Page 168 of Surfer's Paradise

He didn’t care what it cost him.

He buried his nose in her hair, breathing her in. His stomach still felt sick. His eyes stung, dry and irritated. Pressure was building at the front of his face. For the first time in God knows how long, he felt the heat of tears pooling in his eyes.

He was thinking. Reflecting. Maybe even starting to drift into sleep and dream.

One night when they were kids—she’d been maybe seven, crying outside his house at midnight after her parents had some screaming fight—he’d given her his hoodie, told her she could sleep over if his mom said it was okay, and walked her home at dawn the next morning before anyone noticed. They’d only lived a street away at the time—before foster homes came into the picture.

He hadn’t realized it then, but that night had changed him. This one would too. He just didn’t know how to tell her yet that henow knew things she never told him. The depths of the abuse she took. The horrors of her childhood.

He didn’t know how to say: I should’ve saved you sooner.

So instead, he kissed her temple. Pulled her close.

And promised himself again—

This time, I won’t fuck it up.

Not one more goddamn second.

* * * * *

It started like most of his bad dreams did—quiet.

Too quiet.

The kind of silence that didn’t belong. The kind that hummed just under the skin.

Then came the shadows—stretched too long, the edges of the dream smeared and warped like something rotting at the seams.

He was in a warehouse. He knew this warehouse. Cold cement floor. Dim, stuttering lights overhead. A rusted pipe dripping somewhere behind him.

He was tied to a chair.

Again.

His wrists burned against the zip ties. His ribs ached—old pain, familiar pain—but none of it compared to what was in front of him.

Rosie.

She was on the floor.

Not Isabel this time. Not the mission.

Rosie.

And she was crying.

No—screaming.

Her voice was hoarse, panicked, shattering.

She was crawling backward, bruised knees scraping concrete, trying to escape the figure advancing on her. A man. A shadow. No face. Just presence—looming, heavy, wrong. The same way Diaz had looked at Isabel, all those months ago. The same way that monster had touched her.

But this wasn’t the same.

This was worse.

Because this was Rosie.

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