Becca sat perched on the hood of her car, sipping the worst cup of 7-Eleven coffee she’d ever tasted. Today the skies were a bluish gray, the beaches empty apart from the locals, and the hard-core surfers refusing to let a little bad weather ruin the quest for the perfect wave. She envied their freedom, longed for her own escape from this nightmare she was trapped in. Becca used to hate going to the beach, and then she met Ash. There was something magical about seeing this place through Ash’s eyes. Somehow Becca didn’t mind the endless traffic jams she had to sit through to get there, or the overpriced parking or jockeying for the best spot on the beach. It was all worth it seeing the sheer joy on Ash’s face as she launched herself into the waves over and over again, laughing as Freud barked and splashed alongside her.

Becca’s phone buzzed. A steady stream of texts from Christian poured in, saying that he was worried, that she needed to check in so he would know that she was okay.

Ignoring the pang of guilt, she switched off her phone and focused her attention on a middle-aged man in a wet suit, emerging from the water, a surfboard under his arm. She watched as he grabbed his things and jogged down the beach. Becca recognized Paul Wilson instantly. He was six feet tall, with a deep golden tan and a lean athlete’s body. His nose was a bit too large for his face and just slightly off center, which made him slightly less handsome, instead giving him an air of approachability. There was something guarded in his movements though, as if he were constantly analyzing any and all situations.

“Mr. Wilson? Paul Wilson?” she called out, rushing to catch up to him.

His eyes darted over, sizing up Becca. “I’m Paul,” he said, the mistrust etched in his defensive stance and clenched hands.

“My name is Dr. Becca Ortiz. I’m with the LAPD. I’d like to speak with you about Maureen.” Becca wasn’t here in an official capacity, but Paul didn’t need to know that.

Paul’s lips tightened, and he scanned the area as though someone were watching them. “How did you find me here? Who told you I was here?” he snapped.

“Your neighbor at the trailer park,” Becca said.

“I’ve told that nosy woman to mind her goddamn business,” Paul said, shaking his head angrily. He turned away, his pace quickening as he hurried away from Becca, heading back toward the trailer park he now called home. Most people didn’t even know there were trailer parks in Malibu though this wasn’t your typical trailer park. It was designed for maximum visibility and eye-pleasing aesthetics. With some of the trailers priced at over a million dollars, The New York Times once called it “America’s most glamorous trailer park.”