David remained silent, and Miller hurried to continue:
"He's been jumpy since that incident. Used to talk your ear off, but now you can't drag a single extra word out of him. It's like he's afraid of something. Or someone."
The sheriff almost whispered those last words.
David neatly closed the folder. The click of the clasp sounded unexpectedly loud.
He rose sharply from his chair.
"I'm taking the copies," David said. "Officially, the case is being transferred to the FBI."
The sheriff visibly straightened up.
"And one more thing," David added, looking him straight in the eye. "Not a word to anyone. Especially Pinky. If anything new comes up, call me immediately."
Miller nodded quickly. A poorly concealed look of relief flashed across his face. It was as if he had just handed someone a heavy burden he was terrified to hold.
"Of course, Agent Harper. We'll keep you informed."
He personally escorted David to the exit, throwing the door open before him with unexpected politeness.
A fog was still drifting over the river. Somewhere in the distance, seagulls cried. Old signs swayed in the wind, and the wet planks of the pier creaked under the occasional footsteps of passersby.
David took a deep breath.
For a moment, he stopped on the steps of the station, looking thoughtfully toward the waterfront. Then he adjusted his jacket so that his FBI badge remained slightly visible,just enough to inspire trust and exert pressure at the same time.
He tucked the folder of photographs more tightly under his arm.
Then he headed toward the minivan parked by the curb.
Through the windshield, the children could be seen waiting for him inside. The car purred quietly at idle, and the fogged-up windows obscured their faces, turning their silhouettes into blurry shadows.
David approached the car, opened it, and climbed inside, slamming the minivan door a little harder than he intended. The metal gave a dull clang. He tossed the folder onto the passenger seat, ran a hand over his face, and only then inserted the key into the ignition.
The engine grumbled setting off a light vibration, but David didn't move.
His hands rested motionlessly on the steering wheel, his fingers slowly tapping against the worn leather. For a few seconds, he stared straight ahead.
Then he raised his eyes to the rearview mirror.
"It's not the Grindylow," he finally said.
Their alert faces flashed in the mirror.
"All of the missing people stopped by the antique shop near the river before disappearing. Some guy named Pinky's shop. He sells strange masks, amulets, all kinds of junk for tourists."
He frowned slightly, recalling the photographs.
"And I think we're dealing with a ghost."
"First, we go there. Then to the pier."
A truck crawled slowly past the windows, splashing water from the puddles. Somewhere in the distance, a ship's horn let out a long, drawn-out blare.
David still didn't press the gas pedal.
He looked at the children through the mirror again, long and intently, as if deciding exactly how much they ought to know.
"Something is wrong here," he said more quietly. "And I'm not talking about local folklore right now."
He turned the key a bit harder; the engine hummed more smoothly, but the car remained stationary.
"Grindylow… they attack near the water. Close to the shore. They can drag a person under if they wander where they shouldn't. Sometimes they capsize boats. But…"
He fell silent, picking his words.
"They don't kill people in the middle of a river without a trace of a struggle."
David opened the folder and pulled out one of the photographs,the one with the body in the boat covered by a tarp.
"This body was left on display. Just death. Quick and… strange."
He tossed the picture back.
"And now for the most interesting part: all the victims were at Pinky's beforehand."
His fingers gripped the steering wheel tighter.
"Which means they took something from there. A mask. An amulet or a lucky talisman. Some trinket that tourists buy for a laugh."
He slowly shook his head.
"And after that, they died."
"People don't just die in the middle of a river for no reason," David said, almost to himself now. "Especially when there isn't a single trace of a struggle around; he was a fisherman and he shouldn't have had a heart attack…"
He finally shifted into gear.
"Unless he was scared to death…"
The minivan smoothly pulled out, leaving the police station parking lot and entering the narrow road that led to the old part of town and the pier.
Gina sat with one leg tucked under her, staring intently at her father.
"So something killed them after they had already set sail from the shore?" she asked slowly. "Like… some kind of curse?"
The word sounded tentative, almost as if she were mocking herself. But no one in the cabin smiled.
David gave a short nod.
"Exactly."
He didn't take his eyes off the road. His hands rested calmly on the wheel, but the children already knew this tone: their father was piecing the details together in his mind and coming to conclusions that he himself didn't like.
"The sheriff told me something else," he continued. "One boat was found empty. Just drifting in the middle of the river. No signs of a fight. And the body washed ashore downstream later."
The minivan turned past a closed fish market. Behind a chain-link fence, empty boats rocked gently.
"The strangest thing was the face," David added quietly. "As if he didn't even realize he was dying."
Even Ethan stopped fidgeting in the back seat.
"It's not the Grindylow," David said with more confidence now. "If they had attacked, there would be traces left behind, like skeletons and other indicators."
He threw a quick glance into the rearview mirror.
"But here, it looks like the people just froze and died…"
It was as if a sudden chill ran through the cabin at these words. Ethan slowly raised his head.