Kate knelt down on the damp sand and peered into the depths of the ocean. A sudden gust from the sea swept her silver grey hair off her face, sending it dancing in the air. Every pore of her porcelain-white skin seemed to come alive. She tasted the salt in the breeze and felt the fine spray of the ocean on her face. She edged a little closer to the shore, careful not to risk her camera getting wet, finally feeling herself totally focused and in the moment.

She moved the camera, trying to find the perfect frame for a shot, pressing the shutter just before a wave was about to reach its peak. She wound on the film quickly and shot again, as the water rose into the air and then again just as it was breaking. She stepped further back from the shoreline and looked out to sea, remembering the childhood game she had played with her father. They would both sit here, just down from the beach house, and try and track the progress of a single wave, from its birth out at sea to its final crash onto the sand. Even though she always managed to lose her chosen wave – and, today, she realised it really was an impossible task – her father lavished her with praise when the surf of ‘her’ wave crashed on the beach.

She felt tears forming, but she bit her lip, determined not to cry, blinking to stop the tears from falling. The sea was a blur now, water seen through water. She wiped her eyes, trying to see clearly. There was something out at sea. She blinked again, quickly, but her vision was fogged. She picked up her camera and zoomed in on the object. What was it? A small seal? Part of a whale? Every few moments it would disappear under the surface of the water and then re-emerge.

Automatically, without thinking, she took a couple of shots. A large wave took hold of it and carried it towards shore. For a moment it was lost in the surf. She squinted as she tried to find the object in the midst of the spray. But then the water tossed it onto the surface once more. The viewfinder framed it perfectly. She took five or six shots before an awful realisation came to her.

She threw her camera down on to the sand and ran to the shore, tearing off her grey cashmere hooded top as she moved. She was slightly afraid of the sea, but she plunged straight in, the sudden cold taking her breath away. Her white jeans clung to her skin, her black long-sleeved shirt billowed out like a sinister balloon, but she launched herself into the water. She could hear her own breath – shallow, loud and terrifying – as she swam with all her strength. She could feel the quickening beat of her heart, but she could not let up. As she came nearer, her worst fears were realised.

The baby – a naked little girl – lolled in the water like a grotesque doll, its eyes large, glassy, and wide.

With one last stroke she took hold of the baby. Her flesh was ice cold, but she knew she had to try to bring her back to land, back to life. With the last of her strength, Kate dragged herself back to shore, trying hard to keep the little girl’s head above water. But a sudden wind whipped up the waves, sending them crashing over both of them. The force pushed Kate under, nearly wrenching the baby from her grasp. She held on, but took in what seemed like a lungful of salt water. She blinked through the water to see the shoreline quite close now. A couple more strokes and she would be on the sand.

The waves bore her in, beaching her like an injured sea creature, and for a couple of seconds she could only lie there, vomiting sea water and trying to catch her breath. As soon as she had recovered her strength she manoeuvred the baby away from the water’s edge and opened its little mouth. A stream of salt water, grit and sand dribbled out. She placed her fingers delicately over her tiny nose and tried to blow life back into its white body. The baby’s lips were blue, its mouth a perfect Cupid’s bow. On its head was a tuft of black hair. She willed it to live, but no matter how many times she forced her breath into her, the little girl did not stir. She had gone.

Kate fell backwards on to the sand. She fought against the nausea that rose inside her, shouting her rage and grief at the sky. Then the professional that she had for so long tried to bury suddenly came alive as she realised that she needed to get help. This was, she thought, a crime scene. What the hell had happened here? Various scenarios ran through her head - a woman suffering from post-natal depression perhaps driven to an awful act of desperation; an angry father, convinced his partner had been unfaithful, snatching the child and swimming out to sea, killing them both; a frightened teenager unable to face the future with a new, unwanted baby, taking her daughter down to the beach and abandoning her to the elements.

She stood up, unsteady on her feet, and tried to run towards the house. Her legs felt like they were melting beneath her, and the beach shifted under her feet as if it were quick sand. As she ran she looked around for help, scanning the stretch of shore for any sign of life. It was still too early in the morning for the joggers or the dog walkers.

Then, in the distance, towards the very end of the beach, she thought she could just make out a figure. A man dressed in black. She tried to shout, desperately waving her arms, but realised he couldn’t hear her. Slowly the silhouette seemed to turn and look at her, pausing as if to assess her, coldly. Although she could not see his face, she felt his eyes on her. She felt a sensation of terror deep inside and, for a moment, she could not move.

Then, without thinking, her right hand moved from her side and came to rest on her stomach. She stared down at her belly. She was frozen in fear.

When she looked up again the figure had gone.

2

The beach house had been invaded by what seemed to Kate like half of the LAPD: uniformed officers, plainclothes detectives, forensic teams, fingerprinters, photographers and the one man in the world she did not want to see – Josh Harper.

When she had made that call to 911 she knew that, as Josh was one of the Robbery-Homicide division’s (RHD) chief detectives, he would turn up at the scene. And here he was – the tall, dark, handsome man who had fucked up her life. As she repeated the details of what she had seen to one of the interviewing officers she observed Josh from the corner of her eye, careful not to let him know she was watching. If he looked over towards her she refocused on an object across the room, a painting on the wall, a pile of books on a shelf. To her, he was more or less invisible. Not worth the space he occupied. What was it her girlfriend, Lisa, had called him? The human slimeball with the slicked-back hair.

‘So, just to get this straight,’ said the officer, ‘you rose early to take some photos? And as you were photographing – what was it, the sea, the waves, you say – you saw the little girl in the water?’