Page 18 of In Her Fears (Jenna Graves #8)

The storefront of Christopher Ashworth Photography featured stark black and white Ozark landscapes in a large display window. Jenna squinted against the afternoon sunlight reflecting off the glass as Jake parked the cruiser across the street.

When they got out and entered the building, they saw a small gallery area in front and what appeared to be a working studio in back. The walls displayed more of Ashworth’s work—haunting images of abandoned buildings, lonely landscapes, and starkly beautiful natural formations.

A young man looked up from behind a sleek counter. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, with a carefully cultivated five o’clock shadow and an artfully disheveled appearance.

“Can I help you?” he asked, his eyes flicking to their badges.

“Sheriff Graves, Deputy Hawkins,” Jenna said, approaching the counter. “We’re looking for Christopher Ashworth.”

The young man straightened. “Chris is out on a shoot today. I’m Vince Espy, his assistant.”

“When do you expect him back?” Jake asked.

Vince shrugged. "Hard to say. It could be hours. Chris gets... absorbed in his work."

“We need to speak with him urgently,” Jenna said. “Is there a way to reach him?”

“He doesn’t take his phone when he’s shooting,” Vince replied. “Says it interferes with his process.”

“Where is he working today?” she asked.

Vince hesitated. “I’m not really supposed to... I mean, he wouldn’t want to be disturbed.”

“This isn’t optional, Mr. Espy,” Jake said sharply.

Vince glanced between them, weighing his options. “Look, I don’t want any trouble, but Chris would be seriously pissed if I just sent people after him when he’s out on a shoot.”

Jenna stepped closer, moderating her tone. “Vince, I understand loyalty to your employer. But this is a time-sensitive matter that can’t wait.”

Vince’s expression remained conflicted. “Are you investigating him for something? Because if this is about those parking tickets—”

“This isn’t about parking tickets,” Jenna interrupted. “Without getting into specifics, there’s a potential public safety concern. We need to speak with Mr. Ashworth immediately.” She held his gaze. “I’d rather not have to charge you with obstructing an investigation.”

The threat was a bluff—but Vince didn’t need to know that.

He swallowed visibly. “Okay, fine. He’s in Gildner. About thirty minutes from here.”

“Gildner?” Jake repeated. “What’s he photographing out there?”

“The old church ruins,” Vince said, his resistance crumbling. “St. Something’s... it burned down like forty years ago. Chris has been wanting to shoot it for a while, said the light would be perfect today.”

“Can you give us specific directions?” Jake asked.

Vince nodded reluctantly, pulling out a pad of paper. “It’s on the outskirts of town. Not hard to find—Gildner’s only got like fifty residents.” He sketched a quick map, marking the church’s location with an X. “It’s just past the old general store, down a dirt road about half a mile.”

“Thank you for your cooperation,” Jenna said, taking the map. “If Mr. Ashworth returns here before we find him, please have him call me immediately.” She handed Vince her card as she turned toward the door.

Back in the cruiser, Jake studied the crude map while Jenna buckled her seatbelt. “Gildner,” he said, starting the engine. “Hadn’t figured on heading over that way. Town’s barely hanging on.”

As they pulled away from the curb, Jenna leaned her head back against the seat. “Perfect setting for the next grim scene,” she murmured.

Jake glanced at her as he navigated through Trentville’s light afternoon traffic. “You think the burned church is going to be the next location?”

“I don’t know,” Jenna admitted. “I can’t remember seeing a church in any of those paintings.”

When Jake turned onto the highway that would take them to Gildner, the landscape outside the window shifted to the forests and farms of rural Missouri, where fields were golden with early September crops awaiting harvest. Under different circumstances, Jenna might have found the scenery peaceful.

“What are you thinking about those paintings?” Jake asked after several minutes of silence.

Jenna gathered her scattered thoughts. “I’m thinking they’re either blueprints or prophecies, and I’m not sure which is worse.”

“If they’re blueprints,” Jake reasoned, “then Ashworth must be involved. He provides the locations, Harrow paints the scenes, then Ashworth—or someone else—brings them to life.”

“But if they’re prophecies...”

“Then Harrow is somehow seeing murders before they happen,” Jake finished. “Which sounds crazy, except...”

“Except I have dreams where dead people talk to me,” Jenna said quietly. “I’m not exactly in a position to dismiss unusual abilities. And seven years without proper sleep—it must do something to a person’s mind. Maybe break down barriers between... I don’t know, different levels of perception?”

“And your own insomnia this past month?”

“I don’t know,” she said again. “Maybe it’s just stress, maybe it’s something more.”

Jake slowed as they passed a faded sign welcoming them to Gildner, population 47. The “town” consisted of little more than a cluster of houses, a boarded-up general store, and a gas station that looked like it hadn’t seen customers in years.

“Turn there,” Jenna said, pointing to a narrow dirt road just beyond the abandoned store.

The patrol car bumped along the uneven surface, dust billowing behind them.

After about half a mile, the burned shell of what had once been a church came into view.

Only the stone foundations and part of one wall remained standing, the rest having collapsed or been reclaimed by nature decades ago.

Ivy crawled up the remaining wall, nearly obscuring the soot-blackened stone.

The ruins stood in a small clearing, surrounded by tall pines.

Jake parked a short distance away. As they walked toward the church, they saw that an SUV was parked nearby—the only vehicle in sight.

“Probably Ashworth’s vehicle,” Jenna said, jotting down the make and license plate number in her notepad.

“See Ashworth anywhere?” Jake asked, scanning the area.

Jenna shook her head. “Let’s look around.”

They approached the ruins cautiously. Weeds pushed up through cracks in what had once been the floor, and birds had made nests in the remaining rafters.

“Ashworth?” Jake called out, his voice echoing strangely in the open space.

No response came. They moved deeper into the ruins, past what must have been the entrance foyer and into what would have been the nave. Jenna felt an odd sense of trespassing, as if they were disturbing something that should have been left to rest.

“Over there,” Jake said suddenly, nodding toward the far corner where part of the wall still stood.

A figure stood with his back to them, a camera raised to his eye. He was so still, so absorbed in his work that he might have been part of the ruins himself. He didn’t acknowledge their approach, even though their footsteps crunched on the debris-strewn ground.

“Christopher Ashworth?” Jenna called when they were about ten feet away.

The man lowered his camera slowly, as if reluctant to break his concentration. He turned to face them, looking annoyed.

Christopher Ashworth was in his early fifties, with sharp features and intensity in his gaze.

His clothes were practical and worn—cargo pants with multiple pockets, a faded flannel shirt rolled to the elbows, sturdy boots.

Three cameras hung from straps around his neck, each with a different lens attached.

“Can I help you?” he asked, his tone making it clear that he had no interest in doing so.

“Sheriff Graves, Genesius County,” Jenna replied, showing her badge. “This is Deputy Hawkins. We need to ask you some questions.”

Ashworth’s expression didn’t change. “I’m working,” he said flatly, turning back to his viewfinder.

Jake stepped forward. “Mr. Ashworth, this is a matter of some urgency.”

“So is this,” Ashworth replied without looking at them. “The light only hits this corner for about twenty minutes each day. I’ve been waiting weeks for the right conditions.”

Jenna fought back a surge of irritation that felt disproportionate to the situation. “Mr. Ashworth, we’re investigating a murder case.”

This finally got his full attention. He lowered the camera again, his eyes narrowing. “A murder case? What does that have to do with me?”

“We have some questions about your relationship with Elias Harrow,” Jenna said, watching his face carefully for a reaction.

A flicker of something—surprise? Annoyance?—crossed his features before his expression settled back into neutrality. "I don't have a 'relationship' with Harrow," he said. "Not anymore."

“Yet you regularly provide him with photographs,” Jake pointed out. “Location shots. Empty settings.”

Ashworth’s jaw tightened slightly. “That’s a professional arrangement.”

"We saw your photographs on a bulletin board in his studio," Jenna said. "Some of them depict locations where murders have recently occurred."

This time, what seemed like shock registered on Ashworth’s face. “Murders? What are you talking about?”

His reaction seemed authentic, but Jenna had seen skilled liars before. Martin Holbrook is in Pinecrest Cemetery. Alexis Downey is in an abandoned hunting lodge in Whispering Pines Forest. Both locations you photographed for Harrow, both scenes he painted before the murders took place."

Ashworth paled visibly. “That’s... that’s not possible.”

“I’m afraid it is,” Jake said firmly. “And we need to understand why you’ve been providing these specific locations.”

Ashworth lowered his camera to hang around his neck, his earlier absorption in his work forgotten. “Look, I don’t know anything about any murders. I take photographs of interesting locations—abandoned places, forgotten corners. It’s what I do.”

“And Harrow?” Jenna pressed.