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Robert Kincaid - Born 1967

Ryan Kincaid - Born 1965

Henry Kincaid - Born 1964

Fred Kincaid - Born 1963

“Hey, guys, I found the ledger detailing when the Kincaid brothers were admitted to the orphanage,” I said, spinning the book around and pointing to the names.

Everyone leaned in to see the handwritten entries.

“Unfortunately, it doesn’t give us any intel we didn’t already have,” Cobra said, his tone grim. “Except for the exact date they were admitted. We knew it was 1978 because of the tattoos on their wrists.”

Billie shuddered, wrapping her arms around her baby. “I still can’t believe they did that to those poor kids.”

“Me neither,” I murmured. Just the thought of that cruelty sent a chill down my spine. I turned a few more pages until another name caught my eye. “Oh, hey, I found Thomas Wexler’s admission record.”

I turned the book around again, and Ryder leaned over the table to get a better look.

The others crowded around as I pointed to the entry.

The record read:

Thomas Malcolm Wexler - Born 1973

Parents: John and Mary Wexler - Deceased

No known last address.

“So he was only five years old when he was admitted,” I said. “Poor kid.” I was nine when I lost my parents and old enough to have memories of them.

“Check this out,” Ryder said, pointing at the next entry beneath Wexler’s.

Fraser Madden - Born 1972

“Do you know him?” I asked, glancing up at Ryder.

Ryder squinted at the name, like he was sifting through memories for something concrete. “When we had that shootout at the Everglades drug den, Blade shot a young man. He lived for a few minutes, long enough to say his name was Frankie Madden. He was a known accomplice of Thomas Wexler.”

“Fraser could’ve changed his name to Frankie,” Cobra said, his brows furrowing as he pieced it together.

“But I don’t get it,” I said, frowning. “The Thomas and Fraser that are listed in this book were just kids then. So they would be about fifty years old.”

“If they survived that orphanage,” Cobra added.

“True,” I said, turning to Ryder. “But you said the man who attacked you was in his twenties, so it can’t be these boys.”

“Correct,” Ryder said. “We think Beatrice was involved in the human trafficking crimes that are connected to Rosebud Wharf. And we think she used names from Angelsong Orphanage to create new identities for trafficking victims.”

“What? Hold on. You think the men who attacked you were actually trafficking victims?” I asked, trying to untangle the twisted logic behind Beatrice using orphaned kids’ names. These poor kids had already endured so much. Why couldn’t she just let them rest in peace?

Ryder’s jaw tightened. “I think they were, yeah. But somewhere along the line, they got pulled into drug running and a pile of other crimes. We eventually caught Wexler hiding in the ceiling of Alice Turnur’s apartment.”

A heavy silence settled over us as we all seemed to silently untangle the clues. We had pieces of the puzzle, but they refused to fit together.

“I have an idea,” Yasmin said, breaking the stillness. Her voice held a spark of determination. “If we know Beatrice is the key, why don’t we sift through these boxes for anything with her name on it? It might lead us somewhere.”

“Yes,” Cobra said, clapping his hands together with a sharp crack that made me jump. “Great idea. Once we’ve established her connection, we can circle back and figure out the rest.”

With a renewed sense of purpose, we all returned to our seats, diving into the boxes with fresh energy.

Cobra took the ledger from me and moved to the crime scene wall.

He added the info from the ledger to the rest of the names, photos, doctor records, and other documents already up there, creating a chaotic mosaic of evidence.

The puzzle pieces were starting to come together, but the picture they formed was still a nightmare . . . dark, twisted, and incomplete.

Aria’s partner, Xander, strode in carrying a large cheese platter. “Thought you all could use a break,” Xander said, his deep voice cutting through the room as he set the platter down on the table.

Behind him came Whisper’s partner, Cody, with another platter and a grin that was as wide as his cowboy hat. “Straight from the farm,” Cody added, his grin growing even wider. “Fresh goat cheese, honey, crackers, strawberries, the works.”

“Yum, babe,” Whisper said, walking over to plant a quick kiss on his lips. She smiled up at him. In his presence, Border Force patrol officer, Whisper, turned to mush. “You know exactly how to get to my heart.”

Cody gasped, his jaw dropping in exaggerated mock hurt. “I thought it was my personality.”

Whisper smirked, not missing a beat. “Well, it’s definitely not your sense of humor.”

“Oh, harsh,” he said, clutching his chest like she’d wounded him.

I watched them with quiet amusement. They’d only been together for a couple of weeks, but it was as if they’d known each other forever. Their bond felt effortless, and conversations bounced naturally between them, and they laughed all the time. There was no strain and no awkwardness.

It reminded me of how Jaxson and I had been.

The thought hit me square in the chest, and I couldn’t breathe.

Just how Jaxson and I had been.

Relaxed, natural, utterly in sync.

But was that real?

Or was that a product of our intense, deadly situation?

The question unraveled something in me. How much of what I felt for him was genuine connection, and how much was just adrenaline dressed up as fascination?

What will happen now that the danger is over?

Will Jaxson go back to his life, and I return to my cats, and all my messed-up emotions fade into oblivion?