The Tuesday Drownings
‘Dark, propulsive, and
unnervingly plausible’
unnervingly plausible’
Along California’s coast, women are disappearing. No remains. No witnesses.
FBI agent Claire Harper is assigned to a trafficking task force. But when eleven cases don’t fit the pattern, she starts to suspect the unthinkable: someone is hunting women in the water.
Her only lead: an anonymous freediver captured in drone footage. Her superiors want results. Her team has doubts. And time is running out.
As more women vanish without evidence or explanation, Claire must risk everything to outwit a killer who is exploiting a terrifying loophole in the natural world.
But the ocean is a dangerous place.
“Some things the ocean gives back.
Some, it keeps.
And some—
It never admits were there at all.”
1
The coastline. So ordinary.
It stretched in a pale crescent beneath a gray sky, its edges fading into fog. Coastal scrub and tufts of beach grass dotted the dunes, swaying faintly in the onshore breeze. On either side, rugged cliffs rose sharply, their weathered faces streaked with dark stone. The ocean lay flat and muted, the waves creeping up the shore and retreating sluggishly, as if the tide itself had grown weary.
Farther down, a fisherman cast his line, the faint whistle of his reel cutting through the dense quiet. An abandoned lifeguard tower loomed close by, beige paint flaking in the salt air. The faded number on its side was barely visible. Near the tide line, a shearwater pecked at the scattered remains of an old bonfire, its pink bill tapping at a crushed Budweiser can.
The scent of brine and seaweed hung in the air. Clumps of kelp stank like old eggs and bile.
Beyond the shallows, the ocean’s sandy floor gave way to a steep drop—a jagged line dividing the visible world from the abyss. The water darkened there, fading from dull green to black. An endless void that looked empty of life. A few determined souls lingered—dark swim caps, arms flashing above the water—their movements solitary and routine. All blissfully unaware of whatever the deep concealed.
Near the water’s edge, a young woman sat cross-legged on a faded towel, strands of her hair catching in the wind. She scrolled through her watch, maroon-painted nails flicking across the screen. She closed her eyes as a low gong played softly through her headphones, and drew a deep breath, her body sinking into the sound.
For a few minutes, she sat still, the weight of the evening melting away. When her eyes opened again, they carried a calm focus. She brushed stray grains of sand from her legs before standing, stretching to shake off any stiffness.
She adjusted the zipper of her wetsuit as she walked toward the water, the cool sand shifting beneath her feet. The shoreline greeted her with a gentle wave that lapped at her ankles. She paused, digging her toes into the wet sand to savor the sensation. Then, with a deep inhale, she stepped forward, the water swirling around her calves, her knees, her waist.
She hesitated briefly, standing in the shallows, her arms floating at her sides. Finally, she leaned back and surrendered, her body slipping into the water, floating effortlessly as it cradled her.
She drifted, arms spread wide, fingers skimming the surface as the ocean rocked her gently. The rhythmic thrum of the gong pulsed softly in her ears, syncing with the languid motion of the water. For a time, she remained weightless, her breaths deep and unhurried. Her thoughts faded.
The buzz of her watch brought her back.
A name flashed on the display. With a sigh, she tapped the screen.
“Let me guess,” she said, bemusement softening her voice as it carried to her caller through the tiny microphone in her headphones. Her legs moved beneath her, treading water in a slow rhythm as she curled the water with her hands.
The response came quickly. She smirked, skimming her fingers over the water’s surface. “Mike?” “Sure because copy-paste is the hallmark of a true visionary.” Her tone was light, but there was a flicker of impatience underneath.
She let the caller’s words roll over her, exhaling a tight breath. “Alright but do we have to turn every conversation into a dumpster fire? Can we just, for once, not go full chaos?”
Her focus drifted toward another swimmer. Perhaps fifty feet. They sliced through the water with ease. The motion was hypnotic in its calm. For a moment, her eyes flicked back to the shore, to where her towel lay rumpled in the sand.
“Dave, come on. No, I’m serious—” She cut herself off with a short laugh, low and slightly uneasy. “Really? That’s what we’re going with? Great PR move, brilliant even.”
A distant movement tugged at her peripheral vision. She paused, eyes scanning the water. Nothing. Just the surface, dark and unbroken, stretching toward the horizon—towards two more swimmers further out. She adjusted her headphones and pressed on.
“Dave, fuck them. Listen. No, listen—”Her voice faltered as something nudged her side—a faint, almost imperceptible swell. She froze, her body tensing.
A sharper swell brushed her thigh—a bow wave. Her chest tightened, and she inhaled hard, legs tensing beneath her. Instinctively, she glanced down, the sunlit surface conceding to an impenetrable darkness beneath her. She hesitated, squinting.
The water surged around her.
A force struck her thighs from behind, swift and brutal, twisting her body as though it weighed nothing. Searing pain lanced through her hip, tearing the air from her lungs. She gasped, but the sound was swallowed by the sea. Saltwater flooded her mouth, metallic and stinging, burning her throat as her chest convulsed in a desperate, soundless plea for breath.
Her arms flailed, grasping blindly for something—anything—to stop her descent. The water yielded nothing in return. Her legs jerked and twisted, desperate to break free, but they were locked in an iron grip. A sickening pop jolted through her as her hip gave way, the joint wrenched from its socket. Nausea swept over her, the pain turning strange and surreal, as if her body were no longer her own.
Just above, the surface broke with a faint splash—a sleek, dark diver’s fin slicing cleanly through the water. The shape twisted once before vanishing again, leaving the sea eerily undisturbed.
Her vision blurred, the world shrinking into fragments of pain and encroaching darkness.
Her thoughts unraveled, slipping away—images of warmth, of sky, of faces.
The surface above had dulled to a smear of light, unreachable. Fading.
Her chest spasmed once more.
The world narrowed.
And somewhere beneath it all, something kept pulling.
Above, the beach remained untouched, serene and oblivious to the violence below. A cormorant cried out, its piercing call cutting through the heavy air. It swooped low over the waves, its wings skimming the water, before vanishing into the horizon.
2
Underwater, the world fell away, the distant rumble of movement above fading into a soft pressure against her ears. She broke the surface with a sharp exhale, the sound cutting through the patter of rain on the pool’s surface.
The buzz of her phone bled into the noise. It came from the deck, where her towel lay crumpled beside a half-open gym bag, the gold shine of her FBI badge catching the evening light. She took a few more strokes, her arms cutting cleanly through the water.
Reaching the edge, she gripped the cold tiles, resting her forehead briefly on her crossed arms. Her pulse slowed, but the tension in her shoulders lingered. Her swim cap, once emblazoned with the bold red of Stanford, was now faded, the logo barely visible.
The buzz came again. She hauled herself out in one smooth motion, water streaming from her body as the cool air bit at her. Pulling off the cap and goggles, she tossed them toward her towel and crouched by the bag to grab the phone.
“Claire Harper,” she said, her voice clipped.
As the voice on the other end spoke, she absently checked the watch on the inside of her wrist. Her brow furrowed slightly, the only sign of tension.
“I’ll be there soon.”
She dropped the phone into the bag and slung it over her shoulder. Tying her damp hair into a ponytail, she cast a final glance at the shimmering water before turning and striding toward the exit.
3
The faint hiss of a ventilator echoed down the corridor, a constant reminder of lives teetering on the brink. Claire’s boots squeaked against the polished linoleum as she hurried. Overhead, flickering fluorescents cast harsh, uneven light, deepening the shadows that crept along the walls.
The air reeked of disinfectant, mingling with the stale aroma of long-forgotten coffee left to burn on some unseen pot. She hated it—not the smell itself, but the way it clung to everything. It lingered in the seams of curtains, the sterile folds of gowns, the hollowed-out silence of waiting rooms. It seeped into the walls, saturating the air like a presence that couldn’t be scrubbed away. It was inescapable, like death itself.
The nurse stood just inside the room as Claire approached. He turned, stepping halfway into the hallway, clipboard in hand. His expression was a careful mix of professionalism and warmth.
“Good to see you, Claire.”
“I came as soon as I could.”
The nurse nodded. “He’s showing signs of increased responsiveness. The new treatment’s starting to take.”
“But?” she asked, bracing for the weight of his answer.
“Small steps,” the nurse replied, raising his hands slightly to temper any expectations. “It’s enough to give us some hope. He’s trying.”
Claire’s posture stiffened almost imperceptibly, but she remained silent. The nurse hesitated, studying her for a moment. “You might find it helps to sit with him for a while. Sometimes...” He gestured gently toward the door. “Sometimes just being there makes a difference.”
Claire’s eyes flicked past him to the slightly ajar door. The ventilator’s even rhythm spilled into the hallway.
“Thanks,” she said quietly, moving toward the doorway.
“Claire,” the nurse said, more gently. “How are you holding up?”
She paused, fingers brushing the handle. “I’m managing.”
Then she pushed it open and entered the room.
Inside, her father lay motionless beneath the pale light, his pallor blending into the stark sheets. The sight knocked something loose in her chest.
The photograph on the bedside table caught her eye—a snapshot of her perched on his shoulders, laughing as his broad hands steadied her knees. She picked it up, turning it slightly in the dim light.
She remembered summers in Maine, the way the air smelled of brine and wildflowers when the breeze swept in from the coast. The days stretched endlessly, filled with the shrill calls of terns and the rhythmic crash of waves against the rocks. She’d ride her bike along gravel paths, her bare feet resting lightly on the pedals, and he’d follow behind in the old Chevy, always at a distance but close enough for her to hear the low rumble of the engine.
She remembered stopping at the roadside stand where they sold lobsters from battered coolers. He’d let her pick the biggest one, joking that it would probably drag her off the dock if it got the chance. Later, they’d sit on the porch together, the wooden boards warm beneath their feet, cracking shells and laughing as butter dripped down their hands. He never said much, but she could tell he liked those moments—the quiet companionship of it all.
The photo trembled slightly in her hands, and she realized her grip had tightened. She set it back on the table with care, angling it toward the bed.
She settled into the chair beside him, her posture tense, her hands clasped in her lap. The faint rise and fall of his chest—the only sign of life—pulled her focus back to him. She studied his features, searching for familiarity, but they felt like fragments she couldn’t quite piece together.
The minutes stretched thin, measured by the ventilator’s slow rise and fall. Finally, she stood and slipped into the adjoining bathroom, locking the door behind her.
She gripped the edge of the sink, her fingers pressing hard into the cold porcelain. Her reflection stared back, stark and unsparing. Her breaths came shallow and uneven. For a moment, she just stood there, frozen, her jaw clenched, her eyes fixed on the mirror as if daring it to crack under the weight of her restraint.
The first shudder rolled through her body, subtle and silent. Then another, stronger, until she couldn’t hold it back any longer. She clawed at the fabric of her shirt, gripping it as if it might hold her together. Her knees hit the tiles as she sank to the floor. A gasp broke from her lips, followed by a guttural sound that wrenched itself free. Her hands pressed to her face, muffling the noise, but the weight of it wouldn’t be contained.
Time blurred. When the wave receded, it left her hollow, her breaths slow and ragged. She pulled herself upright, gripping the edge of the sink for balance, and turned the faucet, splashing cold water on her face until her reflection resembled something human again. She blinked once, then again—harder this time. The mirror fogged slightly. She watched the water spiral down the drain in a tight whirlpool, and something stirred within her—quiet, insistent, impossible to ignore.
She unlocked the bathroom door and stepped back into the room. Her eyes caught on the photograph by the bed—a smiling face, carefree and untouched by pain. But the sound of the ventilator pulled her back, grounding her in the present. Without looking again, she turned and walked out.
4
He stood at the tide’s edge, where waves broke against black sand.
The beach stretched into obscurity on either side, unmarked by footprints or signs of life. Mist clung to the air, heavy and cool. Over the crash of waves came the hollow clang of distant buoys. A single flip-flop lay tangled in a clump of kelp near the surf, its strap snapped clean through.
His breathing fell into a deliberate rhythm—deep inhales, slow exhales. Each breath expanded his formidable chest, the motion drawing attention to the sheer power in his frame. He was built for dominance, his size and strength a force of nature. This was no ordinary act of breathing; it was ritual, an act of preparation. His body was primed for the demands ahead.
He rolled his shoulders, releasing the stiffness of the night. A tilt of his neck followed, each breath drawing him closer to focus. Preparation was part of him, quiet and disciplined.
His gear lay neatly arranged on the sand. The weight belt hugged his waist, calibrated to the gram for perfect balance. Twin fins, dark and tapered, rested like blades beside the diving mask. There were no superfluous instruments—his instincts were honed to perfection, his precision innate.
A faint breeze stirred, barely noticeable against his skin. His gaze stayed fixed on the horizon, where a massive cargo ship glided along the waterline, its red lights blinking faintly through the haze.
For a moment, he closed his eyes. Each breath deepened, the rhythm drawing his focus tight, quieting stray thoughts. When his eyes opened again, they carried an unwavering clarity.
He stepped forward, wading into the surf. The water was cold against his skin, biting but familiar. He crouched, securing the fins to his feet, working like a craftsman setting his tools in place.
A wave swelled ahead, its crest shimmering in the pale light. He dipped beneath it, the water rushing over him with a muffled roar that faded as quickly as it came.
Beyond the breakers, the sandy bottom stretched beneath him, its ridges shifting gently in the current. But as he pressed farther, the seafloor sloped away, its features blurring into shadow.
Soon, the bottom disappeared entirely, swallowed by the steep drop-off he had chosen. Here, the water darkened to a deep, inscrutable green.
Finally, he stopped to tread water. Bowing his head, he filled his lungs to capacity, each breath stretching his ribcage to its limit. His heart rate slowed, his body responding instinctively to years of conditioning. The moment crystallized: no sound, no motion, just the metronome of controlled breathing.
At the edge of the drop-off, he bent at the waist, his upper body tilting forward as his legs followed, kicking once to drive him beneath the surface.
Above, the light warped into a pale, distorted blur. Below, the deep green thickened into total darkness. His fins propelled him in long, sweeping strokes, each movement perfect, his body streamlined. The water turned colder, its weight pressing against his skin.
He welcomed it.
Tiny adjustments in his sinuses balanced the growing pressure, the skill as instinctive as breathing itself. A soft exhale through his nose, the flex of his diaphragm, the careful tightening of his throat—all executed without breaking form. Such precision was deeply satisfying, the culmination of endless practice, even in the dead of night when others rested.
The surface above wavered and disappeared, its shimmer fading into nothing. He was descending now, fully immersed, leaving the world behind. In the expanding silence, he felt untouchable.
With each stroke of his fins, his descent quickened, gravity now guiding him deeper. At fifteen meters, the sea took hold of him completely. He stopped kicking. The effort to descend faded, replaced by a quiet surrender.
The pressure compressed his chest, his lungs reduced to a fraction of their usual volume. His ribcage groaned faintly under the weight, his diaphragm stretched taut. Yet he remained calm. The abyss demanded perfection, and he offered it willingly.
Forty meters. The temperature dropped sharply as he passed through unseen thermoclines, each layer an icy blade cutting through his wetsuit. The urge to breathe scratched at the edges of his mind.
Sixty meters. Another faint exhale sent tiny bubbles spiraling upward. This was a place the human body was never meant to endure. Blood shifted inward to protect his core, his heart slowed. Every sensation—every twinge of discomfort—was registered, then discarded.
Seventy meters. His diaphragm felt like a vice had clamped down, the muscles strained and trembling as if his body were folding in on itself. Each second carried the pressure deeper into his chest, compressing his lungs into a space that felt impossibly small. The ache wasn’t sudden but vast—an all-encompassing weight, growing heavier with every meter he’d left behind. It wasn’t pain so much as inevitability, as though his body were no longer his own, reshaped by the crushing force of the deep.
The cold gnawed at his ribs, creeping past the neoprene like icy fingers pressing against bone. Even his blood felt thick, sluggish as it retreated to his core. The silence pressed against him until the beat of his slowing heart became the only sound—a metronome of life teetering at the edge of extinction.
He tucked his knees slightly, somersaulting to reorient himself upward. Controlled strokes of his fins arrested his momentum, holding him in a perfect suspension against the pull of the deep. Gravity tugged at him, constant and unrelenting, but he balanced himself, poised like an arrow held on the string, ready for release. His legs hovered, ready to propel him upward, but for now, he remained still.
Then, something emerged. A fragment from another life.
A table of polished oak, its surface catching the warm glow of lamplight. He was seated among friends, their faces blurred and incomplete, as if seen through frosted glass. Laughter echoed around him, distant and hollow, its warmth muted, unable to reach him. Words came fractured, stuttering into place as though arriving too late to matter.
A hand reached for his shoulder—a gesture meant to connect—but it landed without any weight. His focus remained fixed on the table, where condensation pooled around a glass in uneven rings. Once, these faces had been vibrant. They had made him feel alive. Now, they were fading, slipping into the periphery like ghosts retreating to their crypts.
The memory was vivid yet maddeningly incomplete. An afterimage burned into his mind. He blinked hard, as if forcing it away, dragging his focus back to the darkness pressing in from all sides.
The memory dissolved, replaced by the familiar rhythm of his discipline. There could be no room for distraction, not here. The cold had settled deep into his bones, so profound it seemed indistinguishable from death itself. Slowly, he extended his fingers, brushing the unseen void as if reaching for the abyss.
He lingered, counting silently. One... two... ten... Each second stretched endlessly, a testament to his command over the depths. The ocean demanded respect, and he gave it, but in return, he demanded certainty and dominance. Nothing less.
It was time.
He began his ascent—not as a retreat, but a deliberate return. His legs engaged, muscles coiling before releasing in smooth, powerful strokes. There was no urgency in his movement, each kick calibrated to conserve energy and maintain the balance between effort and efficiency.
As he rose, the pressure on his chest eased incrementally. Meter by meter, the cold began to ebb, replaced by a faint warmth creeping down from the world above. His lungs began to ache, the primal need for air clawing at his focus, but he quelled it.
He visualized the surface—a mental beacon—but refused to let his mind rush ahead. Survival demanded the present. Panic would steal his oxygen reserves in an instant.
The water seemed to resist him, as if resenting his return. He narrowed his focus to the pull of his muscles. His perfect technique. Doubt flickered briefly in the back of his mind—a voice questioning whether he’d made a mistake, gone too far.
Thirty meters to go. A faint shimmer of light emerged above, fragile and pale, refracted through layers of water. His diaphragm spasmed violently, his lungs seizing in protest, but he greeted the pain like an old adversary. It clawed at him, but he refused to yield.
At fifteen meters, his buoyancy shifted again, the water pushing him upward with subtle insistence. The pressure on his ears eased, though he barely registered the relief, his mind fixed on the remaining ascent.
His lungs burned fiercely now, as though every fiber of his chest were collapsing inward. The need for air gnawed at his resolve, all-consuming. His body trembled, the strain rippling through his limbs in sudden, involuntary shudders.
The surface remained distant, unreachable, yet its presence grew clearer with each kick.
Five meters. The ache in his chest reached its crescendo, his diaphragm convulsing in one last, desperate bid for air. His kicks slowed, the rhythm of his ascent a fragile balance between control and exhaustion. The light above brightened, piercing through the gloom, its intensity growing with each passing moment.
2 minutes 43 seconds.
He broke the surface, and the world roared back to life. The light scattered brilliantly across the water, and sound rushed into his ears—the hiss of waves, the distant cries of gulls, his own breath. The air filled his lungs in a controlled surge as his body moved instinctively into recovery. Two quick breaths, then slow, deliberate cycles to flush the carbon dioxide from his system. Each breath felt like a victory, an affirmation of survival.
He rolled onto his back, letting the ocean cradle him. The sky above was a bleak expanse of gray, the clouds low and oppressive. The sunlight barely penetrated the overcast sky, casting a cold, diffuse glow over the waves. He blinked against the light, letting his body relax as he floated.
For a moment, he simply lay there.
The water lapped gently at his ears, harmonizing with the faint rhythm of his heartbeat. Whatever memories had surfaced below were gone now, buried once more.
When he was ready, he rolled onto his stomach and began swimming toward the shore, the tension in his muscles easing with each stroke. As he reached the breakers, he let the waves carry him forward until his feet found the sandy shallows, grounding him once again. Bending to unstrap his fins, he slid them off in one fluid motion and started up the beach.
He stopped.
A low drone hummed through the mist—the faint murmur of an engine. Maybe music. Then came the slam of a car door, the sound cutting through the quiet. His head tilted slightly, his eyes locking on the direction of the noise. His muscles tensed, a quiet readiness rippling beneath his skin, instincts narrowing his focus, sharpening the moment.
Without hesitation, he turned back to the water.
Fins in hand, he crouched and slid them back on. Lowering himself into the shallows, he disappeared beneath the surface, vanishing like a predator retreating to its domain.
5
The office smelled faintly of old coffee and dust, a quiet testament to the hours spent chasing cases that never seemed to end. Claire stepped inside, her eyes sweeping over the stacks of paperwork crowding every surface. The desk was a disaster—files stacked high enough to defy gravity, yellow notepads covered in half-legible scrawl. A single affidavit lay abandoned, faint rings staining the paper where a mug had once rested.
And then there was the skull.
It sat on the shelf behind Donovan, slightly off-center, hollow-eyed and indifferent. A forensic relic from a cold case long forgotten—except by him.
Donovan sat slouched in his chair, tie loosened, sleeves pushed up, his palm resting against his coffee mug like the warmth might anchor him to the present. His face carried the deep lines of someone who had spent decades in the trenches of law enforcement. He didn’t look up as Claire entered, staring at the mug as though it were the only thing holding him together.
"You know what’s funny, Claire?" His voice was casual, almost conversational, but there was an edge to it—like a knife just waiting to turn. "I spend my life drowning in paperwork, jumping through bureaucratic hoops, sitting through meetings where we talk about process. Efficiency."
"And yet somehow, despite all that effort, we manage to waste more goddamn time than anyone else on the planet."
He finally looked at her, eyes flat, giving nothing away.
"We spend weeks—months—chasing ghosts. Sitting in vans outside strip clubs, listening to static on wiretaps, waiting for some two-bit scumbag to say something that matters. We run down leads that take us nowhere, dig up bodies we don’t recognize, find ourselves elbow-deep in the kind of shit you don’t scrape off easy."
A slow shake of the head.
"And for what? Nine times out of ten, we don’t catch the guy. We don’t stop the next one. Hell, sometimes, we don’t even solve the damn case."
He exhaled sharply, rubbing his jaw before flicking a hand toward the skull.
"That?" His tone turned dry. "That’s not just evidence, Claire. It’s a goddamn metaphor. A monument to all the dead ends, all the cases we couldn’t crack. Every time I see it, I think about how close we came. How close we always come."
His posture tensed—barely—but something moved behind his eyes.
"And you know what always gets in the way?"
He let the question hang for a second.
"Time. We either run out of it, or we piss it away."
Finally, he looked at her like she was the only thing in the room.
"We are this close to cracking this bastard." Donovan held up two fingers, barely an inch apart. "This close."
He jabbed a finger toward the wall behind her—a mess of taped-up maps, grainy surveillance stills, redacted printouts. In the center, a man’s face: clean-cut, unsmiling, caught mid-stride in a suit. Off to the right, a cluster of thumbtacked photos—all young women.
"Romanov is sitting on one of the biggest trafficking operations we’ve seen in a decade—and we’re finally in position to bring the whole thing down." He studied her like he was still making up his mind. "I don’t have time for detours, Claire. Five years running behavioral analysis, third in your class at Quantico, commendations in violent crimes. You worked the Monument Killer, for Christ’s sake. I brought you in to close gaps, not widen them."
"I've been working this for six weeks, Donovan. Six weeks of trying to prove these women fit Romanov’s pipeline, and I can’t. No ransom demands, no evidence they were smuggled, no ties to any of his known routes."
She angled a hand toward the photos without turning.
"And not one of them has turned up overseas."
Donovan didn’t move. Just watched her, stone still.
"That we know of."
Claire kept her focus pinned on him. "His victims don’t just vanish." She leaned in slightly, voice level but unrelenting. "They move through a system—buyers, transfers, a network. There’s always a trail, even if it’s buried. But these women?" She shook her head once. "Nothing."
Donovan didn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked to the wall where the missing women stared back at them in frozen time.
"And that’s proof of what, exactly? That they weren’t taken? That they weren’t trafficked?"
Claire didn’t hesitate.
"It’s proof that we’re missing something. And I’m not about to force these women into Romanov’s profile just because it’s the easy answer."
"Oh, come on, Donovan." She waved a hand toward the wall. "Twenty-something, educated, mostly blonde, fit, active… you tell me that fits a trafficking profile."
Donovan didn’t even flinch. His mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile, more like a flicker of dry amusement.
"And what exactly were you expecting?" He leaned back, pulling his hands apart in mock disbelief. "A bunch of grandmothers and meth heads?"
Claire didn’t take the bait.
"We received the last victim’s phone ping."
There was a pause. He studied her, waiting.
"Enlighten me."
Claire kept her eyes on him as she slid the file forward.
"She was a hundred meters offshore. On a business call when the line went dead," she added. "The person on the other end heard her talking—then nothing."
Silence.
She let it sit there, let him absorb it. Then—pressing forward—
"Not near a club. Not near a car. Not near an airport. Out in open water."
Donovan’s fingers tapped once against the desk, then stilled. He let his thumb trace the edge of the file, like he wasn’t sure it was worth the time. Then he opened it—just a glance at the top page—before looking up.
“So?” he shrugged, snapping the file shut.
"You ever consider she drowned?" he said, his tone casual, as if they were talking about an accident, a statistic—not a woman who had vanished without a trace. "Maybe she was out on a boat. Maybe she swam out and never made it back. People disappear in the ocean all the time."
Claire didn’t so much as blink.
"Then where’s her body?"
Donovan scratched the side of his neck, shaking his head.
"Currents. Riptides. Undertow. Sharks." He barely paused. "Take your pick."
Claire straightened slightly. Her reply came flat. Direct.
"Then which one was it?"
She didn’t give him a chance to deflect.
"Which way would the current have pulled her? How far out would she have drifted? Should she have resurfaced by now? Shouldn’t something have turned up?"
A flicker of irritation crossed Donovan’s face.
His hand hovered near the file for a moment, like he was considering opening it again, then changed his mind.
"You think I keep a tide chart in my back pocket?"
Claire ignored the sarcasm.
"That’s precisely my point." Her voice didn’t rise, didn’t waver. "I want to talk to someone who understands ocean movement. How a hundred and twenty-pound woman can vanish offshore without a trace. Someone who can tell me if this makes sense, or if it’s as impossible as it sounds."
"Jesus Christ, Claire. This is what you want to chase? Right now?" Donovan reached for his coffee, barely remembering to drink it before setting it back down, fingers drumming against the desk. "You think some ocean guy is gonna give us a smoking gun? You think I’m gonna greenlight this when we’re sitting on a trafficking case so big I could retire off the paperwork alone, and you’re out here asking me to chase… this?" He leaned forward, voice flat. "Do you hear how that sounds?"
"I hear how it sounds." Claire didn’t blink. “But if something doesn’t fit, we keep looking. Every single lead I’ve chased has led to nothing. No witnesses. No bodies. No ransom. No handoffs. If this were trafficking, we’d have found something by now. An oceanographer could give us something new."
Her eyes locked on Donovan, daring him to dismiss her point. The room felt taut, the space between them charged with the friction of their opposing priorities.
Donovan tipped back in his chair, the worn leather creaking under his weight. He rolled his thumb slowly against his index finger, a quiet motion that undercut his earlier intensity. His attention returned to Claire, the exhaustion in his expression tempered by a hard-edged resolve.
"Alright, Claire. You want to talk to an oceanographer? Fine. Follow up on it."
His hand lifted slightly, just enough to shift the balance back to him.
"But first—Romanov."
He leaned forward, elbows bracing against the desk, the gesture small but heavy with authority.
"You think these women aren’t connected to him?" His eyes held hers, unwavering. "Then give me a better answer. Until then, he’s our best shot."
Claire didn’t move, didn’t react. She knew better than to argue yet.
"You go in like you’re just another agent checking boxes. No threat. No profiler." His voice flattened. "Understood?"
She gave a single, tight nod.
Donovan’s stare didn’t waver.
“I need him to know we’re looking at him under the microscope. From every direction. If he’s been careful up until now, make him wonder if he’s been careful enough."
"Pressure test him," he continued. "Give him a new angle. If he's rattled, we’ll know."
Claire hesitated for half a second. "And if he's not?"
Donovan gave her a thin, humorless smile. "Then you’ll have wasted an afternoon on a yacht. I’ll send flowers."
The silence stretched.
Then, flat, final—"He's the key, whether you like it or not. Clear?"
"Understood."
Donovan’s posture loosened, like he was about to offer something close to camaraderie. But then his voice hardened.
“And you want to know why I keep that skull there? Because someone thought they had time. Someone thought they could get clever, look for an angle no one else had seen. And you know what they found?” He let it hang for a second. “Nothing. Not a goddamn thing.”
“You know what this is, Claire?” He continued, pinning her with a look that carried equal threat and fatigue. “This isn’t a motivational speech. It’s a warning. You think you’ve got time to find answers? You don’t. If you’re wrong—if this oceanographer lead doesn’t give me something solid—you’ll be sifting through cases no one cares about. And this department will bury these women just as effectively as whoever took them.”
Claire’s stomach twisted, but she didn’t let it show.
“Make it count,” Donovan said. He didn’t look up—just opened the next file. “Or don’t come back.”
Claire stood, her shoulders squaring as her expression settled into quiet determination. “I’ll loop Keller in,” she said. “He’s... onboard. At least in theory.”
Donovan’s lips twitched in a dry, humorless smile. “If Keller’s onboard, let’s hope he stays there.” His tone carried a faint bite, as he skimmed the page—more gesture than interest.
He nodded once, waving her off with a flick of his fingers. “Just don’t return empty-handed. I don’t have time for another skull on that shelf.”
Claire didn’t respond. She simply turned on her heel and headed for the door, the weight of the conversation pressing against her back.
As the door clicked shut behind her, Donovan brought the mug halfway up, then changed his mind. His eyes flicked once toward the skull on the shelf before he leaned back in his chair, the weariness of years settling over him like a heavy shroud.
6
The young woman pulled into the dusty lot, her tires kicking up a haze of grit that lingered in the still air. Her radio stopped as she turned off the ignition. She opened the creaky driver’s door, and stretched her tall frame as she got out. Only one other car occupied the space—a sleek, dark SUV. Its surface gleamed under the pale morning light, drawing her eye for a moment before she turned toward the beach below.
The beach was deserted, its black sand stark against the golden tones of more crowded shores. That was part of its pull—quieter, lonelier. A weathered beach access sign leaned at an awkward angle, its faded lettering warning of rip currents and sneaker waves. She’d passed it so many times it barely registered anymore.
She grabbed a granola bar and her thermos from the passenger seat, taking a sip of coffee before twisting the lid back on. The bitterness grounded her, cutting through the crisp salt air.
Pulling on her wetsuit had become second nature—a ritual as automatic as the swim itself. The granola bar hung from her lips as she zipped the suit up and slung her bag over one shoulder. She stepped onto the narrow path to the shore, the damp grit clinging to her heels—coarse, grounding. At the water’s edge, she finished the last bite of the granola bar, brushing crumbs from her hands as she looked to the horizon.
Beyond the breakers, the surface was calm, dappled with the soft shimmer of morning light. A lone swimmer moved in the distance, pacing the shoreline. She registered them briefly, squinting into the haze, then stepped forward.
The cold didn’t intimidate her—it invigorated her. She waded in without hesitation, the first icy touch against her skin sending a spark of focus through her limbs as the waves broke around her.
With each stroke, the shore slipped farther behind, her muscles stretching into the rhythm she chased every morning. Out here, it was just the ocean beneath her and the endless sky above—a solitude nothing else could match. Not pilates, not a massage, not even the warmth of her old retriever curled against her on a Sunday morning.
The water deepened gradually, the sandy bottom dissolving into shadow, then vanishing altogether. She paused to tread water, tilting her head back, savoring the quiet immensity. The horizon stretched unbroken, the water’s surface a mirror in the soft morning light. It was serene. Quiet. Sometimes, she would say, almost too quiet.
She breathed deeply, pulled her arms back into motion, and angled farther out toward the deep green. Reaching this point—where the bottom disappeared and the world felt infinite—was part of her ritual. Out here, she was untethered, unbound. But today, as she pushed forward, something shifted. A faint prickling unease slipped into her thoughts.
He wasn’t far behind.
From a glance, he could be any morning swimmer, gliding smoothly across the calm water. Yet every motion—every adjustment—was precise, calibrated to keep him perfectly in her periphery without raising alarm. He moved not as though following her, but as if drawn along the same invisible path.
She hadn’t gone far enough yet. Nor deep enough.
She paused again, treading water lightly as her breath quickened. As she looked around, the sense of isolation, usually so freeing, pressed down on her now, like a weight she hadn’t noticed before. She forced herself to focus. She wiped a hand across her face, tried to shake the creeping discomfort.
When she turned back, she saw him. Closer now.
Her strokes resumed, cutting against the water with a growing urgency. The shoreline felt impossibly far. The vastness below her stretched in every direction. Something about the distance between them—felt off.
Her pulse ticked faster, rising in her ears as her strokes quickened. She twisted to look over her shoulder again. He was there, his body slicing smoothly through the water, closing the gap.
“Hey!” she called out, her voice too loud, breaking the still air. She splashed a hand against the water, signaling him, hoping to dispel the growing tension.
He stopped.
His head tilted slightly, like he hadn’t quite heard her. His body floated easily, unthreatening, his posture neutral. But he didn’t move back. Didn’t turn toward the shore. He just... waited.
A chill spread through her chest. She turned toward the shore and swam harder, her breaths turning shallow, her muscles straining as she fought the sudden feeling of confinement. The endless water now felt close, suffocating.
And then, he moved.
She swam hard now, her breaths ragged, her lungs straining. The beach loomed distant but visible, a strip of safety she focused on with all her might. Her muscles burned, but she couldn’t slow down—not with him behind her.
She glanced back. He wasn’t there.
Her breath snagged in her throat, shallow and uneven. She twisted in place, her eyes darting between the waterline and horizon. Nothing.
He was gone.
The silence pressed in, broken only by the heavy thump in her ears. Her strokes faltered as she slowed, treading water, trying to make sense of it. Where did he go? Gone under?
A chill rippled through her body, not from the cold but from the creeping certainty of a conclusion her mind refused to fully accept.
It happened so fast.
He came from below, streaking through the water like a torpedo. At the last moment, he twisted, his chest rolling upward. If she’d looked down, she might have seen his face, blurred beneath the water—a glimpse of something terrifying and inhuman. But she faced the other way. His shoulder slammed into the back of her thighs with brutal force, crumpling her legs and driving the air from her lungs.
His arms locked around her knees, his body arching downward as he dragged her feet-first into the depths. Her head tipped back, her face turned to the distant, shimmering surface as his relentless momentum pulled her deeper.
Her body jolted violently as the water surged over her, the surface spinning into a blur above. She clawed at the water, arms flailing in desperation, but his strength was monstrous. Every frantic twist and kick met the unyielding force of his grip. She reached over her head, grasping for anything—his knees, his legs—but he moved with unstoppable power, propelling them both deeper into the dark.
The first instinct was to hold her breath, but panic had already stolen it. Water rushed into her mouth, cold and sharp, filling her throat as she tried to scream. Her lungs spasmed, rejecting the intrusion, her chest heaving in violent, futile attempts to draw air.
Her vision blurred, the edges darkening as she thrashed. She reached down to her legs and clawed at his arms, her nails raking across the smooth neoprene of his wetsuit, but the effort only seemed to drive him harder. His strokes were relentless, his grip ironclad.
The ocean swallowed her cries as they sank.
Her ears screamed with the pressure, the sensation sharp and unrelenting, as though needles were driving into her skull. The deeper they sank, the more it intensified, an unbearable force that felt like her head might collapse inward. She clawed at her ears in desperation, her hands trembling as they pressed against her head, but it was futile.
Her lungs were no longer hers. They seized and spasmed, the saltwater flooding them like fire. She coughed reflexively, but the motion only dragged more of the icy liquid inside, choking her further. The taste of salt and bile coated her throat, her body rebelling against the invasion even as her strength ebbed away.
Her mind flailed as wildly as her body had moments earlier, grasping for anything to hold onto—a thought, a plan, a chance—but nothing came. The water had taken her ability to reason, reducing her to pure, animalistic panic. Her legs twitched feebly against his crushing hold, the last vestiges of resistance slipping away like the surface above.
The cold was everywhere, wrapping her in its merciless embrace, numbing her skin and slowing her thoughts. Her arms drifted outward, her muscles too weak to hold them close anymore. The pain in her ears dulled, replaced by a crushing silence. Her lungs ached less now, but not because she was better—because her body was giving up.
The water was part of her now. Her heart thudded faintly, the sound barely audible against the thick, muffling embrace of the deep. Her eyelids fluttered, the light above reduced to a faint smear in her fading vision. Her thoughts became fragmented—snatches of home, of mundane moments she hadn’t realized she would miss until now. A warm bed. A morning coffee. None of it mattered.
Then, her gaze found him.
She didn’t want to look, but there he was. Right in front of her. She could make out the faint gleam of his mask, the way his features were flattened and warped by the water. His eyes met hers, unblinking, unfeeling. The weight of his stare cut through the dimming edges of her consciousness, filling her with a new kind of terror. There was no anger there, no malice—just control, premeditated and chilling. He was watching her die, and she knew it.
Her vision swam, but she refused to look away. Her stare, once panicked, now held something else: pleading, questioning, condemning. She wanted him to know—needed him to know—what he was doing, what he was taking from her. Her life. Her future. Everything.
With a final shudder, her body gave up. Her lips parted in a weak attempt to inhale, and the ocean filled her completely. Her eyes lost their focus, the last spark of life extinguished as she drifted into the silence.
The killer loosened his grip, letting her lifeless body begin its slow, involuntary descent. For a moment, he remained where he was, suspended in the depths. His body was still, no trace of her struggle left in him. Just the unshakable discipline that defined him.
He watched her drift downward, her arms limp, her hair floating in dark tendrils around her face. The faint light from above traced her silhouette, rendering her ghostlike against the surrounding green. She seemed almost peaceful now, her body no longer fighting against the inevitable.
He moved closer until he was inches from her face. He paused, his hand brushing her forehead in a chillingly gentle gesture. Then, with an eerie calm, he tilted his head and pressed his lips against her cool skin—a kiss, devoid of warmth or humanity. The end of his ritual.
Then, through the haze, she saw him—or rather, she had. It lingered in his mind: that last, damning moment of contact. He had felt the weight of her gaze even as her life ebbed away. It wasn’t terror, not entirely. It was something colder, sharper—a hatred so profound it almost reached him. Almost.
With a flick of his fins, he released her, severing the final connection. Her body began to drift downward, claimed by the relentless pull of the deep. The shadows reached for her, and slowly, methodically, the ocean took her in, until she was gone.
He remained, suspended in the cold, letting the silence envelop him. Exactly as planned.
But his lungs burned, a quiet reminder of his limits. With a practiced motion, he angled himself upward and began his ascent. The surface shimmered faintly above, its light faint but growing brighter with each kick.
When he surfaced, the air rushed into his lungs. His breathing steadied quickly, falling into the practiced rhythm of recovery. To anyone on the shore, he would have seemed like just another swimmer, blending into the calm expanse of water. But there was no one to see him, no one to notice. Nothing stirred—not even the wind.
He floated on his back for a moment as his heart rate slowed. Her struggles replayed in his mind, every detail sharpening the memory. Her absence barely registered. Instead, he lingered on the fleeting satisfaction of it all—her fear, her silence, her surrender. His control.
Turning lazily onto his stomach, he swam toward the shore.
By the time he reached the shallows, the sun had climbed higher, painting the waves with a muted glow. He stood, water streaming from his body, and stripped off his fins. He looked back over the horizon, then to the spot where she had disappeared. Nothing—no debris, no ripple, no trace of what had just unfolded.
He blocked one nostril and cleared his sinuses with a short blow, mucus vanishing into the foam—routine, like brushing sand from his calves.
At the water’s edge, he pulled off his dive hood, running his fingers along the neoprene’s edge. He paused, finding something wedged under a seam: a broken fingernail. He turned it over in his fingers, his expression flat, before flicking it into the surf.
The kill had been perfect. Clean. Mechanical. But still, that gnawing pull—persistent, like an itch beneath his skin.
As he straightened, he saw her belongings scattered in the sand: a thermos, a towel, a small tote bag half-tipped. The waves would scatter them soon—pulling some into the tide, leaving others strewn along the shore. Just more garbage, discarded by some careless fool. He didn’t linger.
At the parking lot, he worked unhurried. From under the wheel well, he retrieved the small combination lockbox, spinning in the code. The key fob sat inside.
He pressed a button, and the SUV unlocked with a quiet click.
In the trunk, a fresh towel hung from a hook, the wet gear disappearing into a sealed compartment. He pulled on a plain navy hoodie and track pants—unremarkable, anonymous.
Sliding into the driver’s seat, he exhaled, rubbing heat into his fingers before starting the engine. Warm air surged through the vents, slow at first, then stronger, easing the last of the cold from his limbs.
He unhooked the air freshener—barely used—from the mirror and dropped it into his lap.
Inside the glove box: a neat row of identical packets.
He tore one open and hooked it under the mirror, careful not to let it spin.
For a second, his reflection held him—something stirring at the back of his mind.
The driveway. The taillights fading into the dusk.
His other hand gripped the wheel tight as he forced the memory away.
His eyes caught briefly on the visor.
He started the car and rolled out of the lot.
Her vehicle sat untouched where she’d left it, windows dark, the morning chill sinking in.
Fifty feet down, he pulled up beside a crooked public trash can.
Got out. Popped the trunk. Retrieved a fogged Tupperware—sealed, faintly discoloured from within.
Dropped it in the bin.
The air freshener followed.
Beyond, the buoy clanged again, its mournful tone drifting through the heavy air.
He never looked back.
To most people, freediving is terrifying.
A voluntary descent into crushing depths—where humans were never meant to exist.
The Tuesday Drownings was born from a quiet obsession: what if that descent was in-voluntary?
I started to imagine what someone could do with the right skills and knowledge—if they wanted to make people vanish. I couldn’t let it go.
I trained with freedivers. Studied cold shock. Ocean currents. How scavengers behave. Then I let it get dark.
I hope it stays with you.
— Andy
