Toosh finds Perez standing at the edge, looking down at the churning sea.

"He didn't do it. But he knows who did. And so do you, Jimmy."

DETECTIVE INSPECTOR JIMMY PEREZ (50s, worn, quiet) kneels over a body. Not a victim — a man in oilskins, throat cut clean. The blood has mixed with seawater sloshing across the floor. Perez's torch beam catches a silver locket half-hidden under the man's hand.

Perez's phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number:

Perez walks up the path alone. The door is ajar. Inside: overturned chairs, a bloody handprint on the fireplace. No Duncan.

Perez doesn't turn around.