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The county line passed beneath their wheels with nothing but a small green sign to mark it. Now Jenna and Jake were now officially out of their jurisdiction, pursuing a hunch based solely on her dream—something that wouldn’t hold up in any court or official report.

“We’re stepping on thin ice here,” Jake said, breaking the silence that had lingered since they’d left Trentville. “If Morgan finds out we’re poking around Cable County without telling him...”

“I know,” Jenna said, her eyes fixed on the approaching town. “But if we’re right, if Sandra Reeves is—” She couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence.

Jake nodded, understanding the unspoken. “And if we’re wrong, we make some casual excuse for being here? Or apologize for overstepping and go home with our tails between our legs?”

“I’m not wrong.” The certainty in her voice surprised even her. The dream had been too vivid, too detailed—Sandra’s terror, her flight through the darkness, the phonograph playing that old-time song. “I just can’t explain why I feel so sure about this one.”

The GPS directed them toward the outskirts of town, where warehouses and industrial buildings replaced the quaint storefronts of downtown Pinecrest. Melody Forge Studios stood between two larger structures, a converted warehouse with a modern glass entrance added to its brick facade.

“Not exactly what I pictured for a recording studio,” Jake observed as he pulled into the small parking lot where several cars were already parked.

They approached the glass doors, which slid open automatically.

The lobby was modestly furnished with vintage-inspired music posters and comfortable seating.

A man paced near the reception desk, phone pressed to his ear.

He looked up at their entrance, his expression shifting from hope to disappointment.

“I’ll call you back,” he said into the phone before pocketing it. “Can I help you?”

Jenna stepped forward, extending her hand. “Sheriff Jenna Graves, Genesius County. This is Deputy Hawkins.”

The man extended his hand towards them, an inquisitive look in his eyes. “I’m Tony Silke,” he said.

Tony was in his early forties, with thinning hair. His casual attire—jeans and a faded band t-shirt—contrasted with the anxious energy radiating from him.

“We’re looking for Sandra Reeves,” Jenna said, watching his reaction carefully. “Is she around?”

Tony seemed to wilt at the question, his shoulders drooping noticeably. “No,” he said, a note of worry creeping into his voice. “What’s this about? Did you two have a meeting scheduled with her?”

“No, we had just hoped to find her here,” Jenna replied.

“Uh, you said Sheriff? Genesius County? Has something happened?”

“We’re just following up on a case from our jurisdiction,” Jake said hastily. “We’d hoped to talk with Ms. Reeves about it.”

“You seem worried,” Jenna observed. “When was the last time you saw her?”

Tony sighed heavily, raking a hand through his hair in frustration. “The last time I saw Sandra was yesterday evening around seven,” he admitted. “She stayed behind to finish mixing a track. She was supposed to be here this morning for a session with a local band at nine.”

He paused, shaking his head slightly. “She’s never missed an appointment in the five years I’ve known her. I tried calling her phone—more times than I can count. It keeps going straight to voicemail.”

“And all of this is out of character for Sandra?” Jake asked gently.

Tony nodded emphatically. “Completely,” he confirmed. “Sandra’s always been reliable – it’s what she’s known for around here.” He paused before adding quietly, “She once came in sick as a dog because she didn’t want to let down a client who’d driven three hours for their session.”

Jenna offered Tony an encouraging nod and motioned for him to go on.

“I called the Pinecrest Police Department,” he confessed, frustration seeping into his tone. “But they didn’t seem too concerned. Told me adults go off-grid all the time, maybe she had a date, all that crap.”

His eyes darted towards the parking lot visible through the studio window. “But her car...the little blue sedan, it’s still out there in the lot.” His voice cracked slightly, “Something’s not right, I just know it.”

As Tony was explaining his concern, something across the lobby caught Jenna’s attention. Her breath caught in her throat. Sitting on a vintage table in the corner was an antique phonograph, its brass horn gleaming under the recessed lighting.

Tony gave Jenna and Jake a curious look. “But you said you’re from Genesius County? Why are you looking for Sandra? Do you know something about …?”

Barely registering that Tony was still speaking, Jenna moved toward the phonograph.

It was definitely the phonograph from her dream, she realized when she got closer. The polished wood base, the intricate floral pattern etched into the horn—every detail matched what she’d seen when Sandra visited her in her dream.

“Sheriff?” Jake’s voice sounded distant.

She turned back to find both men watching her, Jake with understanding, Tony looking confused.

“This phonograph,” she said, struggling to keep her voice steady. “Is it Sandra’s?”

Tony looked surprised by the question. “Yes, she bought it a few days ago. Bit of an impulse purchase, but she collects vintage audio equipment. Said it was too beautiful to pass up.”

Jenna carefully examined the device, noting the cylinder installed in the mechanism. “Does it work?”

“Surprisingly well for its age. Sandra had it playing yesterday before she left.” A small, sad smile crossed Tony’s face. “She was thrilled that it came with a few original cylinders.”

“What song is this?” Jenna asked, though she was sure she already knew the answer.

Tony stepped closer. “‘In the Good Old Summer Time,’ I think. One of those old standards. Sandra was particularly excited about that one—said it was in remarkable condition for something from the early 1900s.”

The confirmation sent ice through Jenna’s veins. There was no way she could have known that detail—she’d never even heard the song before the dream. Yet she could hear it now, playing in her memory, Sandra’s voice singing along to the crackling melody.

“Where did she get the phonograph?” Jake asked, picking up the investigative thread as Jenna composed herself.

“From an estate sale last weekend. Howard Mitchell’s collection. He started the Mitch’s Den chain of electronics stores, quite the collector of audio equipment through the ages. Passed away a while back, and his daughter finally got around to selling off his collection.”

Estate sale. The words resonated in Jenna’s mind.

“Do you know a ham radio operator named Marcus Derrick? He also bought something at that estate sale.”

Tony looked surprised. “I don’t know him personally, but Sandra mentioned running into him there. Said he was acting weird, all paranoid about modern technology. He bought some old radio set. I think she actually said vacuum tubes. What does this have to do with …?”

The connection solidified in Jenna’s mind. Two victims who had attended the same estate sale, both purchasing antique audio equipment. It wasn’t a coincidence. Surely the killer had been at that sale, watching, selecting.

Alarm spread across Tony’s face. “But didn’t I hear that Marcus Derrick was found dead somewhere?”

Jake stepped in smoothly. “We’re just following up on possible connections in an ongoing investigation, Mr. Silke. We can’t release any details yet.”

Tony wasn’t convinced. “This has something to do with Sandra disappearing, doesn’t it? Please—she’s not just my boss, she’s my friend.”

Jenna met his gaze, seeing the genuine concern there. “We’re going to do everything we can to find her. I promise you that.” The hollow reassurance tasted bitter on her tongue.

“Call us immediately if you hear from her,” Jake added, handing Tony a business card.

Tony nodded, clutching the card as if it was a lifeline. “Please find her. Please.”

Once they were out of earshot, Jake turned to Jenna.

“The phonograph from your dream,” he said quietly. “Exactly as you described it.”

“And the song.” Jenna shook her head, still processing. “I had never heard ‘In the Good Old Summer Time’ before the dream, Jake. I couldn’t have guessed that.”

They approached the blue sedan in the parking lot. Through the windows, Jenna could see a jacket thrown in the back but no keys, no handbag or other personal items.

“Looks like she never made it into her car,” Jenna said, mentally reconstructing the scene. “He must have been waiting for her when she left the building last night.”

Jake scanned the area. “If your dream was accurate about the rest, he accosted her and she tried to escape.”

“Yes, she remembered being chased.” Jenna closed her eyes briefly, recalling Sandra’s frantic description. A narrow passage. Darkness. The killer’s footsteps echoing behind her.

“That must be it,” she said, moving toward a tight passage between two buildings that fit the description, barely wide enough for a person to pass through.

Jenna and Jake found themselves hemmed in by towering brick walls on either side.

It was dim even in daylight, the high walls blocking most of the sun.

When they reached the other side, they found themselves standing in a small neglected courtyard.

Overgrown weeds pushed up through cracks in the concrete while graffiti adorned many of the walls.

Where could a fleeing woman hide in a place like this? Jenna struggled to remember what else Sandra had told her.

“That’s it,” Jenna said. Dominating this desolate space was an abandoned warehouse, its once vibrant brickwork now weathered and worn with age. “She said something about a warehouse.”

They hurried closer to the building, then Jenna saw it, a loading dock door that hung slightly open; suspended in an eternal state of partial welcome or farewell. It was raised enough for someone to slip under.

“That’s where she went,” Jenna said with certainty. “She made it this far, thought she’d found safety in there. Or more likely, she had no other choice. But that’s where he caught up with her …”

She stared at the open loading dock door, imagining Sandra’s final moments with painful clarity: running through the darkness, heart pounding, the sound of pursuit behind her.

The small opening under the loading dock door—a chance, a hope.

Ducking underneath, finding herself in the cavernous space of the abandoned warehouse.

Trying to hide among crates and discarded machinery, breath coming in gasps, straining to hear over the hammering of her own pulse.

But the killer had followed, methodical, unhurried. The final confrontation, the struggle. The cord tightening around her throat.

Jenna’s hand unconsciously rose to her own neck, feeling phantom pressure there.

Jake touched her arm, returning her to the present reality. “Jenna,” he said, “we can’t go in there. Not without Morgan. We’re already way over the line, and if this is a crime scene...”

“He secured her to something,” she said softly. “She said he tied her up to something hard and metallic, like he did with Marcus and the radio tower. I think that was after she was dead. Her spirit was confused, as they often are.”

“There could be something like that inside a warehouse. Do you think her body is still in there?”

“No. I don’t think that’s where he left her body. The symbolism of the radio tower mattered to him. But there are likely to be signs of her having been in that warehouse, something to show what happened.”

“All the more reason to call Morgan now, before we contaminate a potential crime scene.”

He was right, and Jenna knew it. The professional part of her—the sheriff, not the woman with inexplicable dreams—understood the protocols all too well. They’d already crossed numerous lines, operating outside their jurisdiction on the strength of her vision.

With a reluctant nod, she pulled out her phone and found Morgan’s number. She put the call on speaker, meeting Jake’s eyes as it rang.

“How do we explain this?” she whispered.

Jake gave a small, grim smile. “We don’t. We just tell him what he needs to know.”

Chief Morgan answered on the fourth ring, his gruff voice filling the courtyard. “Morgan here.”

Jenna took a deep breath. “Chief, it’s Sheriff Graves from Genesius County.”

“Sheriff.” There was a note of surprise in his voice. “What can I do for you this morning?”

There was no turning back now.

Jenna told him, “We have reason to believe that Marcus Derrick’s killer has claimed another victim here in Pinecrest.”