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is my business. You left because of them. For six months I’ve worried about you. Those marks can't be good, Ocean. And you know that, too. Your skin was marred with three when I last saw you. How many now?”
    Damn him for asking. Damn him for caring.
    My heart thudded sporadically. “I want a shower. We'll discuss this later.” Over my dead body.
    Maurice sighed, watching me, then added, “Those marks are not to be ignored. I've said my piece so I won't bring it up again, but you must listen to your body. You must be careful not to morph into the monsters you hate. Promise me you will end this soon.” He sighed again. “I've kept my word. I've found one of the men responsible for your ruined youth. What you do about it is up to you.”
    I knew what I wanted to do. Kill Adrian Mathieu. Slowly.
    So much effort; so much struggle. My shoulders fell. A tickle of tears made me afraid. Why was it so hard to keep it together when I was around Maurice? Why did my weaknesses find me here?
    Maurice shuffled forward, hugging me with his tiny frame. I towered over him. He'd shrunk since the last time I was here. “Think no more on it. Take a shower. Rest. Tomorrow we’ll work on positive things. Things you have neglected.”
    A smile brightened my face. Yes. I liked the sound of that. I loved working for Maurice. I loved the goodness I helped put into the world. “Will you test my French as well? I’m a little rusty.” A memory of Callan Bliss’s shock when I slipped in the sushi restaurant made me scowl. I wasn’t lying when I said I could speak multiple languages.
    “Oui.” He grinned. “And we can run through your Mandarin too, if you like.”
    I hugged him again. “You’re the best. Tomorrow, then.”
     

Chapter Five: Callan

    T he sea was temperate and the sun blobbed on the horizon by the time I dragged my tired ass from the waves. Three hours I spent catching surges of water, three hours to try and get that damn woman out of my head. It didn't work, and now, as I squelched my way up the beach and across the road with my surfboard under my arm, I was grumpy and hungry rather than relaxed.
    Surfing never failed to put me in a better mood. My eyes could've been witness to any number of horrible things, and I’d find peace and serenity in the sea.
    But no. It didn't bloody happen this time.
    I unleashed my surfboard from my ankle and punched in the password to enter my apartment building. It wasn't far from the beach and I was still dripping wet as I climbed the tiled communal staircase. My soggy feet left behind droplets of sea and sand.
    In one flat below mine lived a bunch of backpacking girls. The apartment was only one bedroom, and yet five of them crashed there. A few were hot. Very confident in their bodies, not afraid to sun bake topless—which I approved of—or wear little G-string bikini's, which I also approved of. But when they started playing soccer—practically naked—that I couldn't approve of. Some activities should be left to clothes and the imagination.
    As I walked past their door, it swung open.
     “Callaaaaan.” Bridget's Brazilian accent was strong. I had no clue if that was her real name. She wore a tight one-piece dress and a ton of jewelry. She'd sink if she went swimming. Her black hair was sprayed within an inch of its life, ready for a night out. “You want to come with us, sexy-surfer boy?” She leaned against the door jamb.
    I wasn't a player, but I wasn't one to turn down a pretty woman and the invitation of some dancing and fun. But not tonight. Tonight I had work to do. And I was sick to admit that work had a lot to do with Ocean Breeze. Idiotic, obsessive brain.
    “Naw, you ladies go on ahead. I'm swamped this evening.” I beamed a smile. “Sorry.”
    “Aww, Callan. You promise us next time you come.”
    Her broken English was kinda cute. Perhaps I should go. I was a sucker for exotic women, but black eyes as dark as space haunted me. Ocean, in her crazy get up of