Page 17 of In Her Fears (Jenna Graves #8)

Several easels stood around the room, each holding a work in progress.

One of them depicted the interior of the hunting lodge where Alexis Downey’s body had been found that morning.

Every detail was eerily accurate—the massive central beam, the stone fireplace, the rough wooden floor.

And suspended from the rafters was a female figure in a pale blue dress, her dark hair cascading down, obscuring her face.

The woman’s face was similar to Alexis, and the positioning of her body—arms raised above her head, toes barely clearing the floor—was identical to the actual death scene.

Jake stood beside her, his expression hardening. “That’s not possible,” he muttered. “It’s exact.” He reached out and touched the artwork. “The oil paint is completely dry. But Alexis only went missing last night.”

Jenna pulled out her phone and photographed the painting. “He painted Holbrook’s murder before it happened too,” she reminded him, then began taking pictures of the other works around the studio.

Jake moved around the studio, examining each canvas with growing unease. Then he stopped at a large bulletin board mounted on a wall opposite the windows.

“Jenna,” he called. “You need to see this.”

She joined him, immediately understanding his concern.

The bulletin board was covered with photographs—dozens of them, pinned in neat rows.

Each showed a location that appeared in one of the paintings: the gnarled oak tree in Pinecrest Cemetery, the abandoned hunting lodge in Whispering Pines Forest, a rowboat on the moonlit lake, a clearing in dense woods.

The photos were clinical, devoid of people or action—just empty settings, like stages waiting for actors.

“These are all the locations from his paintings,” Jake said, pointing to one photo, then another. “Including both murder scenes.”

Jenna stepped closer, examining the photographs. Carefully, she lifted the corner of one showing the hunting lodge interior. Printed on the back was a name and address: “Christopher Ashworth Photography, 342 Elm Street, Trentville.” There was also a phone number.

“A professional photographer,” Jake said, his voice tight with suppressed excitement. “Someone who could have taken these location shots, shown them to Harrow, then used the paintings as blueprints for the murders.”

“Or someone who saw Harrow’s paintings and decided to bring them to life,” Jenna countered. Either way, the photographer was their strongest lead. And this clearly meant that Harrow wasn’t completely out of touch with the world.

She quickly took photos of the bulletin board, the name on the back of the photo, and several close-ups of individual images. Then they returned upstairs to find Elias still seated in his chair, staring into the dying embers of the fire. He didn’t look up as they entered.

“Mr. Harrow,” Jenna said, showing him her phone with the photo of the hunting lodge painting. “When did you create this?”

His eyes flickered to the screen, then away. “Last week. Perhaps the week before. Days blend when you don’t sleep.”

“And this photograph?” she showed him the picture she’d taken of the hunting lodge image. “Where did you get this?”

“Chris brings them,” he said, as if this explained everything. “For reference.”

“Chris Ashworth?” Jake asked.

Elias nodded vaguely. “He understands what I need to see.”

“Need to see for what?” Jenna pressed.

But Elias had slipped away again, his body rigid, eyes staring at nothing. This time, he didn’t return from whatever mental space he’d retreated to, even after Jenna called his name several times.

Jake lowered his voice. “We should bring him in. At least for questioning.”

“Look at him,” Jenna said, gesturing toward Elias’s catatonic form. “He hasn’t left this house in years. He’s physically incapable of overpowering victims, transporting bodies, staging elaborate crime scenes.”

“He could have an accomplice. This Ashworth guy—”

“So we need to find Christopher Ashworth,” Jenna conceded.

They left Elias as they’d found him, still locked in his strange trance. Once outside, Jenna pulled out her phone and Officer Delgado. The car hummed beneath her, the road blurring past outside.

“Delgado here,” came the familiar voice, steady and reliable.

“Hey, Maria,” Jenna said, her tone urgent yet calm. “I need you to head over to Elias Harrow’s place.”

“Elias Harrow?” Delgado asked, a hint of curiosity in her voice.

“A reclusive artist,” Jenna confirmed. “I’ll give you the address.”

Jenna did so, then added, “Take a couple of officers with you and keep an eye on the house. I have a feeling he’s not our guy, but I don’t want to take any chances. Make sure nobody leaves house—or goes into it, either.”

“You got it,” Delgado replied without hesitation. “We’ll make sure nothing slips by us.”

“Thanks, Maria,” Jenna said appreciatively before hanging up.

Jenna immediately dialed the number printed on the back of the photograph, but only a generic voicemail answered. She left a brief message asking Ashworth to contact her urgently, then hung up.

“Let’s pay him a visit,” she told Jake as she buckled her seatbelt.

Jake started the engine, maneuvering them back down the narrow driveway. “You really think Harrow’s just a conduit? That he somehow... what? Foresaw these murders?”

“I don’t know,” Jenna admitted, watching Elias’s house recede in the side mirror. “But I think Christopher Ashworth may be at the center of this.”

She glanced at the dashboard clock. Moonrise was getting close.