Page 182 of Surfer's Paradise

“Rayleigh,” Chris said carefully. “What happened?”

Isaac stared down the length of the room, his voice flat.

“Her stepdad. I saw him yesterday. He found her. Followed her. I confronted him in the alley behind that East LA center. He told me what he did. To her. To her mom. And I lost it. I fucking—”

He stopped. His breath shuddered.

Chris’s face drained of color.

“I thought I killed him,” Isaac said. “I didn’t. But I should’ve.”

No one spoke.

The weight of it sank like concrete between them.

Amy reached out, her voice softer. “Does Rosie know?”

Isaac shook his head. “Not everything. Not yet. How the fuck am I supposed to tell her?”

And across the room—Greg was leading Rosie toward a side corridor.

Isaac’s chest constricted.

He didn’t like it.

He didn’t fucking like it.

He set his whiskey down on some high-top table and started moving.

“Isaac,” Amy called from behind him, heels clacking fast as she followed. “Isaac. Don’t.”

Shay and Chris were close behind her. “What the hell’s going on?” Shay asked. “Where’s he going?”

Chris clocked Isaac’s posture—his shoulders, the angle of his neck—and swore under his breath. “Shit. He’s gonna start a scene.”

“I’m not starting anything,” Isaac snapped, not looking back. “I’m ending it.”

“Isaac,” Amy said again, panting now, trying to keep up. “It’s a business conversation. That’s it. Greg’s the money. He’s brought collectors tonight. You can’t—”

But Isaac wasn’t listening.

Because Greg was already guiding Rosie down a side hall off the main gallery. Away from the noise. The lights. The people.

Private.

Closed.

The kind of move Isaac had seen a hundred times before.

And this time, his vision went red.

Rosie didn’t look uncomfortable—but that didn’t mean shit. She was the kind of woman who’d smile with a knife in her gut just to make sure nobody else felt awkward.

He followed, footsteps pounding heavier, faster.

Amy hissed, “Isaac, for God’s sake—”

But he was already turning the corner.

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