Ethan nodded, pressing his backpack tighter to his chest. Gina, her eyes still half-closed, just mumbled:
"Understood…"
Their father opened the glove compartment and rummaged inside for a few seconds. Then he pulled out a small leather case, worn at the edges. He opened it, and a golden badge inside gleamed with the inscription:
"Federal Bureau of Investigation." David hung the chain around his neck, carefully tucking the badge under his jacket so that only the very edge was visible. He adjusted his collar, zipped up his jacket, and looked in the rearview mirror to check his appearance.
Gina, still half-asleep, cracked one eye open and asked sleepily:
"Going as a fed again?"
David only nodded without saying a word. His face remained focused and stern. He took a deep breath, as if gathering his strength, and opened the car door.
David stepped out, slammed the door shut, and without looking back, walked with a confident stride toward the police station.
His posture looked sharp and composed, despite yesterday's wounds. The FBI badge beneath his jacket gave him just the right look.
Ethan and Gina remained sitting inside.
The minivan was parked not far from the entrance to the old, two-story brick station. The siblings watched in silence as their father climbed the steps, opened the heavy door, and disappeared inside. The door closed behind him with a dull thud.
It became very quiet in the cabin.
Ethan stared at the closed door of the station, feeling tension building up inside him. He pictured his father showing the fake badge right now.
Beside him, Gina sighed heavily, still not opening her eyes completely. She pulled her jacket hood lower and muttered:
"I hope he's quick…"
Ethan looked at his sister, who was still sitting with her eyes half-closed, her hood pulled down almost to her nose.
"Do you think they'll give him actual information?" — he asked softly.
Gina shrugged without opening her eyes all the way. Her voice sounded sleepy, with her usual practicality:
"Usually they do. When he's got that badge, everyone becomes a lot more talkative. People are afraid of feds. Even if they realize something is off."
Ethan quickly scrambled into the front seat and turned on the radio. An old country song was playing quietly, a melancholy guitar and a singer's low voice singing about lost love and empty roads.
Outside the window, local residents walked past slowly; someone was walking a dog. A few of them cast wary glances at their dark-gray minivan.
Meanwhile, David walked into the police station. Inside, it smelled of coffee, the typical scent of a small, provincial station where the last renovation had been done about twenty years ago.
Behind the front desk sat a plump sheriff in his fifties with thick, greying whiskers and a nametag that read: "Sheriff Hank Miller." He raised his head from his paperwork as David approached, and his eyes widened slightly at the sight of the golden FBI badge that David conspicuously adjusted on his chest.
"Good morning, Sheriff," — David said calmly.
The sheriff rose slowly, wiping his hands on his uniform trousers. A look of surprise mixed with a hint of anxiety flashed across his face.
"Feds? Here?" — he muttered.
"I thought it was just… I thought you guys would drop by tomorrow…"
David didn't smile. He looked at the sheriff with a cold, piercing gaze. Without giving the sheriff a moment to recover, David immediately pulled out the fake FBI badge in its leather case and held it right up to the officer's face, close enough for him to see every engraving, but not too aggressively.
"Agent Harper," — David pronounced clearly and confidently.
"Federal Bureau of Investigation. I have questions regarding the missing persons case near the river."
The sheriff visibly tensed up. His small eyes darted back and forth, and his thick, greying mustache twitched. He quickly wiped his sweaty palms against himself again.
"Of course, Agent…" — he stammered, his voice going a bit higher than usual.
"Come into the office. I was just gathering all the materials for this case…"
The sheriff awkwardly stepped around the counter and gestured for David to follow him. They walked down a narrow hallway. The sheriff's office was small, cluttered with folders and paperwork. On the wall hung a county map with red marks near the river area.
Miller closed the door behind them and nervously pointed to a chair.
"Have a seat, Agent Harper. Honestly, we didn't expect the feds to respond so quickly… We thought these were just accidents."
David sat down without taking off his jacket. The FBI badge remained hanging on his chest.
"Tell me everything from the very beginning, Sheriff," — he said in an even tone.
"Who went missing, when, under what circumstances. And why did you decide they were just accidents?"
The sheriff sank heavily into his chair. He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief and began to speak, casting glances at the door every now and then as if afraid someone might overhear.
The air in the small, cramped office was stale. David got straight to the point, giving his companion no time to think. He sat up straight, placed his hands on the desk, and looked at the sheriff with a firm, professional gaze.
And just as the Sheriff was about to speak, David cut him off again with authority.
"Three missing in a week," — he said with pressure.
"All near the old pier. I need exact coordinates, times of disappearance, witness statements, and all photographs from the scene."
Sheriff Miller sighed heavily, as if an extra weight had suddenly settled on his shoulders. He stroked his mustache, then reluctantly stood up, opened a safe in the corner of the office, and pulled out a thin, battered folder.