Morning crept into Seabrook reluctantly, as though the sun itself feared piercing the fog. Pale light filtered through Miles's window, casting the room in gray shadows. He had barely slept—his mind replaying the whispers, the wary glances, and the weight of the missing posters staring back at him. By the time the innkeeper slid a lukewarm breakfast toward him, Miles already knew the day would not be ordinary.
He decided his first stop would be the Sheriff's office. If anyone could confirm the truth behind the disappearances, it would be the law. Yet, as Miles walked through the deserted streets, he could feel resistance pulsing through the town. Windows shifted open, curtains twitched, but no one came forward. Seabrook wasn't just closed off—it was suffocating under its own silence.
The Sheriff's office sat on the corner of Main Street, a squat brick building with peeling paint and a flagpole that hadn't seen a flag in years. Inside, the air smelled of old paper, leather, and the faint tang of gun oil. A single bulb flickered above the front desk, where a deputy slouched with a newspaper, barely glancing up when Miles entered.
"Detective Corbin," Miles introduced himself, flashing his credentials. "I'm here to speak with Sheriff Harker."
The deputy hesitated, then jerked his chin toward a door marked Private. "Good luck," he muttered, before sinking back into his chair.
Miles pushed open the door. Sheriff Elias Harker sat behind a battered oak desk, his presence filling the small office. He was a broad man with graying hair and lines etched deep into his face, as if the years had carved their weight directly into his skin. His eyes, however, were sharp—too sharp. They studied Miles with an intensity that suggested both suspicion and calculation.
"You're the outsider," Harker said, his voice a low rumble. "Word travels fast here."
"I'm here on behalf of the families," Miles replied evenly, taking a seat opposite. "I need to know what's happening to the people disappearing from Seabrook."
For a moment, the Sheriff didn't answer. Instead, he leaned back, steepling his fingers, the silence stretching long enough for the tick of the wall clock to fill the room. Finally, he said, "You'd do well to leave this town, Detective. The missing… that's not a case you want to entangle yourself in."
Miles arched a brow. "That sounds less like advice and more like a warning."
"Call it what you like," Harker said, his tone hardening. "The sea gives, and the sea takes. Some things are beyond the reach of law, beyond the reach of men like you or me. You dig too deep, and you won't like what you find."
The words mirrored the fisherman's cryptic warning. Miles leaned forward, lowering his voice. "I've seen grief in towns before, Sheriff. But not fear like this. Your people are terrified, and you're telling me to look away? That doesn't sit right."
Something flickered across Harker's expression—guilt, perhaps, or anger—but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. He tapped a finger against the desk. "Sometimes the best way to protect people is to keep them ignorant. You stir things up here, and you won't just put yourself at risk. You'll put the whole town in danger."
Miles studied him carefully. The Sheriff wasn't lying, but he wasn't telling the full truth either. Whatever he knew, it was locked behind walls of fear and duty.
Before he could press further, the office door creaked open. A young deputy, face pale, whispered something into Harker's ear. The Sheriff's jaw tightened. He stood abruptly, his chair scraping back.
"Another one," he muttered. "Out by the cliffs."
Harker grabbed his coat and hat, then shot Miles a hard look. "Stay out of it. That's not your fight."
But Miles was already rising. "If someone's missing, Sheriff, it is my fight."
The Sheriff didn't argue. He simply pushed past him, leaving the office with heavy steps. Miles followed into the fog-choked streets, his instincts burning hotter than ever.
As they neared the cliffs, a small crowd had gathered, their faces pale, eyes wide with dread. The wind whipped harder here, carrying the scent of salt and seaweed. At the edge of the rocks, a fisherman's net lay tangled, shredded as if torn apart by something far stronger than the tide. And there, pinned against the jagged rocks below, was a shoe—small, red, unmistakably belonging to a child.
The crowd murmured prayers, some crossing themselves, others turning away in silence.
Sheriff Harker's voice cut through the tension. "Clear the area. Go home."
But Miles didn't move. His gaze lingered on the torn net, the lone shoe, and the endless gray sea stretching into nothingness. He could feel it again—the sense of something unseen watching, waiting.
For the first time since arriving, Miles wondered if the sea's whispers were not just a metaphor, but something far darker.