The blast of heat when she opens the door feels like a blessing. She drives through the village with the casual competence of someone who knows every pothole and blindcorner, navigating narrow streets that were clearly never designed for modern traffic.
"You've been briefed on the deaths?" Her question cuts through the sound of rain hammering the windshield.
"The Institute sent me the official reports. All recovered from the waters around Skara, all showing physiological markers consistent with drowning." I pull my tablet from my bag, calling up the files I've reviewed repeatedly during the crossing. "But no water in the lungs. No evidence of aspiration."
"The mainland coroner couldn't explain it. Neither could the forensic pathologists they brought in for consultation. That's why they called the Institute."
The police station appears through the downpour, solid stone that looks ancient. Chief MacLeod parks and leads me inside, where warmth wraps around me like a blanket.
Filing cabinets line the walls, their metal surfaces dented and scarred. A desk sits buried under paperwork and coffee rings. She sheds her rain slicker and gestures me toward a chair while she moves to a corner where a kettle sits next to a collection of mismatched mugs.
"Tea?"
"Please."
She makes it properly, letting it steep while I pull out my tablet and spread my preliminary notes across her desk. When she sets the mug in front of me, she's studying my face with an intensity that suggests she's deciding how much to tell me.
"The reports mention bioluminescent algae on the bodies," I say. "Species identification came back inconclusive. I'd like to see the samples if they're still available."
"They are." She pulls a file from her desk drawer, sliding it across to me. "Along with photographs and the coroner's detailed findings. But I should warn you, the algae isn't the strangest thing about this case."
I open the file, scanning the autopsy reports. The victims ranged in age from their twenties to their sixties, all found within a few nautical miles of Skara's coastline, all recovered in the early morning hours, all positioned facing the water.
The bodies were arranged with what the coroner's notes describe as "unnatural precision given postmortem rigor."
"What else?"
She leans forward, voice dropping. "Every death occurred within hours of peak high tide. I charted them myself when I realized the pattern."
My pulse quickens. Patterns mean causation. "Marine organisms respond to lunar cycles, tidal rhythms affect feeding behaviors, reproductive patterns. If there's a biological cause, the timing could be key."
"The locals have their own theories." Her expression suggests she doesn't share them. "Most involve curses and sea spirits. Things better discussed over whisky than in official reports."
"I don't believe in curses." I tap the screen, pulling up bathymetric charts. "But environmental factors that communities interpret through folklore? Unusual algae species, chemical imbalances, toxic compounds? Those can have physiological effects that seem supernatural until someone studies them properly."
"That's what we're hoping you'll do." She stands, moving to a wall map of Skara and the surrounding waters. Red pins mark locations where the bodies were recovered. "I've arranged for you to have access to a research vessel through the harbormaster. He's not happy about it, but he'll cooperate."
"I appreciate the boat access." The pin placement shows a clear cluster pattern along the eastern coast. "I brought simple sampling equipment, enough to start collecting baseline data. The Institute is shipping more sophisticated instruments, should arrive in the next day or two."
"What do you need from me?"
"Access to the recovery sites, coordination with anyone who might have observed unusual marine activity before this started." I close the file. "And honestly? I need help navigating the local resistance. I can't do my job if everyone shuts doors when they see me coming."
She nods slowly. "I'll do what I can. But understand, these people have lived with the sea for generations. They know when something's wrong with it."
She checks her watch, then stands. "Let's get you settled. The Institute arranged lodging at Flynn's Inn near the harbor. Moira Flynn runs it, and she's expecting you. Tomorrow, I’ll introduce you to the Harbor Master.”
She pulls her rain slicker back on. The rain has lessened to a light drizzle when she walks me outside, pointing toward buildings up the hill. "Flynn's Inn. Can't miss it."
"Thank you." I extend my hand again, and this time her grip lingers.
"Be careful." Her voice drops. "People are dead, and we still don't know why. Until we do, nowhere near the water is truly safe."
The warning sends a chill down my spine that has nothing to do with the wet wind.
I walk toward the inn, equipment case rolling behind me through puddles that reflect the grey sky. The village sits quiet in the afternoon lull, most people either working or sheltering from the weather. Faces appear in windows as I pass, watching with the same wary suspicion I've encountered since I arrived. I'm the outsider, the mainlander come to explain their deaths with science they don't trust.
Flynn's Inn is a three-story stone building with window boxes full of hearty autumn flowers, a hand-painted sign swinging in the wind. A woman with striking red hair pulled intoa practical braid waits in the doorway, green eyes taking in every detail before she steps aside to let me enter.
