Page 15 of In Her Fears (Jenna Graves #8)

Jenna stepped closer to the canvas, her eyes tracing each meticulously rendered element. The silver light of the full moon dominated the scene, casting the same eerie glow that connected all the paintings they’d just examined.

They’d stumbled into the workings of a mind that considered gruesome death scenes to be subjects for artwork. Did the artist also consider death itself as art—a way of “making a masterpiece” as her dream had suggested?

She glanced at Jake, whose face had hardened into the careful mask he wore when confronted with something truly disturbing.

“They all feature a full moon,” Jenna muttered as she gestured to the row of macabre canvases.

Jake nodded. “And each death is staged. Theatrical.”

Jenna scanned the collection again, noting how each victim was positioned for maximum visual impact—the woman in the forest with her throat slit, arms spread wide like a sacrifice; the man in the rowboat, head tipped back to reflect moonlight on his pale face; the figure buried to the neck, eyes wide with terror.

Every scene had been arranged with an artist’s eye for composition.

“It’s like looking at a killer’s creative portfolio,” Jake muttered.

“Maybe a record of what he considers creative acts …” Jenna added. She turned to Jay, who was watching them with growing unease.

“What can you tell me about Elias Harrow?” she asked.

“Not much to tell that Eric couldn’t tell you better. Harrow’s a freak. Total recluse. Won’t talk to anyone.”

“But you’ve met him?” Jake pressed.

“Barely.” Jay’s lip curled slightly. “I’m just the lucky one who gets to pick up his latest masterpieces. He leaves them by his front door. Doesn’t even come out to say hello—just watches from the window sometimes. Creepy as hell.”

“Why you?” Jenna asked.

Jay shrugged. “Eric insists. Truth is, Eric and Harrow had some kind of falling out years ago. Eric still takes his work, but Harrow won’t see him. Or anybody else, for that matter.”

Jenna gestured toward the painting of the victim with a stake through his heart. “This one—when did you pick it up?”

“That one?” Jay frowned, thinking. “Maybe six, seven weeks ago? Eric seemed extra shocked about it.”

“I need to speak with Eric,” Jenna said, her tone making it clear this wasn’t a request.

“Does this have anything to do with what happened to Alexis last night?”

Jenna knew she shouldn’t be surprised by the question. Word of such news got around fast here in Trentville.

“That’s not something I’m prepared to discuss,” she told him. “Just tell Eric we want to speak with him.”

Jay hesitated, then nodded. “Fine. I’ll go get him. Don’t touch anything.” He paused at the doorway. “And for what it’s worth, I’ve always thought there was something seriously wrong with Harrow. Nobody normal paints stuff like that.”

When Jay had gone, Jenna turned back to the painting of the staked man’s murder scene.

“What are you thinking?” Jake asked quietly.

“The positioning, the stake, the pentagram,” Jenna replied, moving closer to examine the details. “It’s too accurate to be coincidence. The dead man in the painting even resembles Martin Holbrook, at least a little. The resemblance isn’t exact, though.”

Jake nodded slowly. “Could be a confession. Maybe Harrow painted it after committing the murder.”

“But Jay said he picked this up six or seven weeks ago. Holbrook was killed just a month ago.”

“Could he have foreseen it somehow?” Jake asked, voicing the uncomfortable question. “Like... the way you sometimes know things?”

Jenna shook her head, unwilling to pursue that train of thought just yet. “Let’s not jump to conclusions. We need more information.”

She moved along the line of paintings, searching for anything that resembled the scene they’d discovered that morning—Alexis suspended from the rafters of the hunting lodge.

“Jake, do you see anything that looks like the Alexis Downey crime scene?”

Jake methodically examined each canvas, then shook his head. “Nothing. No abandoned buildings, no suspended victims. Nothing that matches what we found today.”

Before Jenna could respond, the door opened and Jay returned, followed by a man in his early fifties.

Eric Edwards had the polished appearance of someone who’d spent his life in customer-facing roles—neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper hair, wire-rimmed glasses, a tailored button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled precisely to mid-forearm.

His expression was guarded but professionally pleasant.

“Sheriff Graves, Deputy Hawkins,” he greeted them with a nod. “Jay tells me you’re interested in Elias Harrow’s work.”

“Mr. Edwards,” Jenna acknowledged him. “Thank you for speaking with us. We have some questions about this particular painting.” She gestured to the canvas depicting Martin Holbrook’s murder.

Eric approached it slowly, his expression unreadable. “Ah, yes. One of Elias’s more... challenging pieces.”

“When exactly did you acquire it?” Jake asked.

Eric considered the question. “About a month and a half ago, I believe. I’d have to check my records for the precise date.”

“That would have been mid to late July?” Jenna clarified.

“Yes, that sounds right.”

The confirmation sent a chill through Jenna. She exchanged a quick glance with Jake, who gave an almost imperceptible nod.

“Mr. Edwards, could we speak with you privately?” Jenna asked.

"Of course." Eric turned to Jay. "Mind the front, would you? I'll be in my office with the Sheriff and deputy."

Jay looked between them, curiosity plain on his face, but he nodded and left without comment.

“Before we go,” Jenna said, pulling out her phone, “I need to document these images.”

Eric shifted uneasily. “I’m not sure if that’s...” he began, his voice trailing off as he glanced between Jenna and Jake.

Jake stepped in smoothly, offering a reassuring smile. “It’s for police records,” he explained in a firm tone. “We’ll clarify everything we can in just a few moments.”

Eric hesitated, clearly torn between his discomfort and the authority of the badge. He nodded reluctantly, though his expression remained troubled as Jenna moved around the room.

She methodically snapped photos of each painting, capturing every sinister brushstroke.

The click of her phone’s camera echoed softly in the stillness of the gallery.

Once she finished and slipped her phone back into her pocket, she turned to Eric with a nod of gratitude.

“Thank you for your patience,” she said sincerely.

“Now we can have that private conversation.”

Eric led them through a narrow hallway to a small office at the back of the building. Unlike the spartan storage room, the office was warmly decorated with comfortable furniture and several pastoral landscapes on the wall. He gestured to two chairs across from his desk. “Please, have a seat.”

Jenna settled into the chair, grateful for the momentary respite. Her adrenaline was fading, but she forced herself to focus on the man across the desk.

“Mr. Edwards, we’re here as part of an ongoing investigation,” she began carefully. “I can’t disclose details of that case, but I need you to tell me everything you can about Elias Harrow.”

Eric removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose, suddenly looking much older.

“Elias,” he said softly. “I’ve known him for over thirty years.

We were at university together—both art majors, both with grand ambitions.

He was always the more talented one.” He gestured to the landscapes on his walls.

“He had a gift for capturing light, for finding beauty in ordinary places.”

“What happened?” Jake prompted.

Eric replaced his glasses. “Life happened. I realized I wasn’t good enough to make it as an artist, so I opened this gallery instead.

Elias married Lina—brilliant woman, troubled but brilliant.

They seemed happy for many years, though looking back, I wonder if that was just what I wanted to see.

” He paused, gathering his thoughts. “Then seven years ago, Lina took her own life. Elias found her body. After that... he was never the same.”

“How so?” Jenna asked.

“He cut himself off from everyone—friends, colleagues, the few family members he had left. Until then, he’d always kept a studio in town.

But after that, he isolated himself at home—in his family’s old house on the outskirts of town and became a complete recluse.

” Eric’s voice grew quieter. “And he developed this terrible condition—Chronic Traumatic Insomnia. CTI, they call it. It’s incredibly rare, triggered by severe trauma.

He hasn’t had a proper night’s sleep in seven years. ”

Jenna felt a chill run through her. Seven years without sound sleep. Her own bout of insomnia had left her barely functional after just a month.

“How do you know about his condition if he cut everyone off?” Jake asked.

“He wrote to me, about a year after Lina died. Just one letter—clinical, detached, explaining his diagnosis and informing me that he wouldn’t be in touch again.

” Eric’s expression darkened. “Then about a year later, several paintings showed up. Jay found them outside the gallery door in the morning. No note, just Elias’s initials in the corner. ”

“And you knew they were his work?” Jenna asked.

“Unmistakably. The technique, the brushwork—it was Elias, but twisted into something I barely recognized. His style used to be all about finding beauty in everyday scenes. These new paintings... they’re technically brilliant but disturbing. It’s like watching someone’s mind disintegrate on canvas.”

“Why did he want you to have them?” Jake asked.

Eric shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe he thinks I’ll display them.

Maybe it’s his way of showing me what he’s become.

I’ve never asked because we don’t speak—not since Lina died.

Eventually, I asked Jay to start going to his house to collect the paintings directly.

I thought maybe establishing some kind of regular contact might help, but Elias refuses to engage. ”

“And Jay resents this assignment,” Jenna observed.

“Jay doesn’t understand.” Eric’s tone grew defensive. “He sees a creepy old man who paints disturbing images. I see my friend drowning in his own personal hell.”

Jenna leaned forward slightly. “Mr. Edwards, do you have any other paintings by Elias? Anything not in that storage room?”

“No, that’s everything. Why do you ask?”

“Just being thorough.” Jenna deliberately avoided looking at Jake. “How can we reach Elias, just to speak with him?”

Eric’s eyebrows rose. “Reach him? You can’t—at least not remotely. He has no phone, no internet. The only way to contact Elias is to physically go to his house.” He hesitated. “But I should warn you, Sheriff, he’s unlikely to be receptive to law enforcement. He values his privacy above all else.”

“Would you be willing to come with us?” Jenna asked. “Perhaps if you appealed to him, reminded him of your friendship...”

A flash of genuine pain crossed Eric’s face.

“I wish I could help you, Sheriff. But my presence would only make things worse. Elias made it very clear that our friendship ended the day Lina died. He blames me, in part, for not seeing how troubled she was. Actually, he blames everybody. I can’t think of any former acquaintances who might be of help.

” He sighed heavily. “Whatever you need from him, you’d have a better chance without me there. ”

“I understand,” Jenna said softly.

Eric studied her face for a long moment. “You still haven’t told me anything about the nature of your investigation.”

Jenna hesitated, weighing how much she could ethically reveal. “We’re looking into some... incidents that may connect to the themes in Elias’s paintings.”

“You’re investigating actual deaths? Something as … unusual… as those images?”

“Something like that.”

“Sheriff,” Eric said earnestly, “I’ve known Elias for most of my life. He’s troubled, he’s isolated, and yes, his art has taken a disturbing turn. But he’s not violent. He’s never hurt anyone except perhaps himself, through his self-imposed exile.”

“I appreciate your perspective,” Jenna said diplomatically. “But we still need to speak with him. His address?”

Eric sighed in resignation, then wrote an address on a notepad and slid it across the desk.

“It’s an old house about three miles outside town.

Used to belong to his great-grandparents.

It was a station on the Underground Railroad back in the day—has all sorts of hidden rooms and passages.

Just... be gentle with him. The man you’ll meet isn’t the Elias I knew. ”

“Thank you for your help,” Jenna said, rising from her chair with an effort that she hoped wasn’t visible.

They left Eric in his office and made their way back through the gallery. Jay watched them from behind the front desk, clearly curious, but neither Jenna nor Jake volunteered any information as they passed by.

Outside, the afternoon sun seemed too bright after the subtle lighting of the gallery.

Jake still had the car keys, and Jenna headed for the passenger seat.

As they settled into the patrol car, Jake turned to her before starting the engine.

“So what’s your thinking? Harrow must have painted the Holbrook murder scene weeks before it happened. ”

“Which means either he committed the murder himself, making the painting a kind of blueprint,” Jenna said, “or as you suggested … he somehow foresaw it.”

“There are some other options,” Jake added grimly. “Elias Harrow could have created a painting as a model for something he wanted to do — and finally did.”

“But if he’s incapacitated and really never leaves home …”

“Then maybe someone else saw his painting and decided to recreate it in real life.”

Jenna stared through the windshield at the idyllic Main Street of Trentville, so at odds with the horrors they were investigating. “Whatever the answer is, we need to find it fast. If we’re right about the full moon connection, someone else could die horribly tonight.”