Chapter 1: Gale Warnings

The wind came in hard off the sea that night, rattling the old glass panes of the Blackharbor constabulary. Even from inside their mobile lab van, parked awkwardly behind the squat stone police house, the team could feel the howl in their chests. The Verrowind Serious Crimes Unit was not welcome here — and they knew it. Detective Mira Lorne stood just inside the threshold of the van, her dark coat flapping at her knees. She gazed out toward the cliffside cabins, their shapes hunched against the storm, and let the silence settle over her team. Yara Novik, tactical lead, loaded her evidence kit with a clatter of vials and tweezers, her jaw set. “Locals are gathering already,” she reported, glancing out the fogged window. “Ravich is giving us five hours, then wants ‘his men’ back in control.” Elias Vann, hoodie pulled tight, sucked in a breath between his teeth. “Phones are lighting up — media sniffing around. And the Herald already has a drone overhead. If we’re not careful, this’ll be a circus before dawn.” Mira tapped her pen gently to her chin, eyes narrowed. “Then we move fast. Yara, scene control. Elias, sweep for electronics inside and out. Dr. Grell, preliminary field exam the minute the place is cleared. Celeste—” A soft shuffle as Celeste Arbour, their civilian analyst, wrapped her scarf tighter. “I’ll review local histories for similar attacks. Blackharbor’s archives are… superstition-rich.” She didn’t quite smile. Outside, Superintendent Corentin Faure — forced into compliance and radiating resentment — waited with a sour expression. “Your time starts now,” he grunted, gesturing them toward the cabin at the edge of the cliffs. “And don’t rile the crowds. This town has ways of remembering.” As the team stepped into the night, the salt wind bit hard. The crowd, clustered in tight knots behind cordons of haphazard tape, watched with flat eyes and downturned mouths. Someone muttered, “Ghost hunters,” as Mira passed. The victim, Mira already knew, was Nessa Hale — Blackharbor’s own. Folk singer, regatta queen, local sponsor. Seen by many as the soul of the town, by others as the last bright thing left in a place gone gray. Her death, in these circumstances — torn apart in a locked, isolated cabin — meant more than murder. It was sacrilege, in a town that wore its wounds on its sleeve. Mira paused at the threshold, letting the wail of the sea fill her mind, then nodded to Yara. “Let’s begin.” —

Chapter 2: The Beast’s Work

Yara’s boots thudded against the warped deck as she led the way, flashlight cutting a sharp circle through the gloom. The cabin, perched precariously above the black stone drop, looked ancient — its walls patched, roof heavy with brine-laden moss. The door bore deep gouges, splintered as if by claws. Inside, the metallic tang of blood was immediate and overwhelming. Dr. Ivo Grell, gloves already tight over his fingers, drew in a slow, measured breath. “Animal attack,” he muttered, voice graveled by years of fieldwork. “Or what they want us to believe.” Nessa Hale lay sprawled across the floorboards, her once-bright festival dress shredded, arms flung wide. Deep lacerations scored her arms and neck, flesh torn in irregular patterns. Her face, even in death, seemed mid-song — lips parted, eyes half-lidded. Yara dropped to one knee, scanning with her torch. “No broken glass. Lock’s intact — from the inside. No sign of forced entry except those gouges.” She ran a knuckle along the door’s edge. “Blood in the cracks. But look —” she pointed, “these splinters are mostly on the outside.” Elias hovered at the threshold, a small scanner in hand. He muttered code under his breath, then called out: “There’s a security camera. Hardwired — old, but could’ve caught something if it was running.” He nudged an old laptop on the table, its screen flickering with static. “No power. I’ll see what I can salvage.” Celeste drifted along the bookshelves, eyes skipping over old sea legends and Blackharbor histories. “No ritual marks. But… see here.” She pointed to a shelf lined with photographs — Nessa laughing beside a hefty, bearded man (the local boatbuilder, Tom Lorne), her arm around a starry-eyed younger woman, and a separate frame — cracked — turned facedown. Mira righted the frame. A candid shot: Nessa and Marla Voss, Blackharbor’s rising pop star, locked in a fierce embrace at last year’s Regatta. Scrawled on the glass: “Not again.” Yara frowned. “Who’s ‘not again’ meant for? Seems personal.” Dr. Grell had begun his examination, kneeling beside the body. He sniffed, then peered at the wounds with a small magnifier. “These tears… not canine or feline. Edges too uniform. Possible tool marks beneath.” He lifted a bloodied strand of fabric. “And fish scales. Unusual, given the location.” Elias looked up from the battered laptop. “Camera’s been wiped. But looks like someone tried uploading something around 1:15am — failed connection. I’ll pull whatever I can from the drive.” Yara straightened. “Footprints outside — heavy boots, and a smaller pattern. But… see these?” She gestured to scattered animal tracks, almost too perfect in the muddy ground. “Could be planted.” Mira’s gaze swept the room, taking in the framed superstitions, the brined air, the crowd pressing in against distant tape. “Someone staged this,” she murmured. “But they wanted it to look like the sea took her. Like Blackharbor’s old legends come for its own.” Celeste, voice soft as the wind, added: “And maybe to buy themselves time. Before the truth erodes.” Outside, the wind rose, shrouding the cabin in another layer of secrets. —

Chapter 3: The Circle Closes

The cabin’s interior quickly became a warzone of evidence tags and measured whispers. Yara moved with mechanical precision, setting up UV lights and photographing every inch of the splintered door and spattered walls. Mira watched her team work, mind racing over the layers of ritual and reality. Elias, huddled at the table, muttered, “Power was cut at the main. No wi-fi, no phone line. But…” He held up a battered GPS tracker, found wedged behind a curtain rod. “Not standard. Looks like one of those cheap models boaters use, but — someone tried to toss it. I’ll see what route it logged.” Dr. Grell, finishing his preliminary, sketched the wounds in a battered notebook. “Cause of death: exsanguination from deep lacerations. But look here—” He held up a latex-gloved hand, displaying a single, splintery fragment. “Embedded wood grain. Matches the door. Defensive wounds — Nessa fought hard.” Celeste circled the scene, murmuring old lines from Blackharbor’s tales. “Harbormourne claims the doomed, they say. But this feels… too literal. The arrangement, the symbolism — someone’s using the town’s fear.” Yara checked her watch. “We’re burning time. The locals will storm the place at dawn if we’re not gone.” Through the window, Mira caught a flash of movement — a figure slipping through the dark, camera in hand. “Press,” she murmured, “already breaching the line.” She turned to Yara, voice low: “Run the names. Anyone with access to Nessa’s cabin, or a grudge. And check with Faure — any recent trouble with organized players?” Yara scowled. “Faure barely looks us in the eye, but I’ll try.” Elias piped up, “Pulling partial GPS data. There’s a cluster of pings near the docks, then a long stop at Voss Shipwrights, and… another near the old quarry. Last movement was three hours before the body was found.” Mira’s mind spun. “Celeste, what’s the link between Nessa, Marla Voss, and Tom Lorne?” Celeste, already shuffling through her color-coded binder, replied, “All three funded the Regatta together. But — last year, after a payout dispute, Tom nearly lost his shop. Marla’s career took off, but Nessa was rumored to be backing out of a major deal. Could be financial.” Yara, returning from a terse exchange with Faure, added, “Word is, some of Tom’s workers moonlight for the Blackharbor syndicate. Mostly debts, smuggling. Marla’s manager was seen fighting with Nessa last week. Money, maybe.” Mira’s eyes narrowed as the threads tangled. “Multiple suspects. Multiple motives. But only one staged this.” The storm battered the roof, as if urging them on. —

Chapter 4: The Shadow of the Harbour

By dawn, the mobile crime lab glowed with hard, artificial light. Dr. Grell hunched over his field kit, scraping blood from under Nessa’s nails and logging every trace. Elias worked two laptops at once, fingers racing over keys, his muttered code punctuated by the soft beeping of data transfers. Celeste, ghostlike in the corner, pored through digital records. “Nessa’s finances took a sharp downturn three months ago. She halted payments to certain local charities. But — here — she transferred a lump sum to a ‘J. Lorne’ two weeks ago. Tom’s son.” Yara, reviewing the crowd footage from the night before, scowled. “There’s Marla, front and center. Looks devastated. But… over there, Tom’s pacing. Doesn’t want to be seen. And see this —” She played back a frame, revealing a woman in a yellow slicker slipping away from the cordon. “That’s Isla Dorn. Works the docks — old friend of Nessa’s. History there?” Celeste replied, “They clashed over the pier lease last month. Isla accused Nessa of favoritism. But unlikely — Isla’s too proud, and her debts are minor.” Elias let out a sudden exclamation. “Got a partial GPS route. The tracker was most recently paired to a phone registered to Tom Lorne — but the last log-in was from Marla’s device. The two met last night at the shipwright’s yard, right before Nessa’s death.” Mira leaned back, pen tapping against her lips. “Means, motive, opportunity — all tangled. But the misdirection is deliberate. Someone wanted this to look like the work of a beast.” Dr. Grell interjected, “Also — I checked the wounds again. Some of the lacerations are consistent with a specialized boating hook. Not teeth or claws.” Celeste murmured, “Old trick — stage an animal attack to mask a human hand. Especially in towns where animal legends run deep.” Yara cracked her knuckles. “We bring them in. Tom, Marla, Isla. See who sweats.” A heavy thud shook the van — a rock against the window. A teenager’s face, pressed close, eyes wide with fury. From outside, the rising voices of townsfolk: “Outsiders! Leave her to rest!” Mira’s green eyes hardened. “We don’t have time for their ghosts. We make them talk.” —

Chapter 5: Three Suspects

In a borrowed interview room, the tempest outside barely muffled by thick stone, Tom Lorne sat across from Mira, hands folded, knuckles white. He was a big man, beard flecked with gray. The lines in his face told stories of sea and sorrow. “She was my friend,” he insisted, voice trembling. “I’d never hurt Nessa. She kept my business afloat… after the fire last year—” Mira let the silence stretch, her gaze impassive. “Your son received money from her. Why?” Tom’s jaw tensed. “Jace… had debts. Gambling, mostly. Nessa helped, no strings. She said it was nothing.” Yara, looming by the door, asked bluntly, “Where were you last night?” “At the yard. Fixing Marla’s boat. She was there, ask her. Saw me leave around midnight.” Mira nodded, making a note. “Did you visit the cabin?” Tom’s eyes flickered. “No. Haven’t been there in weeks.” Next, Marla Voss. Younger, wiry, nerves raw. She fidgeted with a silver ring, eyes red from crying. “I loved Nessa,” she blurted before Mira could speak. “We fought, sure, but not like that. She… she was pulling out of the Regatta deal. Said the money was cursed.” Yara’s voice was iron. “Where were you?” “With Tom. Boat repairs ‘til midnight, then home. Phone’s GPS should prove it.” Mira: “Did you see anyone near the cabin?” Marla hesitated. “I… I saw a figure on the cliffs. Big coat. Could’ve been Tom — or anyone.” Last was Isla Dorn. Proud stance, sharp chin. She glared at the detectives. “I was on my boat, prepping nets. The whole town knows. You won’t pin this on me.” Mira let her pen hover, voice soft. “You argued with Nessa. Over what?” Isla’s jaw set. “She sided against local fishers. Brought in mainland buyers, drove down prices. But I wouldn’t hurt her. Not like this.” Three suspects. Three alibis, all interlocked. Mira sensed the fear beneath their anger — and something else: a desperate need for the story to be anything but the truth. —

Chapter 6: Red Herrings and Misdirection

Back in the van, the team debriefed, tension thick. Yara slammed her notebook shut. “They’re all lying. Tom’s hiding something, Marla’s story is too rehearsed, and Isla — she’s got a temper, but not the stomach for this.” Dr. Grell removed his gloves, brow furrowed. “The wounds — staged, but rushed. Whoever did this was panicked, maybe interrupted.” Celeste, her notes fanned out, offered, “There’s another vector — the Regatta syndicate. Last year, a large sum disappeared from the event’s accounts. Nessa discovered the shortfall last week, according to her emails.” Elias nodded. “And someone wiped the cabin’s camera intentionally. The wipe matches a thumbprint pattern in Marla’s device. But… GPS puts Tom’s phone near the scene after midnight. Not Marla’s.” Mira pressed her hands together. “It’s almost too neat. The debts, the fights, the staged scene. Someone knew we’d look at Tom first. The animal tracks? Planted. The wounds? Masked.” Suddenly, Elias’s phone buzzed. He scanned the message, then paled. “The Herald’s running a story — ‘SCU Chases Ghosts, Locals Left in Fear’. They’ve got photos from the scene. Who leaked?” Yara snarled. “Faure, probably. Wants us gone. This’ll stir the town up even more.” Celeste added, “The press is muddying the waters. If public sentiment turns, we’ll lose access — or worse, evidence.” Mira met her team’s eyes, fatigue and resolve etched in every line. “Pressure’s mounting. We need a break, and soon. Elias — get me a hard trace on that GPS. Yara — re-interview Tom’s son. He’s the wild card.” The storm, if anything, grew fiercer. —

Chapter 7: The Weight of Old Debts

The SCU van rattled as another gust slammed against its side. Elias hunched over his computer, sweat beading on his brow, fingers flying. Yara returned, dragging a sullen, thin-faced young man behind her — Jace Lorne. He slouched into a folding chair, eyes darting. “I didn’t do anything,” he hissed. Mira sat opposite, tone softer than before. “We know you had debts. We know Nessa helped. What happened last night?” Jace clenched his fists. “I was at home. Dad covered for me, didn’t want me dragged in. I swear, I didn’t hurt her.” Yara leaned in, her presence filling the small space. “Your phone pinged near the quarry. Why?” Jace shrugged, but his voice quivered. “Met a guy — Gable, from the shipyard. He fronts for the syndicate sometimes. I owed him. Nessa was trying to get me clear.” Elias, glancing up, interjected: “We’ve got GPS pings from your dad’s phone — not yours. And Marla’s phone was at her house after midnight. So who took Tom’s phone to the cabin?” Jace looked genuinely confused. “Not me.” Celeste, pacing, murmured, “Someone swapped devices. A classic misdirection. But why?” Dr. Grell, stepping in, added, “The scale fragments on Nessa’s dress — not local fish. Imported. Meant to mislead.” Mira nodded, eyes sharp. “Someone’s moving pieces. And the answer is in that GPS log. Elias?” Elias finally grinned. “I think I can reconstruct the movement pattern. Give me an hour.” The team watched as he worked, the van echoing with the storm, the town’s anger pressing ever closer. —

Chapter 8: Fragments of Truth

The hour crawled by. Outside, the townsfolk began to gather in larger knots — anger and fear feeding off rumors from the press. Superintendent Faure, jaw tight, informed the team that Captain Ravich wanted them gone by noon. Inside the van, the air was electric. Elias, cheeks blotched with concentration, finally called, “Got it! The GPS logs show a pattern that doesn’t match anyone’s stated movements. The device — Tom’s phone — was moving in two directions at once. Someone cloned the signal using a cheap booster.” Yara’s eyes widened. “So someone wanted Tom to look guilty, but wasn’t actually there?” Elias nodded. “But here’s the kicker — the cloned signal originated from Marla’s apartment. I checked traffic cam feeds; Marla never left her place after midnight. But someone else — in a yellow slicker — left her building with Tom’s phone at 12:45am.” Celeste’s file snapped open. “Isla Dorn. She’s the only one with access to both places. Marla’s old friend, borrowed her keys.” Mira stood, fire in her eyes. “We bring Isla in. Now.” Yara was out the door before anyone could reply. —

Chapter 9: The Confession

The interview room was colder this time. Isla sat, arms crossed, jaw set. When Mira entered, she didn’t look up. “We know you left Marla’s apartment with Tom’s phone,” Mira began, calm and methodical. “We know you staged the scene — the animal tracks, the wounds. You used a hook from Tom’s shop, left scale fragments. Why?” Isla’s lips pressed thin, knuckles white. “You think you know this town. You don’t. Nessa — she was going to sell the pier to outsiders. Syndicate wanted it, but she wouldn’t budge. I owed them — gambling debts. When they threatened my family, I—” Her voice broke. Yara, voice shock-soft, asked, “So you staged the attack to look like a beast, to throw us off?” Isla’s eyes filled with tears. “The town would’ve closed ranks, blamed the sea, moved on. I didn’t want anyone else dragged in. But it was me. I did it.” Mira allowed the silence to stretch, the tragedy of it thick as the storm outside. Celeste, near the door, murmured, “All for old debts, and a town that eats its own.” Isla put her head in her hands, shoulders shaking. “I’m so sorry. I just wanted it to end.” —

Chapter 10: Aftermath

The wind had finally begun to die as Isla was led away, her confession recorded, her fate sealed. The townsfolk, learning the truth from the Herald’s latest bulletin, erupted in anger — not just at Isla, but at the SCU. They blamed outsiders for prying, for exposing wounds that should have been left to fester. Mira stood apart, watching the gray sea churn below the cliffs. The cost of truth was heavy here. Blackharbor would not soon forgive, nor easily heal. In the van, the team packed in silence. Dr. Grell smoked quietly by the open door, gaze distant. Yara checked her phone, jaw tight. Celeste filed away the last of her color-coded notes, scarf pulled high to hide her face. Elias, slumped against the wall, whispered, “We did what we came to do. Even if they hate us for it.” Mira tucked her faded notebook into her coat, eyes scanning the horizon. The storm had passed, but the scars would remain — on Blackharbor, on Isla, and on them all. As the SCU van rumbled away, the echoes of old songs and salt wind lingered in the empty streets, a memory of what was lost — and what could never be restored. —