The missing twins case had already cost her family time she couldn’t afford, her marriage hanging by a thread she kept forgetting to mend. But tonight, a new witness had come forward: a retired ferryman named Joe, who claimed he saw a small boat launch from the private jetty behind the Medwin Hotel on the night the boys disappeared.

Lisa didn’t sleep. She stared at the photo until dawn, when Med called with an ID from the phone’s last ping—a cottage on the edge of the bay, registered to a former police superintendent.

The rain hadn’t stopped for three days. Morecambe Bay looked less like a vista and more like a bruise—gray and swollen. DS Lisa Armstrong stood at the edge of the promenade, her coat clinging to her like guilt.

And Lisa Armstrong, rain streaming down her face, got back in the car. She knew the bay would take more from her before it gave anything back.

“Episode 5,” Med whispered. “We just declared war on our own.”

They drove in silence. The landfill was a forgotten wound on the bay’s edge—closed years ago, but still reeking of decay and secrets. Under a flickering security light, they found tire tracks. Fresh. And snagged on a rusted fence post: a strip of purple fabric, identical to the jacket the younger twin wore in his school photo.

But Med hesitated. “Lisa, if we find them here… and the family’s uncle is connected to the Medwin’s owner—this goes higher than we thought.”