Page 3

The scene was at odds with Jenna’s expectations. For a heartbeat, she remained motionless, observing someone in the yard of Mom’s house hunched over garden beds that had lain fallow for years.

Then that wide-brimmed sunhat turned to the side and she could see that the person at work was definitely her mother, Margaret Graves. She was holding tools of cultivation, not the bottle Jenna had grown so accustomed to seeing there. It was as if a fragment of the past had been grafted onto the present, offering a glimpse of what once was —the mother who tended to her garden with the same care she once tended to her daughters.

Jenna watched for a moment, taking in the sight of her mother, enveloped by the scent of soil and sweat, laboring to bring life back to the earth. A sense of cautious hope flickered in Jenna’s chest. If her mother was finding her way back to these simple acts of nurturing, perhaps there was a chance for healing after all.

She shut down her car’s engine and stepped out, her boots crunching on the gravel, badge glinting in the morning light. It wasn’t often these days that she saw her mother attending to anything with such determination. Since her father’s passing, the untamed garden had been left to its own devices, becoming a wild thing all its own. But this morning, amidst the chaotic tangle of weeds, Jenna found a glimmer of something resembling hope.

“Mom,” Jenna called, as she approached.

Mom paused, wiping a beaded brow with the back of her gloved hand. “Oh, Jenna,” she breathed out, a weary smile gracing her lips. “Just thought I’d try to tackle this mess. Been too long, hasn’t it?”

“Five years,” Jenna replied, looking over what used to be a vibrant array of flowers and vegetables. She observed her mother, noting the resolve in her posture. Were those signs of a spirit reigniting?

“Your father would have hated seeing it like this,” Mom continued, her gaze sweeping over the garden, where memories seemed to grow as thick as the underbrush she now sought to reclaim.

“It’s good to see you out here, Mom,” Jenna said, her words measured, carefully chosen to encourage without overwhelming. She knew the delicate balance her mother teetered on—the fine line between succumbing to grief and pushing through it. And though Jenna had spent countless nights chasing specters in both dreams and reality, nothing haunted her quite like the fear of losing another loved one.

Mom plunged her hands back into the earth, pulling at intrusive weeds with a vigor that seemed to pulse from her core. Jenna watched, the rigid tension in her mother’s shoulders telling of an inner battle fought and, for the moment, won. The sight was startling, not just because of the physical labor, but because of the spark behind it—a flicker of the woman who had once taught Jenna the names of every flower and herb they planted side by side.

“Looks like you’ve found your stride,” Jenna remarked, voice laced with cautious optimism as she moved to the porch, where she could see the little garden more clearly.

Her mother straightened up slightly, looking at her daughter with eyes that held more clarity than Jenna had seen in years. “Yesterday was rough, Jenna,” Mom admitted, a sliver of vulnerability breaking through the newfound resolve. “But I woke up this morning tired of feeling... powerless.”

Jenna’s heart clenched. She recognized the tremble in Mom’s hands, not from withdrawal, but from effort—effort that wasn’t there just the last time they’d met.

Nodding to herself, Mom returned to her task. “It’s late in the season,” she mused almost to herself. “But I think there’s still time for a few quick crops. Tomatoes if I can buy good plants, maybe some peppers and cucumbers...”

“Summer isn’t over yet,” Jenna agreed, the sun warm on her back. “And what about adding some color? Some marigolds or zinnias could brighten up the place.”

“Color...” Her mother paused, considering, then smiled—a genuine smile. “Yes, that’s a good idea. It’d be nice to see something vibrant here again. Besides, marigolds actually help keep some bugs away, and zinnias can attract the good ones like ladybugs and butterflies. Yes, I should definitely put in both of those.”

“But don’t forget we’ve got a drought in the whole county right now. Be sure to pick the veggies that need less water, in case we actually have to limit the use of it here in town.”

The simplicity of gardening talk, so mundane and yet so profound, represented an olive branch extended towards normalcy, towards healing. Jenna couldn’t help but imagine the garden reborn, bright new life amid the tangle of neglect—a kind of transformation she dared hope might continue within her mother.

Jenna glanced at her watch, the mid-morning sun climbing higher in the sky. “I should get going,” she said, regret lacing her voice as she eyed her mother’s progress in the garden. “I’d like to get down there with you, but I can’t show up to work looking like I’ve been wrestling with the underbrush.”

Her mother pushed herself to her feet, brushing dirt off her knees. A chuckle escaped her, husky but genuine. “Of course, you can’t, dear. The sheriff covered in mud? What would the town think?” She wiped her brow with the back of her hand, leaving a smudge of earth on her forehead. “Maybe next time, when you have a day off, we can tackle this together.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Jenna replied with a smile. There was a part of her that lingered, hesitant to leave.

Mom’s gaze darted towards the house as if it held a secret. “Jenna,” she said, her voice edged with a nervous tremor, “could you come inside for a moment before you go? There’s something I need help with... something I can’t deal with on my own.”

“Sure, Mom,” Jenna replied quickly. It wasn’t like her mother to admit needing help, much less ask for it. “Let’s see what’s going on.” As she followed her mother’s lead toward the house, her mind tried to imagine what awaited them inside.

Jenna trailed her mother through the creaking screen door, the familiar scent of aged wood and lemon polish greeting her. She blinked in the dimness, her eyes adjusting from the glare outside. The living room was tidier than she’d seen it in years, old magazines stacked neatly on the coffee table, everything dusted, and the floor well swept.

“Mom, did you clean all this?” Jenna asked with both amazement .

Mom Graves gave a small, almost shy nod as she led the way to the kitchen. “I had some time to fill,” she commented.

The kitchen, too, spoke of recent labor; counters cleared and wiped down, dishes washed and put away. But on the table stood the crux of Mom’s unease—a half-empty bottle of bourbon, label turned outward, accusing in its transparency. Her mother’s fingers hovered over the glass like a moth drawn to a flame yet unable to touch.

Mom’s hand trembled as she reached for the bottle and loosened the cap, the familiar odor filling the room. She looked at her daughter with desperation. “I just can’t bring myself to pour it out...can you do it for me?” she whispered, her voice cracking under the strain. “Would you...?”

Jenna closed the distance, wrapping her arms around her mother in an embrace that sought to bridge years of pain and regret.

“Of course, Mom,” she murmured. Gently stepping back, she picked up the bottle. The liquid sloshed inside—a tempting lure that had held her mother captive for far too long.

Resolutely, Jenna unscrewed the cap and tilted the bottle, the amber fluid catching the light as it spiraled down the sink. She watched every drop disappear, feeling a symbolic release with the last glug as it vanished into the drain.

“Thank you,” Mom breathed, a mixture of relief and fear in her eyes. Jenna sloshed water and soap into the empty bottle and placed the on the counter, then squeezed her mother’s hand. They shared a silent understanding that this was just the first step on a long road ahead.

“You’ve got time for a decent cup of coffee,” Mom declared, turning away and moving to the old coffee maker.

Jenna heard a familiar gurgle and hiss as a fresh pot brewed. She wondered if now would be a good time to tell Mom about the dream she’d had about a woman on the beach who held a sandpiper. Of course, Mom knew nothing about her gift, but at least Jenna could talk about the dream as if it were nothing more than that, and maybe it would mean something to Mom. But no, now didn’t seem to be the moment to bring up anything related to Piper—not with Mom navigating such an enormous change in her life.

The scent of coffee filled the kitchen, mingling with the sharp tang of cleanser from the scrubbed counters. Jenna’s mother set a chipped mug in front of her, the steam curling upward like a signal of normalcy in a world that had been anything but.

“Mom,” Jenna asked, turning her thoughts to a different topic, “why now? Why get rid of the bourbon?”

Mom took a seat across from Jenna, her fingers tracing the rim of her own mug. “I went to the liquor store last night,” she said, her voice steadier than Jenna expected. “I was going to buy another bottle, but Mr. Canfield... he wouldn’t sell it to me.” She paused, taking a breath as if to steady herself against the memory. “He told me I’d had enough, that he could see that I was in bad shape and that it was time for somebody to put their foot down.”

Jenna listened, her mind processing the implications. The liquor store was a fixture in Trentville; everyone knew everyone, and for Mr. Canfield to refuse a sale meant he was worried—seriously worried.

“Mr. Canfield did that?” Jenna asked, surprise filtering through her tone. It was rare for anyone in Trentville to step into another person’s life so directly, especially when it came to something as personal as drinking habits.

Her mother nodded, a faint smile touching her lips. “He’s a recovering alcoholic himself. Said he’s seen too many go down that path and not come back.” Mom’s gaze drifted past Jenna, focusing on something distant, something Jenna couldn’t see. “He even invited me to an AA meeting.”

“Are you considering it?” Jenna ventured, knowing the weight of such a decision.

Mom sighed, her eyes returning to Jenna. “I’m not ready yet. But I hope, maybe soon...” Her words trailed off, leaving the air between them thick with unspoken promises and fears.

Jenna reached across the table, her hand resting atop her mother’s. “Mom,” she began, her voice steady and sincere, “I’m proud of you. And whatever help you need, I’m here for you.”

Mom’s features softened, the lines around her eyes relaxing as if relief had washed over her. She offered a small nod, the kind that carried more gratitude than words could express. Then, as if to shift away from the weight of her own struggles, she tilted her head curiously. “I saw on the news about that murder case. You closed it just yesterday, didn’t you?” The interest in her tone surprised Jenna; her mother hadn’t shown concern for outside affairs in so long, especially not for the successes that marked Jenna’s life.

“Uh, yes, I did.” Jenna was unsure how much her mother truly wished to know, or how much she herself wanted to reveal. Law enforcement, after all, was threaded with gritty realities best left out of kitchen-table conversations.

“Was it really who I heard?” Mom’s brow furrowed in disbelief. “Did he really turn out to be a killer?”

Jenna hesitated, memories of the flash of steel as the killer had reached for a gun before Jenna and her deputy subdued him and put him under arrest. “I’d rather not talk about it, though,” she added quickly, hoping to leave the darkness of that case behind her.

Mom Graves shook her head, a troubled expression settling on her features. “I just don’t understand what’s happening to Trentville,” she murmured, more to herself than to Jenna.

Jenna stood by the kitchen window, observing her mother’s disquiet. Was it true, she wondered? Had the town turned darker on her watch? And if something had changed, was it just the town of Trentville or the whole area of her responsibility as Sheriff of Genesis County, Missouri?

The ringtone of her phone sliced through the silence, startling them both. Jenna pulled it from her pocket and saw Jake Hawkins’ name flash across the screen. With an apologetic glance at her mother, she answered the call. “Jake, what’s up?”

“Jenna, we need to get out of Sablewood Reservoir right now,” he told her, his voice taut with urgency. “Chad Spelling just called. They’ve found a dead body.”