Page 163 of Surfer's Paradise

Troy’s smile vanished. “She was my girl.”

Isaac took another step. “She was twelve. Don’t dress it up. Don’t rewrite it. You groomed her. You were abusing her. And when her mother found out and called the cops, you killed her.”

Silence.

Troy’s face darkened. His fists twitched.

“I did what I had to do,” he said. “She was trying to take Rosie from me.”

Isaac saw red. He didn’t think. He moved. His fist cracked across Troy’s face, sending him crashing into the wall. The man staggered, spitting blood, laughing even through the pain.

“You think you’re protecting her now?” Troy slurred.

Isaac punched him again.

And again.

The third time, he saw something in the man’s eyes change—fear now, real and raw—but it didn’t slow him down. He drove Troy back against the dumpster, slammed his shoulder into his gut, knocked the wind out of him.

“You come within a mile of her ever again,” Isaac growled, hauling him up by the collar. “And I swear to God—”

Troy collapsed to the ground, groaning.

“I’ll rip your fucking face off.” Isaac stood over him, breathing hard, every muscle in his body screaming. His ribs throbbed. His knuckles were bloodied. His pulse roared in his ears.

The man didn’t move.

Isaac backed away slowly, shaking. He hadn’t killed him. He should have. But Rosie… Rosie would never want that. He turned away, walking back toward the door, his hands trembling.

The girl he loved had survived hell. And this man? This man was going to disappear. Because if he ever came near her again, Isaac wouldn’t leave it unfinished.

Chapter 32

The sun was low in the sky, casting amber light across the cracked pavement in front of the East L.A. community center. Rosie tucked her blazer tighter around her waist, phone to her ear, pacing a slow line by the front doors as the last of her colleagues waved goodnight and trickled to their cars. She waved back, distracted. Isaac wasn’t answering.

She tried again.

Straight to voicemail.

Frowning, she dropped her hand and stared down the street. Where the hell was he?

Then—heavy boots. Fast footsteps. She turned, startled, just as Isaac came around the corner of the building.

His walk was different. Shoulders squared. Jaw tight. His black T-shirt clung to his chest, damp with sweat. His dark hair was wind-wild.

“Isaac—” she started, breath catching. “What—“

He didn’t meet her eyes.

“Let’s go,” he said coolly, nodding toward the truck across the street. No smile. No kiss. No trace of the man who had held her so close this morning.

Rosie’s body went cold. But she followed.

Inside the truck, the air was still warm from the sun. He started the engine, shifting into gear with one hand while the other rested casually on the wheel. And there—her stomach dipped.

Blood on his hands.

Actual blood. Fresh. Smeared.

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