Page 162 of Surfer's Paradise

The man didn’t answer at first. Just grunted, scratching his jaw with dirty fingers, like the question had been too much.

Isaac closed the gap, slow, deliberate.

“You waiting on someone?” Isaac pressed.

“Don’t worry about it,” the man muttered, voice gravel-coated and hollow. “Move, buddy.”

“No,” Isaac said, stepping into his path when he moved toward the door. “You’re not going in there.”

That got the man’s attention. He stopped. Turned. His eyes were pale and glassy, and something in Isaac’s gut twisted.

“I’m not here for them,” the man said, voice rough. “I’m here for her.”

Isaac’s jaw tensed. “Her who?”

A beat passed.

Then—“Rosalie.”

Isaac froze.

It wasn’t just the name. It was the voice. Something about the timbre, the rhythm, yanked at a memory from way back. Rosie at six years old, quiet and shaky, telling him she didn’t want to go back home. Ever. Rosie at seven, flinching when she saw a man who looked vaguely familiar on the street. Rosie at eight, telling him—not everything, but enough.

Isaac stared hard at the man. “What did you say?”

The man stepped forward, puffing his chest. “I raised her. And I’m here to see her. So you can get the hell out of my way.”

Isaac’s stomach turned to lead.

“You—” he blinked, narrowing his gaze. “You’re Troy.”

The man didn’t deny it.

Holy shit.

Troy. The man who had gone to prison when they were still in middle school. For killing Rosie’s mother.

“You’re not going anywhere near her,” Isaac said, voice low and even.

Troy smirked, cocking his head. “Why? You her boyfriend or something?”

Isaac stepped closer, looming. “Yeah. And more than that—I’m the guy who’s not letting you near her.”

“You don’t know shit,” Troy said, his voice shifting, angling darker.

Isaac didn’t blink. “I know she was twelve. And I know her mom called the police. And I know you went to prison for murder.”

Troy’s face twisted. “You think that’s the whole story?” he spat. “That bitch was the one who turned it into something it wasn’t.”

Isaac’s blood ran cold. “What the fuck are you saying?”

Troy shook his head, smiling like a man with no remorse. “You don’t get it. I took care of Rosalie. She had no one else. Her mom was—look, her mom worked the streets. Got knocked up by some rich asshole who never came back. I was the one who stayed.”

Isaac was silent. His heart thudded.

“And when Rosie got older,” Troy went on, his voice turning strange, almost wistful, “she and I had an understanding. Something real.”

Isaac’s fists clenched. “She was a child,” he said coldly. “What the fuck are you saying.”

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