Page 105 of Surfer's Paradise

He already knew.

It was them.

The group chat was going nuclear.

Shay:

Where’s Isaac.

Colson:

No sign. Not in the cage. Not in the dive locker. Not at briefing.

Heath:

Maybe he finally drowned himself in a tank.

RIP.

Chris:

Oh no.

You think the gallery manager killed him?

Shay:

More likely:

Rosie killed him mid-sex and now wears his tags as a necklace.

Colson:

Please. If she killed him, she’d make it art.

Isaac adjusted his grip on the wheel, thumb twitching like it wanted to check the screen—but he didn’t.

Not yet.

His knuckles were tight. Too tight. His jaw flexed on instinct.

He replayed the morning on loop:

Rosie’s skin still warm where he kissed her temple.

The way she looked at him when she said, “I hate you.”

The way she promised him she’d stay.

Good girl, he’d said.

And he’d meant it.

And now he was driving to base like none of it mattered. Like he hadn’t woken up tangled around a woman who knew every part of him that wasn’t written down in a file.

Another buzz.

Then another.

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