10. Greg

Iburst into my apartment, which is less like a bachelor pad and more like a conspiracy theorists' basement. The fading light casts shadows across the room, highlighting its sparse, functional decor. Dropping onto the couch that despite the action it got a few weeks ago, has really seen better days, I fish my work laptop from underneath. The fabric's threadbare patches remind me of too many long nights spent searching, not relaxing.

"I'm fucked," I say to no one in particular. Note to self: When your date matches the description of a fugitive, maybe don't offer to buy her lunch. Hell, I shouldn't have gotten into the water with her, let alone ask her to dinner.

But Sam... she's unlike anyone I've encountered. In a few chance encounters my priorities have been completely rearranged. Reserved at first glance, but once she opens up, there's a fiery passion in her hazel eyes that seems to challenge me, promising a whirlwind. Her love for surfing and the way she speaks of Costa Rica—it's almost poetic. I could listen to her talk forever about either topic and never tire of the sound of her voice.

I find myself cataloging every detail about her—the way her laugh fills the room, the smile she gives me that seems to see right through me, the constellation of freckles across her skin. I'm way over my head with this woman.

Sitting at the taco stand, I'd hoped to find reasons to cross her off my list of suspects. Instead, every new piece of information seemed to align her more closely with my case.

As I open the file on my desktop, the screen casts a glow on my face, mixing curiosity with a hint of dread. The file details Elaine Samantha Archibald Williams, wanted for murder. Age 19 when she disappeared, she'd be 27 now. Staring at the photograph, I freeze. Those eyes... they're the same ones I've lost myself in, not just in my apartment but while surfing, sharing longing glances in the ocean, and over our plates at lunch. Just thinking about that moment sends a shiver through my body.

But the similarities are too stark to ignore. My briefing suggested she'd likely be working in a surf shop somewhere in Central America. After months of searching, the realization hit me hard—I might have actually found her.

What am I supposed to do now? Protocol dictates I call it in, setting in motion a chain of events that would lead to her arrest and extradition. I slam the laptop shut, overwhelmed by my pounding heart. Running my hands through my hair, I'm torn. The connection I feel with Sam goes beyond anything I've experienced—on the outside, it's like oil and vinegar, never mixing.

She's a surf bum, and I'm an FBI agent. It's like the world's worst bedtime story: The Hippie and the Man.

But when we're together, everything blends together to create a delightful concoction. It's like adding the ideal dressing to the salad of life, resulting in a fresh and exciting flavor.

Salad of life? Jesus, I'm hard up for this potential murderer.

But watching her surf, moving with such grace and power, she seemed less like a person and more like a force of nature, an extension of the water. A little dolphin or sea lion. A mermaid? I find myself laughing at the cheesy turn my thoughts have taken.

All of it is a lie. A small voice whispers to me in my own mind. Sam might be—probably is—my suspect.

But no, I can't be certain it's her.

Shaking my head, I stand up and walk to the kitchen. I grab a beer from the minifridge—another great addition to my sickass apartment—twist off the cap, and take a sip. My gaze drifts to the wall as I ponder my next steps.

And I got bupkis.

A smile finds its way to my lips. Okay, so, I may not know exactly what to do, but I'm sure of one thing: more time with Sam is non-negotiable. And thankfully, dinner with her is already on the books for later.

Until I have undeniable proof, I won't mess this up with Sam. And when I do have the evidence? Well, that's a problem for future Greg; he seems much smarter than me anyway.