of $80. ”

I explained the four medical records I’d just found, my voice tight with anger.

“Jesus,” Whisper muttered. “You don’t think they were paying him to cover up the kids’ injuries, do you?”

“I’d say that’s exactly what they were doing,” Cobra said grimly as his expression twisted with disgust.

An impossible heaviness settled on my chest. “Maybe that bastard got what he deserved.”

“He would have if Beatrice got to him.” Whitney scowled. “I’ve seen her in action.

“If she did make him disappear, then she would’ve been just a kid at the time.” I shook my head in disbelief.

“Yeah,” Whitney said with a shrug, “a kid who probably received her own treatment from that doc.”

The room fell silent as the weight of his words settled over us like a heavy fog.

Parker nodded slowly, his brow furrowed as if he were piecing together a puzzle. “He was a senior doctor at Rosebud Hospital. Noted for his ‘exceptional community service’.”

Ryder growled. “Exceptional? He was a fucking creep.”

“How many times is he listed in that book?” I asked.

Whisper leaned over the little black pocketbook and ran her finger down the line items. She flipped the page, and her expression shifted, her face going pale.

“Oh my god,” she muttered, her voice trembling. She looked like she was about to vomit.

“What?” Ryder shot to his feet, and everyone leaned forward, the tension snapping tight like a coiled spring.

“What is it?” Cobra barked.

“There’s another name in here we know . . . it’s Watts.”

We all froze as the air sucked out of the room.

“Fuck. No,” Ryder said. “It can’t be Captain Watts.”

“I refuse to believe that,” I said, my voice shaking .

Parker didn’t look so sure. His gaze swept across the room, his expression grim, jaw tight like he was holding back a storm. “His age fits the profile. And it would explain why our fucking investigations have been railroaded at every turn.”

“Jesus,” I muttered, my stomach twisting. “The police chief . . . working with Beatrice?”

“Son of a bitch.” Ryder slammed his fist into the table, and I jumped. “That fucking bastard.”

The realization hit me like a punch to the chest, knocking the wind out of me. “Oh my god. What if Jaxson tells Captain Watts about these boxes? What if . . . what if he already has?”

A shadow crossed Parker’s face as he yanked his phone from his pocket. He punched a single number and pressed it to his ear.

The room fell into a suffocating silence as we waited. The tension was unbearable, coiled and ready to snap. The phone rang once. Twice. Three times.

Parker shook his head, his jaw clenching tighter as the phone rang. And rang. And rang.

“Come on, pick up,” he muttered through gritted teeth, his knuckles white as he gripped the phone like it was the only thing tethering him to control.

My mind spiraled, panic clawing at my chest.

God, please let Jaxson be okay.