Page 62 of Death of a Grill Master

Hayley crouched behind a boulder, pressing herself into the shadow, her heart hammering like a bass drum.

The figure moved with deliberate care, peeling off his gloves, exhaling loudly through the regulator. Hayley crouched, trying not to breathe, but her foot slipped on a slick patch of rock and dislodged a pebble, which clattered across the stone floor.

The diver stopped.

He turned toward the sound, head tilted.

Hayley pressed herself flat against the rock, trying to disappear.

She could hear his breathing now, the slow in-and-out hiss of oxygen.

The sound grew louder.

Closer.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

Don’t move.

The footsteps stopped inches away. She could see the rubber edge of a fin.

Then, mercifully, a distraction—something small and skittering across the cave floor. A crab, maybe.

The diver turned, stared at it for a moment, then slowly retreated.

Hayley stayed frozen for a full minute after the splash.

Only when she was sure he was gone did she stand, trembling, pocket the waterproof phone case she had found, and carefully make her way out of the secret sea cave.

She climbed back into the kayak and pushed off.

The ocean felt wider now. Darker. She was far from shore, muscles aching, salt in her eyes.

She paddled slowly, each stroke harder than the last.

She wasn’t sure she had the strength to make it back.

But she knew she had to try.

Chapter 22

Hayley gritted her teeth and dug her paddle into the waves, breath ragged as she powered the kayak forward. The entrance to the sea cave shrank behind her, swallowed by shadows as she fought her way out into open water. The adrenaline that had propelled her out of hiding was ebbing fast, leaving behind a buzz of nerves and the sticky fear of what she’d just narrowly avoided.

Don’t think about the diver.

Just focus on getting back.

The waves had grown more unruly in her absence. Swells slapped the hull of the kayak and sprayed her with cold salt water. She shifted her weight and paddled harder, aiming toward the distant line of trees along the cliff where she’d launched.

Then the kayak shifted slightly—not sharply, not dangerously, but enough for her to sense something was off. She frowned, adjusted her balance, then glanced behind her.

The anchor line.

It wasn’t trailing in the water.

She leaned closer. The end near the stern was cleanly severed—no fray, no tearing, just a smooth slice.

Her breath caught.