Page 16 of In Her Fears (Jenna Graves #8)

The gallery’s paintings lingered in Jenna’s mind as Jake navigated the patrol car. One of those grotesque scenes had depicted Martin Holbrook’s murder weeks before it happened.

“We should update the mayor,” Jake said, breaking the silence. “Another murder in her jurisdiction isn’t going to sit well.”

Jenna nodded, pulling out her phone. “She’s going to be difficult about this.”

“When isn’t she?” Jake muttered, slowing for a curve in the road.

Jenna dialed Claire’s number, switching to speaker phone. Three rings, then the mayor’s crisp voice came through.

“Sheriff Graves, I was just about to call you. I’ve heard rumors about—”

“Alexis Downey is dead,” Jenna interrupted, too tired for preamble. “She was murdered last night, her body found this morning at an abandoned hunting lodge in Whispering Pines Forest.”

The silence that followed stretched for several seconds.

“Claire?” Jenna prompted.

“I’m here.” The mayor’s voice was suddenly less steady. “Are you certain it’s murder? Could it have been—”

“It was murder,” Jenna confirmed. “Dr. Stark has already examined the body. Alexis was strangled, then suspended from the rafters of the lodge post-mortem.”

“Horrible.” The single word carried genuine distress. “Do we have any leads?”

“We’re pursuing several angles,” Jenna said carefully. “Colonel Spelling is involved. We believe this murder may be connected to the Holbrook case in Pinecrest last month.”

“Connected how?” Claire asked sharply.

“Similar theatrical staging. Both victims were positioned to create maximum impact when discovered.” Jenna paused. “We’re concerned that the killer may be working on a lunar cycle. Martin Holbrook was killed during the full moon last month. Last night was the first night of this month’s full moon.”

“Which means...”

Jake replied. “Even though there was only one during the last full moon period, we have to consider the possibility of another murder tonight. We’re headed to interview a person of interest right now.”

Claire’s politician voice returned. “Keep me in the loop. Every step. I don’t want to hear any more rumors before I get facts from you two directly. And Sheriff?”

“Yes?”

“Please catch whoever did this before anyone else gets hurt.”

The line went dead. Jenna tucked her phone away, struck by the vulnerability in Claire’s voice. In spite of her constant political calculations, Jenna knew that the mayor cared deeply about the townspeople of Trentville.

As they drove the houses grew scarce, set farther back from the road. “There,” Jenna said, pointing to a rusted mailbox set next to a narrow road that was almost obscured by overhanging bushes. “Turn here,” she instructed Jake. “Should be about a little way down this road.”

The paved road gave way to gravel, the patrol car bumping over the uneven surface that wound through dense woods for nearly a quarter mile before opening into a small clearing.

In the center stood Elias Harrow’s house—a traditional farmhouse, once a substantial country home but now showing decades of neglect.

A wraparound porch sagged slightly on one side, its railing missing several balusters.

“No car,” Jenna noted as they got out of their vehicle and approached the front steps.

“Eric said he hasn’t left in years,” Jake reminded her. “Probably doesn’t need one.”

The porch boards groaned with each step they took. Jake reached for the old-fashioned knocker on the front door, bringing it down hard three times. The sound echoed inside the house, but no response came.

“Mr. Harrow?” he called. “Sheriff’s Department. We’d like to speak with you.”

Silence.

Jenna stepped back, scanning the house front. Most of the windows were obscured by heavy curtains, but some on the upper floor were open to the light. She caught a glimpse of movement in one of them—the flutter of something pale, a face perhaps, retreating from view.

“He’s watching us,” she said quietly.

Jake tried the door handle. Locked. He knocked again, harder. “Mr. Harrow! Please open the door. We just want to talk.”

Minutes ticked by with no response. Jenna’s fatigue-dulled brain searched for options. They had no warrant, no probable cause to force entry. Elias had broken no laws that they knew of. Painting disturbing scenes wasn’t a crime.

An idea formed. She stepped forward again, closer to the door.

“Mr. Harrow,” she called. “My name is Sheriff Jenna Graves. I understand you’ve barely slept for seven years. I haven’t slept well in over a month now. I think I might understand a little of what you’re experiencing.”

She paused, listening for any movement inside. Nothing.

“We’re not here to accuse you of anything,” she continued. “We just need your help understanding your paintings. They might help us prevent another tragedy like what happened to Lina.”

The mention of his wife’s name was a calculated risk. For several long moments, nothing happened. Then came the faint sound of footsteps inside, slow and uneven, approaching the door.

A lock turned, then another, and another. The door opened a crack, revealing a sliver of darkness beyond.

“You know nothing of what I experience.” The voice was thin, raspy with disuse. “But come in, if you must.”

The door swung wider, revealing Elias Harrow.

He was tall and painfully thin, with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes that seemed to glow with feverish intensity in his gaunt face.

His gray hair hung limply to his shoulders, unwashed and unkempt.

He wore a stained once-white shirt, loose pants cinched at the waist with what looked like a length of rope.

Most striking were his hands—elegant despite their tremor, stained with various colors of paint.

“Thank you for seeing us,” Jenna said.

Elias didn’t respond, simply turned and shuffled into the gloom of the house.

They followed, Jake closing the door behind them.

The entry hall included a wide stairway and arched openings to rooms on each side.

The air smelled of must and turpentine and something else—the indefinable scent of long-term isolation.

Elias led them into what might have once been a comfortable living room.

Heavy curtains blocked most of the light, leaving the space in murky twilight despite the afternoon sun outside.

A fireplace contained the smoldering remains of a small fire.

Two worn armchairs faced it, one clearly Elias’s regular seat judging by the depression in the cushion.

“Sit,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the other chair before lowering himself into his own with the careful movements of a much older man.

Jenna took the offered seat while Jake remained standing, positioned slightly behind her.

“Mr. Harrow,” Jenna began, “we’re investigating two murders that seem to be related to your paintings.”

“I know nothing,” he said. “I paint what I see.”

Jenna and Jake exchanged a glance. Did this man have some kind of odd skill similar to Jenna’s?

“What you see?” Jake asked. “Or what you imagine?”

“Is there a difference?” Elias countered, his lips twisting into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Reality, dreams, visions—all the same to a mind that never truly sleeps.”

Jenna leaned forward slightly. “Mr. Harrow, where were you last night between the hours of 10 PM and midnight?”

“Here,” he answered immediately. “I haven’t left this house in seven years, three months, and sixteen days. Not since Lina.”

“And a month ago, on August 12th?”

“Here,” he repeated. “Always here.”

Despite the strangeness of the man, Jenna found herself inclined to believe him. The profound isolation of the house, the layers of dust, the man’s physical frailty—all suggested someone who truly hadn’t ventured into the world for years.

She pulled out her phone and found the photo she’d taken of the painting depicting Martin Holbrook’s murder. “This is your work?” she asked, showing him the screen.

Elias glanced at it, then away, as if the sight pained him. “Yes.”

“You painted this in July, before an actual murder recreating it took place in August,” Jenna said. “How did you know this would happen?”

“I don’t know what things will happen,” he said, his gaze drifting. “I simply paint what appears to me.”

“What appears to you?” Jake asked. “What does that mean exactly?”

Elias slipped into stillness again, his body rigid, eyes unfocused. This time the spell lasted longer—nearly a minute passed before he blinked back to awareness, seeming momentarily confused to find them still there.

"I would like to see your studio," Jenna said, changing tactics. "Would that be possible?"

The request seemed to anchor him. "All right," he said, almost seeming relieved. "Down the stairs, through the door on the left. You may go. I'll wait here."

"Thank you," Jenna said, rising from her chair. She and Jake returned to the staircase and descended into cool darkness. As they made their way down, Jenna felt her anxiety rising at what they might encounter below.

At the bottom of the stairs, they found a sturdy wooden door slightly ajar. Jake pushed it open.

They stepped into what might once have been a cellar but was now transformed into an artist's workspace.

Unlike the rest of the house, this room was alive with light from strategically placed lamps casting warm halos over every surface.

The walls were covered with paintings—dozens of them, some hanging properly, others simply leaning against rough stone walls or perched precariously on old crates scattered across the floor.

“My God,” Jake whispered.

The paintings surrounding them were all in the same vein as those they’d seen at the gallery—scenes of violent death beneath full moons.

Interspersed among the finished works were pieces in various stages of completion.

Canvases with pencil sketches waiting for paint, others partially colored—the process of creation laid bare.