Page 12

Jake guided the patrol car through Trentville’s quiet streets toward Frank Doyle’s modest house at the edge of town.

Next to him, Jenna sat in contemplative silence, her profile illuminated by the occasional streetlights.

He found her attractive in a way that defied easy description—her sharp mind, her honesty, the mystery of her odd gifts, even the lines on her face that showed she had lived a complex and challenging life.

“You think Frank will have any insight on the case?” Jake asked, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between them.

Jenna turned slightly toward him. “Frank always has insight. Whether it’s what we want to hear is another matter entirely.”

Jake grinned. In the two years since he’d moved to Trentville from Kansas City, he’d come to respect the former sheriff’s straightforward approach.

Frank Doyle didn’t sugarcoat, didn’t equivocate.

He cut straight to the heart of matters with a precision born from decades of experience.

Frank had a way of seeing through pretense, of reading people with an accuracy that was almost unsettling.

Jake couldn’t help but wonder what Frank saw when he looked at him.

When Jake pulled into the driveway of the modest one-story house, a warm glow emanated from the windows, spilling onto the well-kept lawn.

“He’s expecting us,” Jenna said, nodding toward the porch light that had just flickered on.

They made their way up the path to the porch and before they could knock, the door swung open, revealing Frank Doyle’s tall frame.

“Come on in,” Frank said, his weathered face breaking into a warm smile that softened the deep lines etched by years under the Missouri sun.

Jake followed Jenna into the simple but comfortable home—furniture that invited you to sit, bookshelves lined with volumes on law enforcement and local history, and walls adorned with photographs and commendations that told the story of a life well-lived.

Frank gestured toward the kitchen. “I was just about to make that tea.”

The kitchen, like the rest of the house, was a testament to practicality. Clean countertops, a sturdy oak table with four chairs, and cookware that showed regular use. It wasn’t stylish, but it was undeniably homey.

Jake took a seat at the table, watching as Frank filled a kettle and set it on the stove.

“Mayor giving you grief about the TV interview?” Frank asked, his back to them as he reached for mugs from a cabinet.

Jenna sighed. “Claire’s concerned about public perception. She thinks a quick resolution will put minds at ease.”

“Got any viable suspects?” Frank asked.

“We’ve actually got one in custody in Pinecrest, but …” Jenna’s voice faded.

“I get the feeling you don’t think he’s good for it,” Frank said, finishing her thought.

“The evidence is circumstantial at best,” Jake offered.

Frank nodded, his gray eyes thoughtful as he gathered tea bags from a wooden box on the counter. “Sometimes circumstantial is all you get. But rushing to judgment rarely serves justice.”

The kettle began to whistle, its high-pitched sound cutting through the quiet kitchen. Frank moved it off the burner and poured steaming water into three mugs. The comforting aroma of chamomile and mint filled the air as he brought the mugs to the table.

Frank’s voice broke through the quiet, a gentle admonishment in his tone.

“Let these steep a bit,” he suggested, placing a steaming mug in front of both Jake and Jenna.

Then with a slight grunt, he bent down to pull out a dish from the refrigerator, its contents hidden by an opaque lid.

From one of the overhead cupboards that had seen better days, he pulled out a loaf of bread.

“From the looks of you two,” Frank said as he placed the items on the table, “You’ve forgotten to eat.”

Jake hadn’t realized how much his body craved sustenance until Frank pointed it out. The day had been long and arduous; food had been far from their minds.

Frank revealed what was in the dish - remains of a meatloaf that looked delicious. He also set out condiments along with plates and knives – an invitation to help themselves.

“You’re right,” Jake admitted quietly as he reached for a slice of bread. He layered on some meatloaf, added mustard and ketchup before capping it off with another slice of bread–a simple sandwich but one that promised to fill him up adequately.

He glanced over at Jenna who seemed to be following suit, albeit more slowly, her sandwich smaller.

Her movements were mechanical as if she was only eating because she knew she should rather than because she wanted to.

He wondered if this was how it would always be - them grabbing meals in between cases.

But as he took a bite of his sandwich, he realized that it had been worth waiting for. Frank’s meatloaf was excellent.

Frank sat down at the table, looking satisfied as they plunged in.

“That’s new,” he said, nodding toward the brooch pinned to Jenna’s uniform shirt. “Is that an opal?”

Her fingers moved to touch the brooch, a gesture that seemed almost unconscious. “It is. I found it in an abandoned well in Whispering Pines.”

“The result of a dream?” Frank asked.

Jenna nodded. “The ghost of a teen named Patricia Gaines led me to it. I’m still not sure why or what it means, but...”

“But you’re hoping it might be connected to Piper,” Frank finished for her, his voice gentle.

Jake observed the subtle shift in Jenna’s expression – the flicker of hope in her emerald eyes, quickly tempered by years of disappointment. He knew how deeply her twin sister’s disappearance had affected her, how it had shaped her entire life since that day twenty years ago.

“I took it to Mr. Tyler’s pawnshop,” Jenna continued. “First time I’d been there in ages. He couldn’t tell me anything about it. He doesn’t remember Piper buying it from him.”

“Did you show it to your mother?” Frank asked, lifting his mug to blow softly across the surface of the hot tea.

“Yes. She didn’t recognize it.”

The disappointment in her voice was subtle but unmistakable. Jake resisted the urge to reach out, to offer some physical comfort. Instead, he took a sip of his tea, letting the warm liquid soothe his throat.

“Frank, does it look familiar to you at all?” Jenna asked, her tone carefully neutral.

Frank studied the brooch for a long moment, his brow furrowed in concentration. Finally, he shook his head. “I can’t say that I’ve ever seen it before. But that doesn’t mean it’s not significant. Let’s put a pin in that for now. Tell me more about this body that was strapped to the radio tower.”

Jake watched as Jenna visibly shifted gears, her posture straightening as she slipped back into sheriff mode.

“Marcus Derrick, 42, lived in a mobile home outside of Pinecrest,” Jenna began. “Reclusive, paranoid about modern technology.”

“He’d recently purchased an old vacuum-tube ham radio set at Howard Mitchell’s estate sale,” Jake added.

“Which brings us to Harris Lynch,” Jenna said.

“Owner of Golden Legend Treasures in Pinecrest. Specializes in oddities and antiques, including old electronics. He had tried to buy that same ham-radio set from the estate sale. Lynch was angry about how Mitchell’s daughter sold the radio to Derrick instead of to him.

Colonel Spelling and the Pinecrest police chief consider him a likely suspect. ”

“But you don’t share their opinion,” Frank asked, a skeptical edge to his voice.

Jake exchanged a glance with Jenna. “The evidence is thin. “

“Doesn’t sound like much of a motive,” Frank said.

“No, and if the killer was Lynch,” Jenna replied, “it seems odd that he didn’t take the radio. It was still right there in Derrick’s mobile home.”

Frank took a long sip of his tea, his eyes thoughtful. “So you’ve got a paranoid recluse, a shopkeeper with a tenuous connection, and a body displayed in a way that suggests something more than a simple dispute over merchandise.”

“That about sums it up,” Jake said.

The conversation flowed smoothly between Jenna and Frank, years of shared experience creating a shorthand that Jake sometimes found himself envying.

They bounced theories back and forth, dissecting the case from every angle, challenging each other’s assumptions in a way that was both respectful and rigorous.

Jake contributed where he could, offering observations from their time in Pinecrest, but he found himself just quietly watching Jenna. In the warm light of Frank’s kitchen, with her guard lowered, she seemed different – not softer, exactly, but more accessible.

The determined sheriff was still there, but so was the woman who carried the weight of her sister’s absence, who sought connection and understanding in a world that had taken so much from her.

“The positioning of the body troubles me,” Frank said, pulling Jake’s attention back to the conversation. “Binding someone to a radio tower takes time, effort. It’s exposing yourself to potential discovery. Why take that risk?”

“Unless the display itself is the point,” Jenna suggested. “A statement of some kind.”

Frank nodded slowly. “Which raises the question – what statement could the killer be trying to make? And to whom? You think this could be the first of multiple killings?” It wasn’t really a question, and Frank didn’t treat it as one.

“Ritual displays like this are rarely one-and-done. There’s purpose behind them, a narrative the killer is trying to tell, a message to get out. ”

He looked directly at Jenna. “You need to be prepared for the possibility that Derrick is just the opening chapter.”

Jake watched as Jenna absorbed this, saw the subtle tightening around her eyes that betrayed her concern.

“Harris Lynch is the type that might get rough in a fit of passion,” she said finally. “But he doesn’t fit the profile of someone planning a series of murders.”

“No,” Frank agreed. “He doesn’t sound like it.”

They fell into silence for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts.

“If we’re dealing with a potential serial killer,” Jake said, breaking the silence, “what’s our next move?”

“Re-examine everything,” Frank advised. “Look deeper into Derrick’s background, his connections. Serial killers choose their victims for a reason, even if that reason only makes sense to them. It could even be impersonal in an important sense—someone who just happens to fulfill a purpose.”

Jenna nodded, reaching for her mug. “We’ll need to go back through his ham radio logs, see who he was communicating with. Maybe there’s something there we missed.”

As the conversation continued, Jake became increasingly aware of Frank’s gaze occasionally shifting to him.

There was something knowing in the older man’s eyes, a hint of recognition that made Jake uncomfortable.

Was he that transparent? Could Frank see right through him to the feelings he harbored for Jenna – feelings he’d tried to keep professional, appropriate?

The realization brought a flush of warmth to Jake’s face. He reached for his mug, using the action to break eye contact with Frank, who had the decency to suppress what might have been a smile.

As their meeting wound down, Jake saw the change in Jenna’s demeanor. The tension that had been evident after their confrontation with Mayor Simmons had eased. Frank’s steady presence, his practical wisdom, had centered her in a way that Jake recognized but couldn’t quite replicate himself.

“It’s getting late,” Jenna finally said, glancing at her watch. “We should head out.”

She got up and helped Frank clear the table. Jake offered to wash dishes, but Frank waved them away.

“Go home,” he ordered. “Rest.” He walked them to the door, his tall frame still straight despite his years. “Keep me posted,” he said. “And Jenna—” he hesitated, then continued, “—sometimes what we’re looking for isn’t where we expect to find it.”

Jake wasn’t sure if Frank was referring to the case or to something more personal, but he saw Jenna nod in apparent understanding.

The drive back to Jenna’s house was quiet, both of them processing the evening’s discussion. The streets of Trentville were nearly deserted, most of the town already settled in for the night. Streetlights cast pools of yellow light at regular intervals, creating a rhythm as they drove.

“Do you feel another dream coming on?” Jake asked finally, breaking the silence.

He’d initially been disturbed when Jenna first told him about her unusual gift – her ability to communicate with the dead through lucid dreams. But over time, he’d come to understand the burden it placed on her, the responsibility she felt toward those who sought her out.

Jenna didn’t answer immediately. When she did, her voice was thoughtful. “I’m not sure. They don’t exactly work on a schedule.”

“But if you could,” Jake pressed gently, “would you want to speak with Derrick again?”

She turned to look at him, her eyes shaded in the dim light of the car.

“Part of me hopes I can. Maybe I could get him to trust me enough to tell me more about who did this to him.” She paused.

“But another part dreads the possibility that the next dead person to visit me might be another victim we haven’t found yet. ”

“We’ll find whoever did this,” Jake said, the promise in his voice firm and sincere. “Before they can hurt anyone else.”