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Elin sprints across the beach, fine spits of rain hitting her full in the face. Blinking them away, she stops just before the overhang, gasping for breath. Here, the cliff face has been carved away, striated with deep grooves, to form a natural lip. Just in front, blood marks the sand, little wells of red, then a messy arc of spray and spatter.

Her eyes catch the furrows of sand behind, blurred echoes of footprints.

The blood is pounding out in her ears as she assesses; Farrah was attacked here, then dragged under the overhang.

Stepping forward, Elin ducks her head—a semicrouch until she’s under the rocky lip.

The first thing to hit her is the smell—not just the saline dampness, the mustiness of undisturbed sand, but the metallic tang of blood.

Strong enough to overpower all the other odors.

The small space is throbbing with a blisteringly violent energy, a siren call telling her: Something terrible has happened here.

A rolling wave of nausea hits, but Elin forces herself to look at Farrah: fair hair, bloodstained creases of her white shirt.

Desperate, she looks for any movement, any signs of life. Despite the blood and the body’s position, Elin is still holding on to a thread of hope that Farrah might still be alive.

She circles the body until she can see her face.

It’s not Farrah.