He spread the documents out on the table and began shifting through them with his fingers.
"All three disappeared in the evening, during the night," he began, his voice changing slightly.
"The last one, the day before yesterday. They only found an empty boat. They were all seen together near Pinky's antique shop, then, you know, they went into that old shack by the river."
"The boys went in there to have a beer before fishing. Then they went fishing. No one has seen them since."
David leaned closer, examining the photographs carefully. The pictures showed an old wooden boat washed up on the shore, upturned oars, and empty beer bottles.
On one of the photos, there were tracks in the wet clay, very similar to the ones they had seen yesterday near the cabin.
"Witnesses?" David asked without looking up.
"Old man Pinky says they left his place around eleven in the evening. They were cheerful, making noise. And in the morning, the boat was already bobbing empty by the pier. Like I said, there aren't even any bodies..."
Sheriff Miller went silent, nervously twiddling his mustache. He was clearly hiding something.
David raised his eyes and looked straight at him.
"And what do you think yourself, Sheriff?" he asked quietly.
"You're a local. You've been here for years. Is this really just accidents?"
Miller averted his eyes, staring out the window.
"I… I don't know, Agent. Nothing like this ever happened before. And now… people are whispering. They say there's something in the water. But officially… we can't claim that, you understand."
David nodded slowly, closing the folder.
"I understand. That's why I'm here."
He stood up, taking the copies of the documents and the photographs.
David narrowed his eyes, looking at the sheriff over the scattered photographs. His gaze became sharp and piercing, like that of a man accustomed to fishing lies out of the most innocent words.
"An antique shop?" he asked.
"What did they want there before going fishing?"
Sheriff Miller shrugged, clearly feeling uneasy. He scratched his thick, graying mustache with the back of his hand and turned his eyes toward the window, as if there were something more interesting there than a conversation with a federal agent.
"I don't know, Agent…" he muttered.
"Pinky is a strange guy. Keeps old junk, masks, all sorts of amulets, dried herbs… Locals sometimes drop by his place for lucky charms before fishing. They say it helps against the evil eye and bad biting. Lately, he's started selling a lot of junk… all kinds of nonsense. People whisper that he's started trading in something more serious, but no one knows for sure."
David leaned back slowly in his chair, keeping his eyes fixed on the sheriff, and only the quiet ticking of the old wall clock broke the very awkward silence.
"More serious," David repeated, as if tasting the word. "And you didn't think it necessary to check this shop after the third missing person?"
Sheriff Miller visibly flushed. He wiped his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief again and shifted nervously in his chair.
"We… we checked. Pinky said the boys just dropped in to buy a couple of amulets and left. Nothing suspicious. And we have plenty of work as it is… You know how it goes in small towns."
David remained silent for a few seconds, looking at the sheriff as if he could see right through him. David stood by the sheriff's massive desk, turned around, and pulled out the photos again, like a surgeon over an opened body.
He silently flipped through the pictures one by one. His fingers moved quickly and confidently, only occasionally lingering on particularly important details.
His gaze was sharp, professional, the kind of look that doesn't just watch but deconstructs the image piece by piece, searching for lies, patterns, and traces of someone else's fear.
The first photograph showed the boat.
The old fishing vessel lay on its side at the very edge of the shore, half-stuck in the wet sand. One side was smashed open, as if it had been struck by something heavy from the inside.
The oars lay scattered around haphazardly, one had almost gone into the water, the other was stuck in the reeds. Everything looked as if the people had abandoned the boat in a panic, thinking neither of their belongings nor of survival.
The next shot showed the shore.
The wet clay was scarred with long furrows, as if someone had dragged a heavy body along the ground. But what stood out the most were the prints. They crossed each other chaotically, heading toward the water and returning back again. They exuded something wrong, something alien to nature.
David narrowed his eyes slightly. The third photograph was even worse.
A thick slime glistened on the gray coastal rocks. Even in the picture, it looked wet and greasy, like oil mixed with swamp muck. In the flash of the camera, it gave off a strange greenish tint. David involuntarily recalled old archives, forgotten reports, vanished cases, and photographs that had never made it to the press.
"Ectoplasm…"
And then he saw the last picture.
For a second, his hand froze. The print in the mud was almost human. Five fingers, a palm, even the creases could be discerned with surprising clarity. But thin webs stretched between the fingers, and the fingers themselves were too long and curved.
Silence hung in the office. Only the old ceiling fan creaked lazily, moving the heavy air.
David slowly raised his eyes to Sheriff Miller.
"Pinky's shop, is it on the way to the pier?" he asked in his deep, bass voice.
The sheriff coughed nervously and scratched his mustache.
"Yes… right by the shore," he replied, trying not to look at the photograph.
"An old wooden building. The sign is still up: 'Pinky's Antiques and Talismans'. Everyone knows him… only lately he's been afraid to sell anything, though tourists still buy things."