Page 14 of In Her Fears (Jenna Graves #8)

Jenna led the way out of the hunting lodge, the cool forest air a stark contrast to the stifling atmosphere inside.

Her mind felt dangerously sluggish, clouded by exhaustion and the horrific image of Alexis suspended from those ancient rafters.

The ground seemed to shift beneath her feet, the forest around her swimming in and out of focus as she made her way toward their patrol car.

Jake fell into step beside her, and as they reached the car, he extended his hand wordlessly. Jenna surrendered the keys without protest.

“So,” Jake said as they settled into their seats, “where are we headed?”

She knew where they needed to go next—the only place in Trentville where artwork was on display, where her dream might finally lead her to the killer before another “masterpiece” was created.

Leaning her head back against the headrest, she allowed her eyes to close for just a moment. “Starlight Canvas Gallery.”

“The art gallery?” Jake’s surprise was evident in his voice. “What do you expect to find there?”

"I don't know exactly." Jenna opened her eyes, watching the forest blur past as Jake navigated the narrow road back toward town.

"But my dream... There were all those blank canvases, an artist's studio.

And the woman said, 'Find him, before he makes another masterpiece.

' Our killer views murder as art, Jake. The gallery's the only place in town that deals with artists. "

Jake nodded slowly, processing her logic. “It’s thin,” he said finally.

“I know.” Jenna rubbed her temples, where a persistent throb had taken up residence. “But it’s all I’ve got right now. And if there’s even a chance...”

“You’re running on fumes, Jenna,” Jake said.

“I’m fine,” she said automatically.

“You’re not fine. We should take ten minutes for a sandwich and coffee.”

“No,” Jenna replied, her voice sharper than she’d intended.

His suggestion brought a favorite stop to her mind—the Sunflower Café.

Alexis would never serve another cup of coffee there, never remember another regular’s order, never smile across the counter with that warmth that had made the café feel like a second home to so many Trentville residents.

She softened her tone. “No, Jake. If our theory’s right and he’s working with the full moon cycle, we have less than twelve hours before he might take another victim.”

Jake sighed but didn’t argue further. The forest gradually thinned around them as they approached the main road back to Trentville.

They drove in silence for several minutes, the gentle curves of the road lulling Jenna into a dangerous half-sleep.

She jerked awake as they hit a pothole, momentarily disoriented.

“We’re almost there,” Jake said, glancing at her with undisguised worry. “Sure you’re up for this?”

“I have to be,” she replied simply.

Downtown Trentville came into view, Main Street lined with the familiar storefronts that had defined Jenna’s life for as long as she could remember.

Jake pulled into a parking space half a block from the Starlight Canvas Gallery.

The gallery occupied a renovated Victorian building, its facade painted a deep blue that stood out among the more conservative storefronts surrounding it.

Large display windows showcased paintings visible from the street—landscapes mostly, capturing the rolling hills and dense forests of the Ozarks in vivid detail.

“I’ve never actually been inside,” Jake admitted as they approached the entrance. “Never really had a reason to.”

“It’s been years since I looked at an exhibit,” Jenna said, before pushing open the door. “And I haven’t been here since I became sheriff.”

A small bell jingled overhead as they entered, announcing their presence.

The space was arranged in a horseshoe around a central display area, with white walls creating smaller alcoves for themed collections.

Track lighting illuminated each piece with careful precision, creating pools of light in the otherwise dimly lit gallery.

For a moment, no one appeared to greet them.

Jenna took the opportunity to scan the space, looking for anything that might trigger a connection to her dream or the murders.

The art on display ranged from traditional Ozark landscapes to more abstract interpretations of local landmarks.

Nothing immediately struck her as sinister or connected to their case.

“Can I help you?”

The voice came from behind them. Jenna turned to find a young man watching them with guarded curiosity, obviously a gallery employee.

He was in his early twenties, with dark hair styled in an artfully disheveled manner.

Multiple piercings adorned his ears, and a small silver ring glinted from one nostril.

He wore a black t-shirt featuring the faded logo of a band Jenna didn’t recognize, paired with skinny jeans ripped strategically at the knees.

“Jay Langham?” Jenna asked, recognizing him from previous encounters around town.

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Sheriff Graves,” he acknowledged, then nodded at Jake. “Deputy. What brings Trentville’s finest to our humble gallery? Art appreciation suddenly part of police training?”

There was an edge to his voice that bordered on insolence. Jenna chose to ignore it.

“Just looking around,” she said, keeping her tone neutral. “The gallery’s been here for years, but I’ve never taken the time to visit.”

Jay’s expression remained skeptical, but he gave a slight shrug. “Well, look all you want. Eric is in his office if you need to talk with him.”

“Eric Edwards, the owner?” Jake asked.

“That’s right.” Jay gestured around the space. “He curates most of what you see out here. We represent about twenty local artists, plus a few from farther afield who capture the Ozark aesthetic.”

Jenna nodded, filing away the information. “Mind if we browse a bit?”

“Be my guest.” Jay retreated behind a sleek desk positioned near the back of the gallery, watching them with barely concealed suspicion.

Jenna and Jake moved through the space slowly, examining each painting with careful attention.

Most were exactly what one would expect in a small-town gallery—scenic vistas, rustic barns, autumn foliage captured in rich oils.

A few more experimental pieces broke the pattern—abstract compositions suggesting rather than depicting the natural world, mixed media collages incorporating found objects from the forests and rivers of the region.

Nothing connected to murder. Nothing evocative of the eerie stillness of Alexis hanging from the rafters or Martin Holbrook staked to a tree. Nothing that sparked recognition from Jenna’s dream.

As they completed their circuit of the main gallery space, Jake leaned close to her ear. “Nothing here,” he murmured. “We should go get that coffee now.”

Jenna shook her head stubbornly. Her intuition had led her here for a reason, and she wasn’t ready to abandon it yet. She approached the desk where Jay sat scrolling through his phone. He looked up as she neared, arching one pierced eyebrow in question.

“Do you have more artwork that isn’t currently being displayed?” she asked.

Jay's expression shifted subtly, a flicker of something—wariness? Concern?—crossing his features before he controlled it. "We always have pieces in storage. Some are waiting to be hung, others that have been rotated out of the current exhibition. Why?"

Jenna felt Jake’s presence behind her, solid and reassuring. “I’d like to see them,” she said.

“Any particular reason?” Jay challenged, setting his phone down. “We don’t usually give tours of the storage room.”

“Official business,” Jake said, his tone making it clear this wasn’t a request.

Jay stared at them for a long moment, then sighed dramatically. “Fine. Follow me.”

He led them through a door marked "Staff Only" at the rear of the gallery.

The back room was a stark contrast to the carefully curated front space—fluorescent lighting replaced the soft spotlights, and concrete floors replaced polished hardwood.

Metal shelving units lined the walls, filled with framed artworks stored vertically like books on a shelf.

Several larger canvases leaned against the far wall, protected by sheets of brown paper.

“Here’s where the magic happens,” Jay said with a hint of sarcasm. “Or rather, where the magic waits to happen. Enjoy your... investigation, or whatever this is.” He moved to leave, but Jake positioned himself subtly in the doorway.

“We’d appreciate if you’d stay,” Jake said mildly. “In case we have questions.”

Jay rolled his eyes but leaned against a nearby table, arms crossed over his chest. “Whatever.”

Jenna approached the nearest shelving unit, carefully sliding out framed paintings one by one. Most continued the themes from the main gallery—landscapes, still lifes, and portraits of local characters. Nothing that triggered any recognition or unease. She moved methodically from shelf to shelf.

Had she been wrong? Was the gallery a dead end, her intuition muddled by exhaustion and stress?

“What about those?” she asked, gesturing toward the larger canvases against the far wall.

Jay pushed himself away from the table with obvious reluctance. “Those are from a private collection. Not for sale, not for display.” Something in his tone caught Jenna’s attention—a subtle shift that suggested discomfort.

“I’d still like to see them,” she insisted.

With visible reluctance, Jay moved to the stack of canvases.

“These are... different from what we typically show,” he said, hesitating before pulling away the protective paper.

“The artist is talented but, well, let’s just say his subject matter isn’t exactly what tourists want hanging in their vacation homes. ”

He revealed the first canvas, and Jenna felt her breath catch.

The painting depicted a woman sprawled across a forest floor, her throat cut, eyes staring sightlessly at a full moon that dominated the night sky above.

The technical skill was undeniable—the light of the moon cast realistic shadows across the woman’s pale face, the blood glistened wetly against her skin.

But the subject matter was unmistakably morbid, unsettlingly realistic in its depiction of violent death.

“Who painted this?” Jenna asked, her voice carefully controlled.

Jay shrugged. “Artist goes by E.H. He’s... not exactly a people person. Eric handles him directly.”

“E.H.,” Jake repeated, thinking of a local recluse he’d heard about. “Elias Harrow?”

A flash of annoyance crossed Jay’s face at the name. “Yeah. Thinks he’s God’s gift to the art world. I don’t know why Eric keeps taking in his paintings. We always wind up keeping them right here, out of sight. We never display them to the public—for obvious reasons.”

Jenna gestured toward the remaining covered canvases. “Are these all his work?”

“Unfortunately,” Jay muttered, then pulled away more of the protective paper.

Canvas after canvas revealed variations on the same disturbing theme—violent deaths, all set against the backdrop of a full moon.

A man with his throat slit in a rowboat drifting on a moonlit lake.

A woman hanging from a tree branch, the moon creating a halo behind her suspended form.

A figure buried up to their neck in earth, face frozen in terror as the moon cast ghostly light across the scene.

“My God,” Jake whispered.

Jenna felt cold despite the stuffiness of the storage room. The paintings were more than just macabre fantasy—they had the unsettling quality of scenes observed rather than imagined, rendered with a precision that spoke of intimate familiarity with death.

“There’s one more,” Jay said, reaching for the last and largest canvas leaning against the wall. “Eric just got this one last week. Honestly, I think even he was disturbed by it, which is saying something.”

He pulled away the paper, and Jenna felt the world tilt beneath her feet.

The painting depicted a cemetery at night, ancient headstones illuminated by the silver light of a full moon.

In the foreground, a man was bound to a gnarled oak tree, a wooden stake protruding from his chest. Blood pooled black in the moonlight beneath him.

Above his head, carved into the bark of the tree, was a crude pentagram.

Martin Holbrook. The scene was exactly as she had seen it in the photos Spelling had shown her, rendered with haunting accuracy.

“We’ve found our artist,” she said quietly.