Marsh read six drowning files before the pattern hit him. Six dead people, all from Saltcreek. Six identical claims: water damage to a beach house none of them owned. Each one filed exactly three days before they drowned. He printed all six, lined them up on his desk, and stared until his coffee went cold.

Marsh decided to drive to Saltcreek himself. Every claim listed the same address: a beach house at the end of Pelican Road. If six dead people all lied about the same house, he wanted to stand in front of it.

The house at the end of Pelican Road was real, but boarded up and empty for years. A faded sign said it belonged to some trust Marsh had never heard of. He took photos, then spotted fresh tire tracks in the sand out back.

Marsh pried a board off a window and climbed inside. The house wasn't empty at all. The walls were covered in printed claim forms, dozens of them, each with a different name and the same three-day countdown.

Marsh photographed every form and ran for the police. But the officer who took his statement was named on one of those forms too — and according to Marsh's own files, that officer had drowned last spring. They knew his face now, and they weren't done.