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A hive of activity surrounds the water sports shack as Elin approaches; staff and guests milling around a half-empty rack of paddleboards.

Steed stands next to Farrah, off to the side, sweat already glistening on his forehead.

Farrah gestures in front of her. “Tom, whom you met before, is probably the best person to speak to about a boat. He’s just finishing up with some guests.”

Tom is striding up the beach, bookended by two guests, a paddleboard under each arm. Thick stripes of zinc stick mark his face, warrior-style. His blue rash guard is speckled with salt stains, the material stretched thin against the hard musculature of his body.

“So you’ve spoken to the Control Room?” Steed says quietly.

“Yep. They’ve created another incident log.”

“Thoughts?” His feet sink in the soft sand, spilling over his shoes.

“Interesting timing, but not much more to go on. Sounds like he was upset after the wedding got canned.”

Steed looks at her uneasily. They watch in silence as Tom reaches them, hauls the boards up onto the rack. After murmuring something to the guests, he turns. “Farrah said you wanted to go and take a look at the bag we spotted?”

Elin nods. “How far is it from here?”

Tom screws up his face. Fine creases appear in the zinc across his nose. “Minutes by boat, but obviously longer to swim. Fifteen minutes or so.” He pauses. “You want to go now?”

“If we can. We probably need dive equipment, just in case.”

The implication of her request is clearly not lost on him. As he starts issuing instructions to one of his colleagues, he visibly swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing jerkily in his throat.

—

The RIB slices cleanly through the water. The surface is as still as glass, a perfect mirror of the cliffs above.

It’s a few yards before the seabed starts to drop sharply away beneath them. Elin can’t take her eyes off it, the shell-studded sand on the bottom visible even at this depth.

The underwater landscape evolves as they pass the cliffs. Huge boulders lie just below the surface, hulking masses bookended by pendulous ropes of seaweed pushing up through the cracks, swaying in the current.

Elin notices Tom’s furrowed brow as he turns the RIB slightly, so they’re a little farther out to sea. “Are we far?”

“No, nearly there.” Only a few minutes later, he kills the engine, loudly exhaling. “Here we go.” He points. “The guys gave good directions.”

Moving to the edge of the boat, Elin peers down. A bag, only the top end visible, bobbing out of the water. It’s waterproof, similar to the one she uses for kayaking.

“It’s caught on something.” Steed cranes his neck. “A rock from the looks of it.”

Elin’s about to move closer when she notices something a few yards away, on the left-hand side of the boat.

A dark shape protruding above the surface of a rock. Pulse picking up, she absorbs the curves, the material. Part of a flipper?

“What is that?” she says, but Tom’s already leaning over the side of the boat, staring into the water.

“Christ,” he gabbles. “I—” But no other words emerge.

With a horrible sense of trepidation, Elin gazes down.

The flipper she’d glimpsed is attached to a body in full diving gear.

“Look at the angle,” Steed murmurs. “Doesn’t look right.”

It’s true: the body is at a strange angle—on its side—somehow wedged between the rocks, lower arm and leg pushed into the gap, rig balanced on top of the rock.

“Does it look like LUMEN gear?” Elin asks.

“Yes.” Tom’s voice pitches higher.

Silently, she grapples with her thoughts. Though there’s little chance the diver is still alive, there’s no time to wait for medics.

“Tom, can you go in, check on them?”

He gives his head a little shake, as if trying to rid himself of the excess emotion. “Of course.” With trembling hands, he reaches for his rig, straps it on. Diving backward off the boat with a practiced ease, he hits the water with minimal splash.

As they watch him descend, Elin holds her breath, clinging to a small piece of hope that somehow, through some miracle, the diver—perhaps trapped—has had enough oxygen to wait it out.

Tom resurfaces a few minutes later and clambers back into the boat. She anxiously waits as he rips off his mask and removes his respirator.

“He’s dead,” he says, his expression grim. “I managed to get my fingers into the hood to get a pulse, but honestly, you can tell it’s been a little while. I think—” He’s almost choking on his words, breath pulling in and out in short, sucky gasps.

“What is it?” Steed urges.

Tom’s hands are trembling as he takes off his rig. “The guy down there, I’m not sure it’s who you’re looking for. I took a photo.” His hand is still shaking around the phone and as he passes it to Elin their hands collide. The phone jumps from his hand, hitting the bottom of the boat with a loud clash. Crouching, he picks it up, passes it to her.

The screen is blurry with moisture, and Elin wipes it with the bottom of her shirt. As the image resolves, her heart quickens.

Tom’s right.