The beach goes quiet except for small waves and the soft hiss of warm surf. Elena steps back behind the rock and comes out in a simple bikini, the morning’s tension gone from her shoulders.

Murderbone trots the waterline, ears perked, tail giving a loose, happy swing. Dallas waits with the folder tucked under one arm, the boardwalk and its bad timing already feeling far away.

Elena smiles, reaches for the mask and fins, and checks the strap with practiced hands. She glances toward the water, then back at Dallas, relaxed but still sharp.

Dallas and Elena head into the shallows together, the turquoise water flashing around their knees. Murderbone stays where the sand meets the sea, watching them with bright, patient eyes as the surface ripples ahead.

Dallas flips the folder back open and slows at a thin line of ink along the inside seam. Someone has added a second route stamp after the first, almost hidden under the crease.

He slides a fingertip beneath the clipped page and finds a beachside meeting card tucked into the pocket, the same district address from before, but with a handwritten note: no public desk.

Elena leans in over Dallas’s shoulder, her fins dangling, eyes narrowing as she spots a clerk’s signature on the route slip matching the one from the ledger sleeve.

Dallas closes the folder halfway. Beyond the sand, the Harbor Unit sedan sits with its door still hanging open, and a man in a dark shirt is now standing beside it, watching the beach too carefully.

Dallas folds the paperwork down, slips it into his bag, and leaves the sand behind with the same calm he brings to a doorway.

The man by the sedan straightens when Dallas approaches, one hand still on the half-closed door, his attention narrowing as the detective closes the distance.

Murderbone stays at the shoreline, weight forward, tracking the man and the car without leaving his post.

The beach stays bright and open around them, but the sedan, the card, and the man’s careful voice turn the morning into a private appointment with Harbor Unit reach.

He eases the half-closed door shut another inch, the urgency draining from his shoulders like he has heard a deadline he cannot argue with.

Murderbone’s ears stay up, but his stance loosens at the shoreline as the sedan stops feeling like a threat and starts feeling like an annoyance.

He holds the envelope out without stepping closer, waiting for Dallas to take the message or let it hang in the morning air.

The beach light settles back over them, but the envelope remains in the man’s hand, and Dallas has to decide whether to accept the reminder now or leave it unopened.