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Frank’s bungalow welcomed them like an old friend as morning sunlight filtered through the kitchen windows. Jenna cradled her coffee mug between both hands while Frank leaned back in his chair, absorbing every detail of the case she and Jake had just laid out for him.

“So that’s it,” Frank said. “Barrett’s victims—they were people he thought were ‘antennas’ for a cosmic message he needed to hear?”

“That’s what the psychiatrist thinks,” Jenna said.

She set her mug down on the sturdy oak table.

“Barrett came to believe there’s some sort of a signal trying to break through, and certain people could help amplify it.

Back when he was working as an engineer at Astral Voices, he became fixated on Diana Wells—the Midnight Voice, but she ignored him.

When the station shut down, something in him just.. .broke.” “

“His evaluation could take weeks,” Jake added. “But there’s no doubt he’ll be found incompetent to stand trial.”

Frank nodded solemnly. “You two did good work. Not just solving the case, but understanding what drove him. That’s the mark of real police work.”

He reached for the coffee pot and topped off their mugs. The rich aroma filled the kitchen.

The conversation drifted toward more mundane matters—the upcoming town council meeting, a fishing tournament Frank was considering entering, the unusual weather pattern that had settled over Genesius County. It felt normal, and after the past few days, Jenna treasured the ordinary moment.

When she and Jake finally rose to leave, Frank walked them to the door.

“Don’t be strangers,” he said, clasping Jake’s shoulder firmly. “And take tomorrow off too, both of you. Sheriff’s orders.”

“You’re not the sheriff anymore,” Jenna reminded him with a smile.

Frank’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Old habits.”

As Jenna drove back toward Jake’s house, they were both quiet at first, the silence comfortable rather than strained.

“Frank hasn’t changed a bit,” Jake said. “Still sees everything, doesn’t he?”

“That’s what made him such a good sheriff,” Jenna replied.

Jake turned to look at her, his sandy hair catching the light. “Is that what makes you a good sheriff too? Seeing what others miss?”

“Sometimes I see too much,” she answered honestly. “And sometimes, not enough.”

His gaze lingered on her profile before he turned back to the window.

Jenna navigated through the familiar streets of Trentville, passing the turn that would take her to the Sheriff’s office.

They were taking today day off. Jake’s house appeared around the bend, a modest one-story with a neatly kept yard.

Jenna pulled into the driveway and put the cruiser in park, the engine idling softly.

“Thanks for the ride,” Jake said, making no immediate move to leave.

“Anytime,” Jenna replied, her hands still on the wheel.

The moment stretched between them, taut with unspoken words. Jake shifted in his seat, clearing his throat.

“Listen, Jenna...” he began, then paused, searching for the right words. “With a day off—I was thinking maybe we could—”

“Jake,” she interrupted gently, turning to face him fully. The sun illuminated the angles of his face, highlighting the fatigue that still lingered beneath his steady gaze. “Let’s just take a real day off. Sleep. Recover. We both need it.”

Disappointment flickered across his features before understanding replaced it. “You’re right. Rain check?”

“Rain check,” she confirmed, offering a smile that felt both genuine and guarded.

He reached for the door handle, then hesitated. In one swift motion, he leaned across the center console and pressed a warm kiss on her cheek. Before she could react, he was out of the car, the door closing behind him with a solid thud.

Jenna sat frozen, the ghost of his kiss warm on her skin. Through the windshield, she watched him walk to his front door, confidence in his stride. He turned at the threshold, raising a hand in a casual wave before disappearing inside.

Her heart thrumming an unfamiliar rhythm, Jenna backed out of the driveway, her mind replaying the brief moment of contact. Frank’s words from their conversation days ago echoed in her thoughts: “It’s obvious Jake has feelings for you. And if I’m not mistaken, you feel the same way about him.”

She shook her head. There would be time to consider what had just happened—what it meant, what she wanted it to mean. But not now.

Jenna directed the cruiser toward her mother’s house, the familiar route requiring little conscious thought. She hadn’t planned this visit, but after everything that had happened, checking on her mother felt necessary.

The front yard of her childhood home looked better than it had in years. The flower beds had been weeded, and fresh mulch surrounded the perennials that had somehow survived years of neglect. Jenna parked at the curb, noting a familiar truck—Zeke Canfield’s—in the driveway.

A burst of laughter greeted her as she approached the front door, the sound so unexpected and rare that she paused with her hand on the knob.

Inside, she found her mother seated at the kitchen table, a genuine smile lighting her face as Zeke gestured animatedly, finishing what appeared to be a humorous story.

“Jenna!” her mother exclaimed, the surprise in her voice mixed with pleasure rather than apprehension. “We were just having coffee. Join us?”

“I’d love to, but I can’t stay long,” she said, accepting a quick hug from her mother, noting the absence of alcohol on her breath. “I just wanted to check in.”

“I’m doing really good,” her mother said, exchanging a look with Zeke that spoke of shared understanding. “The meeting yesterday was... it was what I needed.”

He commented with quiet pride as he looked at Margaret. “Your mom’s got grit. Spoke up at her first meeting—most folks take weeks to work up to that.”

Jenna studied her mother’s face, seeing the subtle changes that sobriety, even this new and fragile, brought to her features. The puffiness around her eyes had diminished, and there was a clarity in her gaze that Jenna hadn’t seen in years.

“I’m proud of you, Mom,” she said simply.

Margaret squeezed her hand, her grip surprisingly strong. “Zeke says there’s another meeting tomorrow evening. I’m going to that one too.”

“One day at a time,” Zeke added, the familiar AA mantra delivered without pretension.

Jenna recognized the moment for what it was—a beginning, not a miracle. Her mother had tried sobriety before, but something felt different this time. Perhaps it was Zeke’s steady presence, or perhaps Margaret had finally reached her own turning point.

“I should go,” Jenna said. “I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

“You look tired, honey,” her mother observed. “That case you were working on—is it finished?”

“It is,” Jenna confirmed, not volunteering details her mother didn’t need to hear. “I’ll tell you all about it some other time. I’m headed home to get more rest.”

She left them with promises to call later, feeling a curious lightness as she walked back to her car. The weight of worry about her mother, which had been her constant companion for so many years, seemed momentarily lifted.

The drive to her own home took less than ten minutes. Her small bungalow stood quiet and waiting, offering the solitude she suddenly craved. Inside, the rooms were cool and still, exactly as she’d left them days ago.

Jenna moved through her familiar space, dropping her keys on the kitchen counter, checking the nearly empty refrigerator out of habit rather than hunger. The events of the morning—Frank’s wisdom, Jake’s kiss, her mother’s progress—swirled in her mind, demanding analysis and consideration.

But exhaustion crashed over her in a sudden wave. The previous night’s sleep, while restorative, hadn’t erased the deep fatigue.

She kicked off her shoes and sank onto her bed fully clothed, not bothering to draw the curtains against the sun.

***

Darkness claimed her first, then the cold.

It seeped through her clothes and into her bones.

Jenna knew, with the strange certainty that came with lucid dreaming, that she was no longer in her bed, no longer in her home, perhaps no longer in her time.

Somewhere beyond the reach of her vision, hushed voices murmured in urgent, desperate tones.

She tried to move, to orient herself in the pitch blackness. Her feet slipped slightly on what felt like wet stone, her hands extended before her, grasping at nothing. The darkness was absolute, a void that swallowed her whole.

“Hello?” she called, her voice sounding muffled and strangely flat, as if the space around her absorbed sound itself. “I’m here. I can hear you.”

The murmuring intensified, a dozen voices or more, speaking over each other in frantic whispers. She couldn’t make out individual words, just the rising tide of desperation in their collective sound.

In these lucid dreams, she sometimes had a measure of control, could sometimes guide the interaction. She concentrated on the voices, trying to separate one from the cacophony.

“Please,” she said, more firmly this time. “One at a time. I can’t understand you when you all speak together.”

The whispers didn’t cease, but they seemed to recede slightly. Jenna felt a shifting of air that suggested bodies moving around her.

“I’m Sheriff Jenna Graves,” she tried again. “I’m here to help if I can.”

A single voice spoke near her ear: “No badge matters here.”

She spun toward the sound. “Where is ‘here’?” she asked. “What is this place?”

The answer came as a collective moan. Jenna fought the urge to retreat, reminding herself that her physical body was safe in her bed. This was just a dream, a communication, nothing more.

“What do you want me to know?” she asked, trying to sound calmer than she felt. “Why have you brought me here?”

The whispers swelled again, a tide of anxiety breaking against her. She caught fragments now—” taken,” “forgotten,” “help us.”

“I need more,” she insisted. “I can’t help if I don’t understand.”

Then, without warning, a scratching sound pierced the darkness. It was so mundane, so ordinary, that it took Jenna a moment to recognize it—the sound of a match being struck against its box.

A tiny flame burst to life a few feet away from her, illuminating a face in sharp relief.

It was a man, perhaps in his forties, though weariness had aged him prematurely.

Deep shadows pooled beneath his eyes, and a week’s growth of beard roughened his hollow cheeks.

His eyes reflected the match light, twin points of desperate hope in the darkness.

“They are collecting people,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper.

The small flame cast just enough light for Jenna to glimpse stone walls that glistened with moisture. Huddled shapes—people—crowded around her, their faces appearing and disappearing at the edges of the match light.

“Who?” Jenna demanded, taking a step toward the man with the match. “Who is collecting people? For what purpose?”

The man opened his mouth to answer, but the match sputtered, the flame dancing wildly as it consumed the last of its fuel. Then the flame winked out.

“No,” she protested, trying to hold onto the dream, to force herself deeper into the lucid state. “Come back!”

But the spirits were gone.

Jenna felt the weight of her own body again, the softness of her bed beneath her, the late afternoon sunlight warm on her face. She pushed herself up on her elbows, the memory of the dream still vivid.

“They are collecting people,” she murmured, repeating the spirit’s words. What did it mean? Who were “they,” and who was being collected? And what could she possibly help? A new challenge opened up in front of her, bringing with it a sinking sense of dread.