Page 12 of In Her Fears (Jenna Graves #8)

The convoy of law enforcement vehicles wound through the twisting roads of Whispering Pines Forest, their emergency lights cutting silently through dappled shadows cast by the dense canopy overhead. Jenna sat in the passenger seat of the lead car, her body rigid with tension.

The forest passed in a green blur, sunlight occasionally breaking through to create bright patches on the winding asphalt. They were heading toward coordinates that Billy Schmidt had texted—toward what Jenna increasingly feared would be confirmation of her worst suspicions.

“You think it’s her, don’t you?” Jake asked, his hands tight on the steering wheel as he navigated a particularly sharp curve.

Jenna nodded, her gaze fixed on the road ahead. "I can feel it," she said quietly. "Ever since that dream... It's like I've been one step behind something terrible."

The forest grew thicker around them, the towering pines pressing close to the narrow road.

In her exhausted state, Jenna found the scenery taking on an almost dreamlike quality—the sunlight filtering through branches in wavering patterns, the endless repetition of tree trunks sliding past like bars of a cage.

“Two miles ahead,” Jake reported, checking the GPS. “Looks like the road ends at a small parking area. We’ll probably have to go on foot from there.”

Jenna couldn’t shake the image from her dream—blood spreading across blank canvases, the woman’s words echoing in her mind: “Find him, before he makes another masterpiece.” Surely she’d been trying to warn her about Alexis, about this exact moment, but Jenna had been too slow to understand, too late to act.

The convoy slowed as the road narrowed further, finally emerging into a small clearing that served as a primitive parking area. Several vehicles were already there—a Forest Service truck, an unmarked car, and a sedan that likely belonged to the hiker who had made the grim discovery.

Billy Schmidt stood beside his truck, his weathered face grave beneath the brim of his ranger hat. As Jenna climbed out of the car, he approached with quick strides.

“Sheriff,” he greeted her, his handshake firm. “Thanks for getting here so fast.”

“What’s the situation, Billy?” Jenna asked, professional focus temporarily overriding her exhaustion.

“The body’s about a quarter mile in,” Billy explained, gesturing toward a narrow trail that disappeared into the treeline. “Old hunting lodge that’s been abandoned since the early 2000s. Hiker found her this morning, called it in right away.”

More vehicles pulled into the clearing—additional officers, followed by the coroner’s van. Jenna spotted Dr. Stark emerging from the passenger side.

“Melissa,” Jenna called, waiting for the coroner to join them. “Thanks for coming out so quickly.”

“Of course,” Melissa replied. “Billy gave me a brief description over the phone. Sounds like we’re looking at a homicide.”

Billy nodded. “Two of my guys are securing the scene. The hiker—a man named Grant Mosher—is pretty shaken up. Tim Weber’s with him now. He said he recognized the victim but didn’t know her name. That’s all we’ve gotten from him.”

“Let’s go,” Jenna said, already moving toward the trail.

Their small group followed Billy into the forest, the path barely wide enough for two to walk abreast. The morning air was cool beneath the canopy, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth. Under different circumstances, Jenna might have found it peaceful.

“The lodge was built in the 1930s,” Billy explained as they walked. “Used to be the hub for hunting parties before this became protected land. Been sitting empty for some twenty years now.”

“Visited often?” Jake asked.

"Occasionally, by hikers, teenagers looking for a place to drink," Billy replied. "Forest Service checks it periodically, but it's off the main trails. Last inspection was about three months ago."

The path curved around a stand of younger trees, and suddenly the hunting lodge came into view in a small clearing.

It was a solid structure of weathered logs with a steep-pitched roof, the kind of rustic building that had once represented frontier craftsmanship but now stood as a relic of another era.

Two ranger vehicles were parked at the edge of the clearing. Pete Lessing, one of Billy’s deputies, stood guard at the entrance to the lodge. A few yards away, another forest service deputy, Tim Webber, sat on a fallen log beside a man in hiking clothes who had his head in his hands.

"That's Mosher," Billy said, nodding toward the hiker, who regularly uses these trails. Nice guy, insurance adjuster in Trentville. Comes out here every Wednesday morning."

Jenna nodded. She vaguely recognized the name but hadn’t ever spoken with Mosher personally. “I’ll talk to him in a bit,” she said, her attention focused on the lodge. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with first.”

Pete nodded grimly as they approached. “It’s bad in there, Sheriff. Nothing disturbed, as far as we can tell. Everything’s just how Mosher found it.”

“Thanks, Pete,” Jenna said, steeling herself.

The old wooden door creaked as Billy pushed it open. A wave of cool, stale air washed over them, carrying the musty scent of abandonment. As they stepped inside, Jenna’s eyes took a moment to adjust to the dimness after the bright morning outside.

The main room stretched before them, illuminated by shafts of light penetrating through gaps in the boarded windows and holes in the roof. Dust motes danced in those beams, creating an almost ethereal atmosphere that contrasted sharply with the horror at the center of the room.

A woman hung from the massive central beam, suspended by her wrists, bound tightly above her head.

Her toes barely cleared the rough wooden floor.

She wore a pale blue sundress, the fabric swaying slightly in the disturbed air from their entrance.

Her dark hair cascaded down, partially obscuring her face, but Jenna didn't need to see her features to know who it was.

“We haven’t been able to identify her yet,” Billy said, his voice hushed in the stillness of the lodge. “No ID on the body or in the immediate area.”

Jenna stepped forward, conscious of each board creaking beneath her weight. The sound seemed to echo in the cavernous space, bouncing off the stone fireplace and log walls. Dr. Stark moved with her, medical bag in hand, already assessing the scene with professional detachment.

As they drew closer, Jenna could see the bindings around the victim’s wrists—not rope as she had initially thought, but what appeared to be thin wire, cutting cruelly into the skin. The woman’s head was bowed forward, her face now visible beneath the curtain of dark hair.

The familiar features hit Jenna like a physical blow. Even in death, Alexis Downey’s face retained traces of the warmth and vitality that had made her so beloved at the Sunflower Café.

“It’s Alexis Downey,” Jenna said, her voice steady despite the emotion threatening to overwhelm her. “The missing woman we’ve been searching for.”

Pulling on latex gloves, Melissa moved closer, examining the body without touching it. “Livor mortis suggests she’s been dead for at least eight to ten hours,” she observed.

Jenna forced herself to look at the scene with professional eyes, to see past the horror to the evidence that might lead them to whoever had done this.

There was something performative about the display—Alexis suspended like some macabre artwork, positioned to be found, to be seen just like Martin Holbrook staked to the tree in Pinecrest Cemetery.

“He’s making his masterpieces,” Jenna murmured, the words from her dream finding terrible new meaning.

“What was that?” Melissa asked, turning toward her.

Jenna shook her head slightly. “Nothing.” She turned to address the group. “I want every inch of this place processed. Footprints, fibers, whatever might lead us to whoever did this.”

As the team began to mobilize around her, Jenna took one final look at Alexis.

The young woman who had always greeted her with a smile at the café, who had been planning a future with Ryan Kimball, who had spent her last evening looking at the moon through a telescope named Galileo—reduced now to a grotesque display, which was perhaps someone’s twisted idea of art.

“I’m sorry we were too late,” Jenna whispered, too quietly for anyone else to hear. “But I will find whoever did this to you.”

Whatever connection existed between this death and Martin Holbrook’s, Jenna would uncover it. The dream had been a warning, and though she’d failed to decipher it in time to save Alexis, she wouldn’t fail again.

Outside, the forest continued its indifferent existence—birds calling from the branches, sunlight filtering through leaves, the gentle whisper of wind through the pines. Nature's cycle persisted, even as human lives were cut brutally short.

Jenna stepped out of the lodge, squinting at the sunlight that pierced through the canopy.

Her gaze settled on Grant Mosher, still seated on the fallen log, his head in his hands.

She approached him quietly, her boots crunching softly over twigs and dry leaves.

When he saw her arrive, the forest service deputy who had been talking with the distraught man got to his feet and stood aside.

“Mr. Mosher?” she called gently as she got closer, careful not to startle him. He lifted his head slowly, revealing eyes red-rimmed with shock and fatigue.

“Yeah,” Mosher replied hoarsely, as if speaking required effort.

“I’m Sheriff Jenna Graves,” she said, crouching down to meet his eye level. “I know this must be difficult for you, but can you tell me what happened?”

Grant nodded slowly, taking a deep breath before beginning.

"I was just hiking like I always do on Wednesdays," he said, voice trembling slightly.

"The air was crisp... felt good to be out here.

I often stop at this old hunting lodge to rest a little.

And when I went inside, that was when I found her. I contacted Ranger Schmidt right away."

Grant’s palpable shock told Jenna that he was in no way guilty.

“You did exactly what you should have done,” she reassured him softly.

Grant's eyes met hers then, filled with gratitude yet haunted by what they had witnessed inside that lodge.

"Thank you for telling me," she said sincerely. "If you remember any other details, get in touch with me right away." He just nodded, and Jenna rose back onto her feet with renewed determination.

The hunt had begun.

She stepped outside the lodge, her phone already in hand. The sunlight was harsh, a stark contrast to the dim horror within. She dialed Colonel Spelling, pacing along the edge of the clearing as she waited for him to pick up.

“Spelling here,” came his voice, steady and authoritative through the line.

“Colonel, it’s Jenna Graves,” she began, keeping her tone professional despite the turmoil inside.

“We’ve got a situation at the old hunting lodge in Whispering Pines Forest. A woman’s been murdered—Alexis Downey from Trentville.

The scene... in some ways it’s disturbingly similar to Martin Holbrook’s. ”

There was a pause on the other end, just long enough for Jenna to hear Spelling processing this information with weary resolve.

“Damn,” he muttered softly before continuing more formally. “I’m not far from there—was heading toward Trentville for another matter. I’ll divert and be with you shortly.”

“Thank you,” Jenna replied, relief threading through her words. She knew having Spelling on-site would lend weight to their investigation—and perhaps help keep any local interference at bay.

“I’ll bring additional resources,” Spelling added before hanging up.

Jenna slipped her phone back into her pocket, turning to face Jake, who had come up beside her.

“Spelling’s on his way here,” Jenna said.

Jake nodded, glancing over at the forest service deputy still speaking with Grant Mosher by the fallen log. “Good. We’ll need all hands on deck for this one.”

Together they moved back toward the lodge where medics and police officers were already beginning their meticulous work around Alexis’s body—the first steps in unraveling whatever dark tapestry had been woven here among these ancient trees.