Archie’s stomach hollowed at the thought of what they might have recovered. The image came anyway—Rhys’ blood-soaked sandal lying on the rocks at Glenoe Waterfall. He dragged his mind away from the memory and tightened his grip on the wheel, the ache grounding him.
He pulled into an empty driveway a few houses down. Scaffolding wrapped the property like a metal skeleton—the builders had clearly clocked off for the day. In a few years, Coast Road would be unrecognisable with all the developments Marty Johnston had pushed through. Plenty of people weren’t shy about their dislike for the mayor’s plans, but he didn’t deserve such a violent end. No one did.
Archie jogged across the road, waving thanks at a car forced to brake for him, then leaned over the white railings for a look. The beach was packed with holidaymakers, paddling and laughing, oblivious to the horror waiting round the bend. Children splashed in the shallows only a stone’s throw away from where the mayor had been found.
He vaulted the railings and slid down the sandy bank. Dry sand sucked at his shoes as he climbed over the rocks, sweat trickling down his spine in the heat of the afternoon sun. The Polar Bear’s back was streaked red with blood. Its painted grin faced the crowd, drawing more attention than it had in years. Police markers dotted the rocks, the body already gone, no doubt removed quickly to hide the gruesomeness from the spectators and their cameras.
The hearse roared to life. Archie scanned the car parkfor the medical examiner’s van, but it wasn’t there. He rubbed his temples. There were no floodlights. No camera flashes or forensic van. Just uniformed officers leaning on the railings, chatting away as if this were crowd control at the summer festival. Give it another five minutes and an ice-cream van would appear.
Maybe the undertaker had seen something. The funeral parlour might be worth a visit before the service. Ina would know who was handling the arrangements, and if she didn’t, Tilly certainly would. Archie patted himself down for his phone. Nothing.
“Brilliant.” He’d left it in the car.
He crept closer to the Polar Bear and crouched low behind the jetty, keeping himself beneath the eyeline of officers milling with the crowd. Phones were pointed at the rock as spectators jostled for position, desperate for the money shot—for likes and clicks.
Archie shut his eyes, and pushed out a slow breath through his nose. Anyone dragged under by a Selkie would be terrified. A single question returned like a punch: Did Rhys call for him?
“Can I help you?” a voice boomed, sounding anything but helpful.
Archie jerked upright. Sunlight glared off a bald patch as Detective Carmichael squinted down at him—short, thinning blond hair, a face that looked older than its years. Archie cursed himself for not preparing an excuse.
“Out,” Carmichael thumbed behind him.
“I was just…” Archie glanced at the rocks, as though the excuse he was searching for might be written on them.
“Save it.” The detective ushered him away from the Polar Bear by the elbow. “And you are?”
“Archie Wolfenden.” He straightened, and gentlypulled free of Carmichael’s grip. “I heard there was a shark attack and I?—”
“Wolfenden.” Carmichael scratched his chin. “There was a similar shark attack involving your son a few years back, wasn’t there?”
The words landed like a slap. Archie tasted bile.
“Are you suggesting that a shark swam inland, climbed a waterfall, and killed my son upriver?” He lifted his palms, refusing to give the detective the reaction he was clearly fishing for.
“That’s what the police report concluded, Mr. Wolfenden.” Carmichael shrugged, mirroring Archie’s stance with a small smirk. He leaned closer. “But I think you and I know there was more to your boy’s death than that.”
A chill scraped down Archie’s back. Carmichael wasn’t stupid, but there was no way he knew about the Otherworld. He’d probably never heard of the Selkie, never mind suspected one of killing the mayor.
“Where were you this morning, Mr. Wolfenden?” Carmichael flipped to a clean page in his notebook.
“I was with my son and my store manager atThe Wolf’s Denon Main Street for most of the morning. Then I went home.” The words came out steady, though his jaw had locked tight.
“And where are you heading now?” The detective looked up from his notebook and waited for a response.
“Am I under suspicion for something?” Archie forced a strained smile. He needed this conversation to be over.
“Absolutely not.” Carmichael pressed a hand on his chest theatrically. “Given your son’s similar… accident, I imagine today brought up a few things for you. That’s why you’re here, I presume.” It wasn’t a question.
“You’ve a good memory, Detective.” Archie raised his eyebrows. “Especially for someone who has only recently moved to Latharna.”
Carmichael’s mouth twitched. Tilly had mentioned rumours about a problem child and a career-stalling transfer to the accident-prone but mostly crime-free Latharna. Archie’s jaw eased a fraction—Malachi had already had a few narrow escapes with the police, thanks to Jeff Kilbane.
“When the body was radioed in, I checked the archives.” Carmichael’s voice softened and he shook his head. “A tragic accident for such a little fellow. Almost seven years to the day as well. I have sons too; I can’t imagine how devastating that must’ve been —finding his sandal and all that blood down at Glenoe.”
Blood pounded in Archie’s ears, his fists curled tight. The detective’s words were cold, deliberate needles. He forced his hands open, one finger at a time.
“Did you bury the sandal?” Carmichael stared at Archie with watery blue eyes. “There was no record of a body being recovered.”
