Page 119 of Death of a Grill Master

“Oh, I think they will,” he said. “You’ve already admitted to poking around. You’re reckless. You trespass, you confront people alone. I’ll tell them you were investigating that sea cave again—against everyone’s advice. You slipped. Sank. Rookie mistake.”

He held the knife at his side. “You’re not special, Hayley. Just another cautionary tale.”

Hayley took one small step back, her foot bumping something solid behind her—the fiberglass model of a humpback whale calf that had been part of an outreach display. It was bolted to a rolling stand, waist-high, life-sized, its wide, rubbery flippers spread.

She was out of options.

“I won’t be your next victim,” she whispered.

His expression hardened.

Then he lunged.

Hayley grabbed the whale with both hands and shoved it forward—hard. It hit Baird square in the chest, knocking the wind out of him with a gasp and sending him stumbling back into a metal stool, which clattered and fell.

She didn’t wait.

She ran.

Bolted out of the lab, heart in her throat, shoes pounding against the tile floor. Her breath came fast, sharp. She didn’t know where she was going—just away from the man who had just detailed, without remorse, how he had drowned Tina and planned to do the same to her.

She tore down the corridor past the specimen prep room, past the offices with their lights off and blinds drawn, the marine lab stretching out like a haunted maze. Glass tanks lined the walls in places—some filled with murky water, some dark and seemingly empty. One held a limp sea cucumber that jiggled slightly as she sprinted past it.

Behind her, she heard him curse.

Then the footsteps.

He’s coming.

He’s fast.

She pushed through a swinging door and stumbled into a room she didn’t recognize. Dim light filtered in from a red overhead bulb—probably something to do with preserving circadian rhythms in fish, though she couldn’t recall why she knew that.

Rows of aquariums lined the walls, bubbling softly, full of movement. Fish swam lazily through reeds and artificial coral, indifferent to the human panic in the room.

She ducked behind one of the larger tanks, heart pounding, lungs aching.

As she crouched there, trying to quiet her breathing, she turned her head—and came face-to-face with a puffer fish.

It had drifted silently to the edge of the glass, staring at her with its giant, unblinking eyes and pursed little mouth. It looked both judgmental and deeply unimpressed.

Hayley clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp.

“Well, you’re not helping,” she mouthed.

Somewhere outside the room, the footsteps grew louder.

Then paused.

Her ears strained, every nerve tuned like piano wire.

The handle turned.

She flattened herself beside the tank, hiding between it and a metal cart stacked with sample jars and tubing. The door creaked open.

She could hear his breathing now. Slow. Controlled. Like a diver before a descent.

“Hayley,” he called out, singsong. “You’re only making this worse.”