Free Bad Blood: Latter-Day Olympians by Lucienne Diver

that was a matter of perspective. Out here keeping it real was just an expression, no more comprehended than “right as rain” or “sick as a dog”.
    On this beautiful April day people and street performers—fire-eaters, roller-blading musicians and stand-up philosophers—milled around on the boardwalk a quarter mile away. Farther still rose the scenic Santa Monica Mountains. Lovers might stroll at sunrise or sunset. But for now, I had the beach all to myself. Just the way I liked it.
    I didn’t know what I expected to find, nigh on a month after filming wrapped, but it almost didn’t matter. The sun was shining, as it did three-hundred-plus days of the year. The breeze was blowing. My slingbacks knocked against each other as I held them, allowing my toes to curl into the deliciously chill sand. Life was good.
    Murder? It was the farthest thing from my mind.
    That was the kind of effect the ocean had on me, when I could actually hear the crash of the waves over the roar of the people.
    I wandered up and down what I estimated to be the right section of beach, futilely stooping to examine the occasional bit of detritus. If anything of the fish-folk had been left behind, the ocean had claimed it. Finally, I approached the water, which rode in to the beach on gentle four-foot waves, sadly underestimating the tides. As I jumped back from the shock of ice-cold water, I caught movement beyond where the waves began. That froze me. I swept the spot again, hoping to find what had caught my eye, but there was nothing. A figment of my imagination or light hitting the rippling water just so. Maybe . But my hindbrain, the part that processed without conscious effort, wouldn’t accept that. Something had been there. Too cold for swimmers, too tame for surfers. Anyway, either of those would have surfaced again.
    Damn , I was going out there. I sat my shoes down in the sand with my jacket folded atop to await my return and rolled up my pants legs as high as they would go to just above the knee. I wouldn’t get far, but it would have to do.
    The water had only gotten as high as my ankles when my teeth started chattering. I hugged my arms to my chest, as if that would help, and bulled on ahead. Another step, a breaking wave, and the water was up to my knees. Still nothing. My gaze panned the ocean, catching flecks of foam here and there beyond the waves, but nothing off . One or two more steps, and I’d be risking the wrath of my dry cleaner. Plus, I was starting to lose feeling in my toes.
    What the hell , I thought. I’ve come this far. If need be, Apollo can spring for a new suit. Call it a business expense. I waded forward and something brushed my feet. The chill suddenly hit my heart. Then that something wrapped itself around my leg and yanked. Hard. A scream ripped from me as I went down, opening my mouth to the rush of water—gagging, choking, burning and freezing at the same time as it raced down the wrong pipe, seizing my lungs. I thrashed, but the thing had hold of my leg, was pulling me into deeper water. I was desperate for air. My heart pounded but couldn’t seem to expand, as if gripped by a tightening fist.
    That panicked me. I jackknifed, clawing at the hand holding me—webbed, I noted as the skin separated. It was a grotesque feeling, worse because it came with a spike of triumph. The grip released. I kicked it away, straining toward the surface—what I hoped was the surface.
    A single gasp of air, then the creature had me again, this time in a bear hug around the waist. It practically climbed my back, its body weight pulling me down as it leveraged itself up. Oddly jointed arms circled my neck, cutting off any aid from that last aborted breath. Last . No, I wouldn’t accept it.
    I kicked backward with all my strength, but had no leverage and his legs quickly wrapped around mine to keep me still. Defenseless. He because whatever sick fuck was behind me was getting off on the whole thing. I could feel it. I