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Jenna eased her car to a stop in front of Jake’s house and watched as he emerged quickly and hurried toward her, his uniform crisp, the weight of his duty belt visible under his jacket.

“Morning,” he said, climbing into the passenger seat. “Where to?”

She handed him a slip of paper where she’d scribbled Tommy Larson’s address.

“Tommy Larson’s farm,” Jenna replied, giving him the address. “We need to talk to him about those bodies.”

Jake glanced at the address, then nodded, “I’ll give you directions.”

A silence fell between them as Jenna found herself still reeling inwardly from last night’s dream revelations.

“What’s going on, Jenna?” Jake asked as they rolled through Trentville’s quiet streets. “Did you have another dream?”

“Yes,” she said, eyes fixed on the road ahead. “I think I know the first name of our third body we found in the reservoir. It’s Jimmy.”

“Jimmy,” Jake echoed softly. “It’s a pretty common name.”

“It is. But I think Tommy might be able to help us identify this one. He also should be able to confirm that the other body belongs to Clive Carroway.”

“Alright,” Jake said, after a moment, shifting in his seat to face her. “Let’s see what Tommy has to say.”

As they left the town of Trentville behind, Jenna pressed her foot against the accelerator, the car responding with a gentle purr. Ahead lay the possibilities of answers, hidden among the low rolling hills that clung to their mysteries with stubborn pride.

As the landscape blurred past her car window, a canvas of greens and browns painted with the strokes of an early morning, she recounted to Jake the fragmented images from her dream.

“There were four boys,” she said, “laughing, swimming perilously close to the dam’s spillway, which was overflowing with water. But in the group standing on top of the dam with me, there were only three men, Mike and Clive... and one they called Jimmy.”

“Who is he?” Jake inquired, his gaze never leaving her face.

“I don’t know,” Jenna replied, her voice edged with frustration. “The men told me that the boys were only memories they had of themselves, not really there at all. Now we’ve found a third victim, still unnamed—we have to consider the possibility that he’s Jimmy.”

“Could be,” Jake mused, “but where was the fourth adult then? I mean, if the boys were supposed to represent the men’s younger selves, it sounds like there ought to have been one more. Why show four boys and only three men?”

Jenna could only shrug, her mind a whirlwind of theories and tenuous links. “That’s what we need to figure out,” she admitted. “It feels like that piece is crucial—the key to understanding how all these lives connect at Sablewood Reservoir.”

Jake nodded, deep in thought. “We’re missing something,” he acknowledged. “A detail, an event, something that ties these victims together beyond childhood friendships.”

Jenna sighed, the car’s engine humming a low accompaniment to her contemplation.

“Jake,” Jenna said after a pause, her tone losing some of its usual edge. “Thanks for not thinking I’m crazy with all this dream stuff.”

It was rare for her guard to drop, even more, to express gratitude for matters so personal. She dared a glance at him, expecting a joke or a quip to break the tension. Instead, she was met with earnest sincerity. “You’re not crazy, Jenna,” he reassured her. “If these dreams are helping us get closer to the truth, then they’re as real as any evidence we gather during the day.”

“Sometimes I sound crazy even to myself,” Jenna said with a shake of her head.

Jake looked at her, his expression one of quiet resolve. “Jenna, your dreams have helped us solve cases before. I may not understand it, but I trust you. We’re partners, remember? Besides,” Jake added, his tone turning lighter, “if you ever start predicting lottery numbers in your dreams, I expect a fifty-fifty split.”

“Maybe a three-way split with you, me and Frank,” Jenna said with a wistful smile, “since you two are the only people I can talk to about all that.”

“That sounds fair to me.”

“Then it’s a deal,” she chuckled, allowing herself a moment of levity before their conversation took a backseat to the task ahead. The car crested a hill, and in the distance, the outline of a farmstead came into view.

“That’s it,” Jake said. “Take the next right.”

Jenna navigated the bends of the private road leading into Tommy Larson’s property. The car’s tires crunched over the gravel, stirring a cloud of dust that hung lazily in the morning air. It was an expansive plot of land, the farmhouse sitting like a steadfast guardian amidst fields that showed the green of crops growing. It was the kind of homestead that had been rooted in the land for many generations. They soon reached the farmhouse, an old home nestled close to several large trees.

“Here we are,” Jenna said, cutting the engine. The silence of the countryside enveloped them, broken only by the distant sound of cattle and the soft rustle of wind through trees. Somewhere outside, a rooster crowed, a reminder of the world moving forward despite the occasional darkness.

The farmhouse bore the marks of time and weather, its wooden siding faded to a soft grey. Flower beds lay were blooming, no doubt the work of a farm wife’s caring hands. Jenna walked up the steps, her boots thudding against the wood, and rapped on the screen door.

It wasn’t long before the door opened, revealing a woman dressed in a simple floral apron, her hair twisted into a practical bun. Her eyes, a soft blue reminiscent of the sky above, held a touch of concern. They knew this was Betty Larson, the wife of the man they wanted to see.

“Morning, Sheriff, Deputy,” she said, eyeing their uniforms. “What brings you out this way?”

“Official business, I’m afraid,” Jenna replied. “We need to talk to your husband.”

The woman stepped back and gestured for them to enter. “Tommy’s in the kitchen,” she said. “He was just getting ready to head out for his morning chores.”

Tommy Larson sat at the worn kitchen table, cradling a white mug in his hands. The aroma of fresh coffee mingled with the faint scent of cinnamon from a cooling pie, lending the space a comforting, lived-in feel that contrasted sharply with the reason for their visit. He glanced up as Jenna and Jake entered.

“Betty, these are the folks who were at the store yesterday,” Tommy said, nodding toward Jenna and Jake. “Sheriff Graves and Deputy Hawkins.”

Betty’s nod was curt, her eyes flicking between her husband and their guests. A protective undercurrent hummed beneath the pleasantries, typical of small-town kinship—a sense of unity against outsiders, even those sworn to protect.

“Good to see you again, Tommy,” Jenna began, positioning herself so she could keep an eye on both Larsons without appearing confrontational. “I’m sorry to drop by unannounced, but we’ve got some important updates on the case.”

Tommy set his mug down and gave her his full attention. His wife still stood in the background, listening but not venturing to enter the conversation.

“Tommy,” she said, her voice steady and clear, “we found two more bodies in the Sablewood Reservoir yesterday. One of them—we have strong reason to believe—is Clive Carroway.”

She watched Tommy closely, searching for any flicker of recognition or guilt that might betray more than surprise. His face paled slightly, and he swallowed hard, a man coming face-to-face with a ghost from his past. The disappearance of Clive Carroway, a story that had rippled through Colstock six years ago, had just resurfaced with the undeniable reality of death.

“You … you’re saying that Sly is dead too?” Tommy stammered. “But I thought he just left town.”

“Tommy,” Jenna began, “we’re hoping you can help us make an identification.”

She retrieved her cellphone from her pocket. With a few swipes, she brought up the image of the chain found around the neck of the corpse—an ornate piece that had once shone but was now tarnished by time and the reservoir’s murky depths.

“Does this look familiar to you?” she asked, holding the screen toward Tommy.

He leaned forward, squinting at the photo before recoiling as if struck. “That’s... that’s Clive’s,” Tommy gasped, his shock rippling through the room. The chain clearly struck a chord with him, and his rugged face contorted with recognition.

“Clive won that at the carnival one year,” Tommy murmured, his voice tinged with memories. “Wore it everywhere, like a trophy. That little cylinder,” he pointed a shaking finger at the screen, “used to hold a rabbit’s foot. Said it was lucky. I guess it rotted away in the water after all those years.”

Jenna watched, noting the subtle tremble in his hands as he spoke. A man who seemed to pride himself on his stoicism was visibly shaken.

“Then he didn’t just leave,” Tommy concluded, the words heavy, hesitant, as if saying them aloud made the truth irrefutable. “Someone murdered him, just like they did Mike.”

The farmhouse kitchen, with its worn table and sunlight streaming through gingham curtains, felt suddenly claustrophobic. Jenna observed Tommy Larson’s reaction. His eyes were wide, pupils dilated—a physical response that she had learned to read as an officer of the law. She needed to tread carefully; Tommy was already on edge.

“Tommy,” Jenna said quietly, “does the name ‘Jimmy’ mean anything to you? Maybe in relation to Mike or Clive?” The words hung in the air, a silent plea for the truth without divulging the ethereal source of her knowledge.

The question seemed to jolt Tommy, his eyebrows knitting together as if he was trying to place the name within the tragic tapestry they were unraveling. “Jimmy?” He repeated, his voice betraying his surprise at the mention. It was clear that this line of questioning hadn’t been anticipated.

Jenna held her breath, watching intently as Tommy processed the inquiry. She waited, her gaze not wavering from his as she sought to understand his connection to the name she had fished out from the depths of her dream.

“Yeah, it sure does,” Tommy said abruptly, standing up from the table with a sudden vigor. “Let me show you something.”

He moved across the kitchen and reached for a faded photo album on a high shelf. He flipped through the pages, stopping at a photograph that seemed to resonate with him. “Here,” he pointed, turning the album towards Jenna and Jake.

Three boys smiled back from the past, youthful faces frozen in time on the edge of the Sablewood Dam. Jenna’s heart quickened as she recognized them—three of the boys that had haunted her dreams the night before.

“Those are the boys,” Tommy muttered, almost to himself. Jenna studied the image: the carefree grins, the casual slouches against the backdrop of the reservoir. They were clues distilled in ink and paper and as real as the tension that filled the room.

“Three of the four,” Jenna thought silently, recalling the ghostly visage of another boy lingering in her dream—a puzzle piece yet to find its place. She reached out and gently traced the edges of the photograph, feeling the weight of the revelation it carried.

Jenna’s gaze fixed on the photo, her mind whirring as Tommy began to put names to faces. “That’s Mike, my brother,” he said, tapping his finger against the image of a boy with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “And there’s Clive... ‘Sly’ we used to call him,” a soft chuckle escaped Tommy as he pointed at the second boy, whose smile seemed to hold secrets. “And the one on the right, that’s Jimmy Koontz.”

“Jimmy Koontz,” Jenna repeated quietly, the name cementing itself in her memory alongside the visions from her dream.

“His family moved to St. Louis while we were in high school,” Tommy continued, leaning back slightly as if the years were stretching out before him. “We lost touch pretty quick after that. Never heard from him again.” His voice trailed off, betraying a hint of the same loss Jenna felt every time she thought of Piper.

Jenna absorbed this information, her mind already sifting through the implications. It was another piece in the puzzle, but the edges didn’t quite align with the rest of the picture she had been assembling. If Jimmy was the third, who was the fourth boy who had appeared in her dream?

“Who took this photo?” Jenna asked abruptly. The presence of the fourth boy, a specter in her dreams, loomed over her thoughts.

“Must’ve been Carl Reeves,” Tommy answered without hesitation as he peered closer at the photograph. “He was always hanging around with them. They were inseparable.”

“Carl Reeves...” Jake echoed. “The maintenance worker at the reservoir?”

“Yeah, that’s what I hear he’s doing these days,” Tommy confirmed. “Back then, he always had his camera ready.”

Carl Reeves—the man who had navigated them across the murky waters of Sablewood Reservoir to uncover Clive Carroway’s watery grave—had neglected to mention his ties to these very victims.

What had he been trying to hide?