The Undertow / Season 1, Episode 10
Edge of the Pier
Rena’s boots hit the pier with a hollow thud, the salt-crusted wood groaning under her weight as she ran. The radio at her hip crackled, Nowak’s voice slicing through the static like a knife through fog. “Rena, I’ve got eyes on him—kid’s still moving, north end, straight for the edge. You close?” “Thirty seconds,” she panted, her breath sharp with the tang of ocean spray. The air bit cold against her face, damp and heavy, clinging to her skin like a second layer. The pier stretched out before her, a skeletal line of weathered planks disappearing into the gray haze that smothered Pelican Bay. Her eyes stung from the salt, squinting to catch any flicker of movement in the murk. The tide roared below, a low growl that vibrated up through her soles, hungry and restless. June was always restless. She could hear it now, the shuffle of smaller feet, a faint scuff against the wood somewhere ahead. Her heart slammed against her ribs, each beat a countdown. Not again. Not another. The memory of Galveston clawed at her—those hands slipping from hers, the water swallowing them whole. She shook it off, focusing on the slick boards, the rusted nails catching the edge of her vision. The pier smelled of rot and seaweed, the kind of decay that never washes...