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“Something doesn’t add up,” Jenna insisted, her fingers threading through her short chestnut hair, pushing it back from her weary face. “Why would Carl choose to continue working at the reservoir if it had been the site of such trauma for him? More than that—after the first body was discovered, he actually took us out in a boat to dredge for the next one. He managed the grappling hook, helped get the body ashore. He didn’t show any sign of knowing whose body it might be, and his reactions to the remains were pretty much what you’d expect from an innocent man.”

“That’s precisely what makes him a prime suspect, Sheriff,” Colonel Spelling insisted with an unwavering certitude that left little room for debate. “Working there put him in proximity to the crime scene but also gave him cover. Besides, it’s not uncommon for killers to insert themselves into investigations.”

The Colonel’s reasoning was textbook, yet Jenna felt an itch at the back of her mind, the kind that whispered of pieces not fitting neatly together. She studied Spelling’s face, searching for any sign that he, too, recognized the discordance in this theory, but found none.

Colonel Spelling’s eyes locked onto Jenna with a steely resolve that matched his ramrod posture. “Sheriff,” he continued, “I think that our suspect has a cooler head and is much cleverer than you’ve suspected.”

Jenna’s green eyes narrowed, her mind working through the possibilities. It wasn’t that she couldn’t be wrong, but she had seen guilt and innocence in many forms, and something about Carl’s demeanor still struck a discordant note.

“His reactions didn’t seem consistent with someone hiding guilt,” she pressed.

“Sometimes, Sheriff, the obvious answer is the right one,” Spelling said, unmoved by her reasoning.

But Jenna wasn’t ready to concede. “Or maybe,” she replied, “it’s the easiest answer, not the correct one.” Her voice was firm but devoid of any heat—a simple statement of what she believed could be true.

Colonel Spelling smiled a not-unkindly smile. “Sheriff, you know I’ve got all the respect in the world for your intuitions. I showed you that last night when I followed your hunch about dragging the reservoir. But I’ve noticed something else about you, and I hope you don’t mind my saying so. You have a hard time letting go of a case. It’s hard for you to admit you’ve won.”

Jake was a study in stillness beside her, his eyes shifting between her and Spelling, reading the mounting tension.

Their silent stalemate was fractured by the sharp click of heels against linoleum, a rhythm announcing authority and impatience. Mayor Claire Simmons appeared like a specter summoned by the very mention of unresolved matters. Her face was set, a mask carved from determination and political ambition. “I hear we’ve caught our killer,” she declared, her words filling the corridor, leaving little doubt as to her interpretation of events.

Colonel Spelling stepped forward, beating Jenna to the verbal draw. “We have a suspect in custody, Mayor,” he stated cautiously, his voice holding the measured cadence of experience. “I’m not sure we’re ready to say anything more about it just yet.”

The Mayor halted before them, her eyes narrowed with purpose. “The public needs reassurance, Colonel. We can’t have people living in fear.”

The message was clear: certainty was premature, yet the Mayor’s presence here signaled an urgency that went beyond the simple apprehension of a suspect. Jenna watched the interplay, aware of the delicate balance between appeasing public fear and ensuring justice was not just swift, but right. In the span of a breath, the dynamic had shifted; now, they were players on a stage where perception could easily overshadow fact.

Jenna stepped forward, the lines of worry on her face deepening. “With all due respect, Mayor,” she said, her stance unyielding despite the authority pressing down upon her. “Rushing to conclusions could jeopardize the entire case.”

The Mayor’s gaze whipped toward Jenna, sharp as the crease in her perfectly tailored suit. “And what makes you so sure Carl isn’t our man, Sheriff?” The question was a challenge, thrown like a gauntlet between them.

Before Jenna can muster her reply, Spelling’s voice sliced through the tension. “Sheriff Graves has some... reservations,” he admits, his tone diplomatic as he bridges the gap between duty and doubt. “But the evidence we have is compelling.” His assertion is meant to mollify, to smooth the ruffled feathers with compromise.

Mayor Simmons gave a curt nod, her lips a tight line that betrayed no room for further debate. “Then it’s settled. I’ll issue a press release immediately. The people of Trentville deserve to know they’re safe.” The finality in her voice brooked no opposition, her decision rendered as if by royal decree.

As the Mayor strode away, her departure left an uneasy silence. Jenna watched the Mayor’s retreating form, the click-clack of heels on linoleum fading with each step. She pivoted to face the Colonel, her voice a whisper laced with urgency. “Colonel, we can’t let her do this. We’re not certain—”

Spelling raised a hand, silencing her mid-sentence. “I understand your concerns, Sheriff,” he said, his deep voice tinged with an uncharacteristic gentleness. The lines around his eyes softened, acknowledging the turmoil that churned behind Jenna’s emerald gaze. “But sometimes, we need to trust the evidence in front of us.”

Colonel Spelling’s gaze never wavered from Jenna’s face, his scrutiny as intense as the gravity of their discussion. “You have a remarkable ability to see connections others miss,” he conceded. “But like I said before, sometimes you just have a hard time letting go.” The Colonel paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle over Jenna. “Just... consider the possibility that we might have the right man. Until we have more evidence, I’d say the investigation is suspended, if not closed.”

Jenna’s throat tightened. The thought of suspending the search for truth, for potentially leaving a killer at large while an innocent man sat behind bars, was intolerable.

“At least keep your officers posted around the reservoir,” she said to Spelling.

Spelling shook his head, “Sheriff Graves, I just can’t afford to do that. My officers are needed elsewhere. This isn’t the only case we’re working on right now. I’m spread too thin as it is.”

She felt the pressure of the Colonel’s rank, his experience, and the political machinations that thrummed through Trentville’s veins like a pulse.

Spelling gave her a long, searching look, as if trying to decipher the tumultuous thoughts swirling in her mind. Then he turned away, leaving Jenna standing in the dimly lit hallway, her shoulders squared against the doubts that threatened to erode her confidence. She watched him go, the distance growing with each of his measured steps until he turned a corner and vanished from sight.

Silence enveloped her, and in that moment, Jenna knew one thing for certain—she wasn’t ready to surrender to the evidence just yet. There was a truth out there, obscured and elusive, but she would find it. She had to.

“What do you think we should do?” Jake’s question pulled her from her thoughts, his voice low but carrying an undercurrent of urgency. Jenna pressed her back to the cool wall, the solidity grounding her as she grappled with the whirling doubts.

“I can’t shake this feeling, Jake,” she admitted, her frustration seeping through. “There’s something we’re missing.” Her gaze was distant, focused on something beyond the sterile walls of the Genesius County Jail.

Jenna straightened suddenly, her eyes alight with the spark of realization. The pieces clicked into place, aligning with the vivid imagery of her dreams. “Last night’s dream,” she began, words tripping over one another in haste. “The three men mentioned Sheriff Doyle chasing them away from the spillway. Carl confirmed that during questioning.”

Jake nodded, his expression mirroring the intensity of her own. He was with her, following the trail she was following. “You think Frank might have some insight?”

“Exactly,” Jenna said. “Let’s pay Frank a visit,” Jenna decided, her tone decisive. Jake nodded silently, his trust in her judgment as unwavering as ever.

Together they strode down the hallway, their footsteps echoing in unison against the unforgiving floor. “It will be worth our time to talk with him,” Jenna said, the decision firm in her voice as she edged through the heavy steel door leading out of the Genesius County Jail.

The drive was silent, a reflective quiet that stretched between them like the long shadows cast by the late afternoon sun across the road. They were both deep in thought, the weight of the case pressing down upon them, though neither spoke a word. The familiar scenery of Trentville passed by, unnoticed in their preoccupation.

Pulling up to Frank Doyle’s modest bungalow, Jenna felt a twinge of nostalgia for the simpler times in her life. The sight of Frank’s weathered face splitting into a warm smile was a welcome reprieve from the tension coiling within her.

“Jenna, Jake,” Frank greeted, his voice rich with the gravelly timbre of age and experience as he ushered them inside. The living room welcomed them with the comforting scent of old books and the faint aroma of coffee—a stark contrast to the sterile hallways of the jail they had just left behind.

“Want coffee?” he asked.

“No, I’m jangled enough,” Jenna replied. Jake agreed, and they all sat down in the living room.

“I hear you found two more bodies in the reservoir last night,” Frank said.

Jenna leaned forward in her chair, elbows on knees, adopting her habitual posture when her mind was at work. “That’s right, Frank,” she began, her voice steady despite the gravity of the news. We’ve identified one of them as Clive Carroway. And we believe the other might be Jimmy Koontz.”

Frank’s surprise at the mention of Jimmy Koontz seemed to momentarily lift the weight from the room. “Jimmy Koontz? Now there’s a name I haven’t heard in years.” His voice held a note of confusion, as if trying to place a ghost back into the frame of the living.

Jenna’s nod was slight, an acknowledgment of the past resurfacing. She hesitated, her fingertips grazing her temples where a headache threatened to bloom. “We’ve also arrested Carl Reeves in connection with the murders.”

“Carl? Are you sure?” The former Sheriff’s face, usually an open book of hard-earned wisdom, now folded into lines of doubt and concern.

“We’re not entirely convinced,” Jake admitted, his voice a baritone thread amidst the thickening tension.

Jenna began to recount Carl’s story about the incident at the reservoir. Each sentence seemed to carve deeper furrows into Frank’s brow, his features darkening as though threatened by an approaching storm.

“I remember those boys,” Frank said, finally breaking the silence that had coalesced around Jenna’s last words. He shook his head as if to dispel the images that clung to his memory. “Always swimming where they shouldn’t. I’d chase them off, but they’d be back the next hot day.”

His words hung in the air, painting a picture of youthful defiance against authority, of summer days reckless with abandon. Jenna could almost hear the distant laughter, the splash of water against skin, and the stern reprimand of a sheriff who cared more than he let on. Frank’s recollections offered a glimpse into another time—a different Trentville—but Jenna knew that nostalgia couldn’t mask the undercurrent of something darker.

Frank’s words faded, leaving a silence that seemed to speak volumes in the modest living room of his bungalow. Jenna watched him closely, her analytical mind parsing the slivers of history he offered. The former Sheriff’s gaze turned inward, lost in the corridors of his recollections.

“I do recall that Carl stopped hanging around with the others,” Frank told them. “Never knew why, though, at least not until now. Thought it was just kids growing apart.” His eyes, those windows to bygone days, fixed on a spot beyond the walls of his home, as though to the very edges of the reservoir where youth and innocence once played.

A new piece of the past came unbidden from Frank’s lips, filling the room with the weight of revelation. “Tommy Larson then took Carl’s place as the fourth member of the group.” He said it simply, matter-of-factly, unaware of the ripples his words sent through the present.

Jenna felt a jolt of surprise, not so much at the news itself but at the implications.

“Tommy told us he was never part of that group,” Jake said. His tone carried the strain of a man reevaluating what he thought he knew; it was tight, like a cord pulled to its limit.

Frank, ever the steadfast oak, shook his head, dispelling any doubts about his conviction. “No, I’m sure of it. Even though he was younger, Tommy became the fourth member of that little gang. Saw them together all the time after Carl dropped out. They were inseparable.”

Jenna knew this was no mere discrepancy—it had been a deliberate untruth.

“Tommy lied to us,” she said, her voice betraying none of the turmoil she felt. It was a statement, not a question. “What did he have to gain—or to hide?”