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“A woman,” Jenna repeated Chief Morgan’s words about another body bound to a radio tower. “Then it was …”

Morgan’s face hardened as he pocketed his phone. “Colonel Spelling reported that they’ve found Sandra Reeves’s body at the Ridgeline Radio Tower in Cable County. Just like you predicted, Sheriff Graves.”

“The killer’s repeating his pattern,” she said, keeping her voice professional, stripped of emotion.

Morgan’s eyes narrowed, the gray in them hardening to slate. “What I can’t figure out is how you knew that something had happened to her in this warehouse. She had barely been reported missing and her body was just found fifteen miles northeast of here.”

The question they’d all been avoiding now lay exposed between them, raw and demanding.

“It’s called good police work, Chief,” Jake said, stepping slightly forward, as if to physically shield Jenna from Morgan’s scrutiny. “Sometimes you follow the evidence, sometimes you follow your gut.”

Morgan’s skeptical gaze flicked between them. “That’s one hell of a gut, Deputy.” He turned to stare at the warehouse entrance, where shafts of morning light cut through the gloom.

He turned back, his expression now all business. “Ridgeline Tower is on an access road off Highway 23. I’m heading there now. Spelling wants all hands on this.”

He raised his voice, addressing the officers still documenting the warehouse scene. “Peterson, you’re in charge here. I want everything photographed, bagged, and tagged. Full inventory. Nothing leaves this building without my say-so.”

A young officer nodded sharply. “Yes, sir.”

Morgan’s gaze returned to Jenna, lingered for a beat too long. “I’ll see you both at the tower.”

He strode out, his departure stirring the dust into lazy spirals.

Jenna exhaled slowly, tension ebbing from her shoulders.

She and Jake also walked outside, squinting in the brightness of late morning.

The sun was well up now, the sky a clear, indifferent blue.

She glanced back at the warehouse, a squat, unremarkable building that now held the record of a nightmare.

They made their way between buildings, back to the parking lot in front of the music studio. Jake unlocked their cruiser, the beep of the remote unnaturally cheerful.

“I’ll drive,” he said, a statement rather than an offer.

Jenna slid into the passenger seat without protest. Her mind was already racing ahead to the tower, to the body she knew would be there, posed like Marcus Derrick’s had been.

“Morgan’s not going to let this go,” Jake said as he pulled away from the parking lot.

“No, he’s not.”

“What are you going to tell him?”

She almost laughed at the impossibility of it. “That I dream about dead people? That Sandra Reeves came to me last night and told me how to find the place where she was attacked?”

Jake glanced at her, then back at the road. “When you put it that way...”

“Exactly.” She sighed, rubbing her temples where a headache threatened. “I think we stick with intuition and good detective work for now.”

“And if he pushes?”

“Then I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.”

They fell silent as the town gave way to scattered houses, then woodland.

Jake turned onto Highway 23. After a mile, a small green sign indicated the turnoff for Ridgeline Tower.

The access road wound upward through dense pine forest, the asphalt cracked and patched from years of freeze-thaw cycles.

As they climbed higher, the trees thinned, revealing glimpses of the valley below.

The tower came into view gradually—first the blinking red lights at its apex, then the latticed red-and-white structure itself, stark against the blue sky.

Something cold settled in Jenna’s stomach as she looked at it.

“You okay?” Jake asked, noticing her sudden stillness.

“Fine,” she replied automatically, then amended: “No. Not really.”

The road widened as they neared the summit, revealing a small plateau cleared of trees. It was already crowded with vehicles—State Police cruisers, the medical examiner’s van, forensic units, and several unmarked cars that likely belonged to senior officers.

A large white evidence tent had been erected at the base of the tower. Officers in various uniforms moved purposefully around the site, their expressions grim.

Jake parked behind Morgan’s SUV and cut the engine. “Here we go,” he said quietly.

The air was cooler here in the forest at this elevation, with a breeze that carried the scent of pine and, underneath it, something clinical—the smell of crime scene chemicals already at work.

An officer Jenna didn’t recognize approached, clipboard in hand. “Sheriff Graves? Colonel Spelling said to expect you.”

He lifted the yellow crime scene tape for them to duck under, then led them toward the tent. “The medical examiner’s still working. It’s... it’s not pretty in there.”

As they approached the tent, Colonel Spelling emerged, his tall figure blocking the entrance momentarily. His uniform was impeccable as always, but his face showed the strain of the morning.

“Sheriff Graves, Deputy Hawkins,” he acknowledged them with a nod. “Glad you could make it quickly.”

“What do we know so far, Colonel?” Jenna asked, slipping easily into the professional rapport they’d established over previous cases.

“Female victim, preliminary ID confirms it’s Sandra Reeves, 48, owner of Melody Forge Studios.

” Spelling’s voice was measured, clinical.

“Discovered at 0745 by a maintenance worker conducting routine checks on the tower’s warning lights.

Cause of death appears to be strangulation, consistent with your first victim. ”

“And the positioning?” Jake asked.

“See for yourself.” Spelling held open the tent flap. “But brace yourselves.”

Inside, portable floodlights created harsh islands of brightness in the otherwise dim space. The air was tinged with the copper scent of blood and the sharper notes of disinfectant and latex.

Sandra Reeves’s body was suspended from the tower’s framework, just off the ground.

Her arms were splayed wide, bound at the wrists with copper wire that glinted dully in the artificial light.

Her legs were similarly bound, stretched downward in a grotesque parody of a star.

Her head hung forward, dark auburn hair obscuring her face.

Jenna’s breath caught.

The Cable County coroner and his assistant were carefully cutting through the bindings, while a third person photographed each step of the process.

“Time of death?” Jenna asked, her voice steadier than she felt.

The coroner, a thin man with wire-rimmed glasses, glanced over his shoulder. “Preliminary estimate puts it between midnight and 3 AM. I’ll know more after the autopsy.”

As the assistant shifted position, Sandra’s face became visible. Despite the discoloration and the vacant stare, she was recognizable as the vibrant woman whose photograph had hung in her studio—the woman who had visited Jenna’s dream with urgent, fragmentary messages.

“We knew her,” the coroner said softly, pausing in his work. “My wife used to buy her records, back when she was touring. Said she had the voice of an angel.”

The simple humanity of the comment hit Jenna harder than the clinical details had. Sandra Reeves was not just a victim, a body, a case. She had been a person with a life, with fans, with a voice that had touched others.

They watched in respectful silence as Sandra’s body was finally freed from its macabre display and gently lowered onto a waiting gurney. The coroner covered her with a white sheet, the fabric settling with a soft finality.

Colonel Spelling gestured toward the exit. “Let’s continue outside.”

The sunshine felt almost obscene after the grim tableau within the tent. Jenna blinked against the brightness, momentarily disoriented by the transition.

Chief Morgan was waiting a few yards away, deep in conversation with a State Police detective. When he spotted them emerging, he broke off mid-sentence and strode over.

“I need a word,” he said, his voice tight with barely contained frustration. His gaze locked on Jenna. “Now.”

Then Morgan turned toward Spelling.

“With all due respect, Colonel, there’s something not right here.

” Morgan’s neck had flushed red above his collar.

“Sheriff Graves somehow knew about this victim before the body was discovered. Somehow knew exactly where to find the place where she was taken. I’m supposed to just accept that it’s all coincidence and good police work? ”

His words cut through the ambient noise of the crime scene, drawing the attention of nearby officers who tried to appear busy while clearly listening.

Jenna felt exposed, pinned by Morgan’s accusation and the curious glances now directed their way. The moment she had dreaded had arrived, and she found herself without a plausible explanation.

“Chief Morgan,” she began, not knowing how she would finish the sentence.

To her surprise, Colonel Spelling stepped forward, physically positioning himself between her and Morgan. “Chief, I’ve worked with Sheriff Graves on multiple cases over the past several years. Her methods may be unconventional, but her results speak for themselves.”

Morgan wasn’t mollified. “Unconventional is one thing. But don’t try to tell me she’s a psychic or something. We all know that psychic is a fake, a cover.”

“I never claimed to be psychic,” Jenna said, finding her voice. “I follow leads, make connections. Sometimes I see patterns before they’re obvious to others.”

“Bullshit,” Morgan said flatly. “You knew things no one could know without either being involved or—”

“That’s enough,” Spelling interrupted, his voice carrying the unmistakable command of his rank. “We have two murders with identical signatures. We have a killer targeting people connected to vintage audio equipment. That’s where our focus needs to be right now.”

The authority in his tone seemed to penetrate Morgan’s anger. The Chief’s shoulders lowered slightly, though the suspicion remained clear in his eyes.

“What’s this about audio equipment?” he asked after a moment.

Jenna seized the opening to shift the conversation. “Sandra Reeves recently purchased an antique phonograph from Howard Mitchell’s estate sale. Marcus Derrick bought a vacuum-tube ham radio from the same source.”

“How do you know that about Sandra Reeves?” Morgan asked, still skeptical.

“We interviewed Tony Silke at Melody Forge,” Jake supplied. “He mentioned the purchase. Said Sandra was excited about it, wanted to record the pure analog sound.”

Spelling nodded thoughtfully. “So we have a clear connection between the victims—both purchased vintage audio equipment from the same source.”

“Howard Mitchell’s collection,” Jenna confirmed. “His daughter Rebecca is handling the estate sale. She may have records of other purchases that could help us identify potential targets … or even the perpetrator. We need to go back there and find out.”

The practical focus on evidence and connections seemed to restore some normalcy to the interaction. Morgan’s posture relaxed further, though his gaze remained wary when it rested on Jenna.

“Alright,” Spelling said, taking charge with his usual assumption of authority. “Chief Morgan and I will head to Melody Forge Studios to interview staff and look for anything that might help establish a timeline or motive.”

He turned to Jenna and Jake. “You two should do what you’ve suggested, revisit Rebecca Mitchell. Find out who else purchased items from the estate, particularly anything related to audio equipment or broadcasting. We need to get ahead of this killer before he chooses a third victim.”

The clear division of tasks dispersed some of the tension that had built up during Morgan’s confrontation. Officers returned to their duties, the buzz of activity resuming around the crime scene.

Jenna felt a curious mixture of relief and unease.

Spelling’s intervention had deflected Morgan’s questions, but the Colonel’s defense of her “unconventional methods” suggested he might have his own suspicions about her abilities.

Whether that made him an ally or another potential problem remained to be seen.

As they prepared to leave, the medical examiner’s team wheeled Sandra’s gurney toward the waiting ambulance. The white sheet covering her body glowed in the sunlight, an unnaturally pure spot against the earthy tones of the clearing.

Jenna watched them load the gurney into the ambulance, a profound sense of failure washing over her. Sandra had come to her in the dream, had shown her the warehouse, had tried to communicate something vital—but too late to save her life.

“Why do they only reach out after they’re gone?” she murmured, not realizing she’d spoken aloud until Jake answered.

“Maybe that’s just how it works,” he said quietly, standing close enough that only she could hear. “Or maybe they’re trying to help stop the next one.”

The ambulance doors closed with a soft thud. Inside was a woman who had once filled venues with her voice, who had nurtured local talent, who had, in death, reached across some unfathomable divide to connect with Jenna.

“We’d better not let her down,” Jenna said.