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Frank fell silent, so Jenna leaned forward, her elbows pressing into the worn surface of Frank’s kitchen table. “You know who the body found in Sablewood Reservoir could be?” she asked eagerly.

“I can’t be sure of that,” Frank replied. “But I do know of someone who disappeared about that time. Mike Larson from over in Colstock.”

The name sent ripples through Jenna’s mind, stirring memories from back when she was Frank’s deputy. Mike Larson—a man more trouble than he was worth, with a rap sheet that spoke of drunken brawls and petty thefts. She nodded slowly, recalling how they had driven to Colstock on several occasions to deal with his misbehavior. That town was too small to have its own police department, so it relied on the Genesius County Sheriff’s Office for intervention.

“Jake, you weren’t around then, but Mike was a handful,” Jenna explained. “He’d get liquored up, start fights at the local bar, or just scare folks with his erratic behavior.”

Frank chimed in, “Had to haul him over here every time. The whole little town would breathe easier once we got him out of there for the night.”

“So, this guy was well-known for causing trouble?” Jake asked, leaning back in his chair, arms folded across his chest.

“Like clockwork,” Jenna replied, her mind tracing back through the years. “Every few months, there’d be some kind of incident. We’d drive over after getting a call from one of the Colstock residents, find Mike ranting in the street or throwing punches, and then bring him in to cool off in a cell.”

“Remember how his younger brother Tommy would show up the next morning?” Frank asked. “The kid always looked like he hoped it’d be the last time.”

Jenna nodded. Tommy Larson, with his worn farmer’s tan and earnest eyes, had stood before them, signing release papers with a hand that barely trembled. “He paid the fines without a word, just took his big brother home,” she said, remembering Tommy’s resigned expression. “It was a sad cycle.”

She remembered the frustration of repeated trips, the annoyance of the citizens, the disappointment in Tommy Larson’s face as he came to bail out his brother yet again. It was a pattern they all knew too well, and one that seemed never-ending—until the day when Mike had vanished without a trace. Could the reservoir have been Mike Larson’s final stop?

“Mary Larson came to us first,” Frank continued, leaning back in his chair. “Saying that Mike had gone missing. Distraught wife, fearing the worst.”

Jenna remembered that day well, the concern etched into Mary’s face, the slight quiver in her voice as she filed the missing person’s report. “But everyone else was convinced Mike just up and left,” Jenna reminded Frank. “He’d threatened to more than once—said one of these days he’d leave, and no one would hear of him again. Even Tommy argued his brother probably ran off, looking for something better in life. Given his drinking, though...”

“If he did walk away, it most likely wasn’t toward a long, happy life,” Frank agreed solemnly. “He was on his way to drinking himself to death already. But it wouldn’t have been the first time someone from these parts chose to disappear. Making their way out of Genesius County, trying to escape from one thing or another, demons or debts.”

“Sounds like he was a real piece of work,” Jake murmured.

“More than you know,” Jenna said, a hint of weariness threading through her words. “Nobody much missed Mike after he was gone,” she mused aloud. “Not even his wife. She seemed to finally accept the theory that her husband had simply abandoned her along with his former life.”

Jenna’s gaze shifted to Frank, acknowledging the grim reality they both knew well. People like Mike Larson, swallowed up by their own demons, often left scarcely a ripple behind. “Could be,” Jenna continued, half to herself, “we’re looking at more than just a man running away from his life. Maybe we’ve stumbled upon the end of it.”

“Did Melissa mention anything about the manner of the victim’s death?” Frank asked, breaking the hush that had settled over them.

Jenna nodded, the details surfacing in her mind with clarity. “The body was found with a backpack full of stones,” she relayed, the image vivid in her memory. “One possibility is a suicide by drowning.”

Frank leaned back, his chair creaking softly under his weight. “That’s a bleak way to go,” he murmured. “But if it’s true, it could mean we’re not on the hunt for a murderer this time.”

“Melissa thought the same thing,” Jenna confirmed. There was a certain relief in considering that possibility. As much as suicide was a tragedy in its own right, the idea of another killer roaming the county so soon after closing two serial cases was a chilling prospect they were all keen to avoid.

Jake nodded slowly, taking in their words. “Do you know whether anyone ever heard from him after he went missing?”

Frank shook his head no, and Jenna replied, “Nobody has ever mentioned ever hearing from Mike Larsen to me. Of course, our attention has always been on current cases, but I’m sure his wife or brother would have given me a call if he’d contacted them.”

“Shouldn’t we find out for sure?” Jake’s question, earnest and logical, sought to pierce the shroud of uncertainty. “We could head over to Colstock. Talk to his wife or brother.”

“Easy, Jake.” Frank’s caution carried weight. “We can’t rush to conclusions based on hunches. We need something concrete before we go stirring up old ghosts in Colstock. It would be hard on the family even now—especially if our guess turns out to be wrong, which is not unlikely.”

Jenna agreed with a nod. She respected Frank’s judgment, knowing that patience often unveiled more truth than haste. Evidence was key, and without it, they risked causing unnecessary pain.

“Until we get some kind of report on the body,” Frank added, fixing his gaze on Jenna, “we should wait.”

Jenna’s mind ticked over the facts as she retrieved her cellphone from the pocket of her blazer. “I’ll check with Melissa,” she said.

The room fell into a hush, punctuated only by the soft click of the phone’s buttons as she navigated to Melissa Stark’s contact information. Jake and Frank leaned in subtly, their attention on the device Jenna held. Her finger hovered over the call button before pressing down decisively and putting the call on speakerphone.

“Melissa Stark,” came the prompt answer after two rings, the coroner’s voice professional and alert.

“Melissa, it’s Jenna Graves. Do you have any news on the John Doe from Sablewood Reservoir?”

“No, nothing to tell you just yet,” came the reply.

“We have a possible lead on the ID,” Jenna said. “Just a guess, but a reasonable possibility. At least, someone you could look into.”

“Go ahead.”

“Jake and I have been going over the case with Frank Doyle. We think it could be Mike Larson from Colstock—he disappeared about two years back. Mike had a troubled history with us, and at the time it seemed likely that he had just walked away.” Jenna watched Frank’s affirming nod out of the corner of her eye.

“Mike Larson...” Melissa repeated thoughtfully. “From Colstock you said. That could be significant. I’ll start the process to acquire his dental records for comparison.”

“Will you have to contact his wife or brother for that? We’d rather not stir up bad memories if we’re wrong about this.”

“I know the dentist over there,” Melissa replied. “He’s an old timer who doesn’t always follow strict procedures. I think he’ll send them to me if I ask.”

“Thanks, Melissa. We appreciate the quick turnaround,” Jenna responded, feeling the first tentative thread of progress weaving through their uncertainty.

“Of course, Jenna. Melissa assured before ending the call.

“I’ll need until tomorrow morning to confirm anything,” Melissa’s voice was level over the phone. “I’ll reach out as soon as I have something definitive either way.”

“Thanks, Melissa. Keep me posted,” Jenna replied, ending the call. She placed her cellphone on the old wood table in Frank’s kitchen, its surface scarred by years of use—a silent witness to countless strategy sessions like this one.

The room felt still in the aftermath of their conversation, the late afternoon sun slanting through the window and casting long shadows that seemed to stretch with the weight of the silence. Jenna glanced at Jake, noticing the faint frown on his brow. Since the day had yielded no breakthroughs, and the evening promised nothing more, her mind turned to more personal news.

“Frank,” Jenna began, breaking the silence, “I had another one of those dreams last night.” She hesitated, folding her arms defensively. “It was a woman in the fog, holding a bird, a sandpiper in fact.”

Frank’s eyebrows rose slightly, the only sign that he was intrigued. “Sandpiper, huh?” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “That could be symbolic, but I’m not sure exactly how. Something to do with your sister?”

Jenna nodded. In her mind, the connection between the bird and her sister’s name was strong. Her dreams felt like riddles, pieces of a puzzle that often seemed linked to her twin’s disappearance. Though it had been two decades, each time, it rekindled the flame of hope that Piper was still out there, waiting to be found.

“Could be,” she conceded. These cryptic visions were both a gift and a curse, offering potential insights but nothing firm.

“Maybe you should ask your mother about ‘sandpiper,’” Frank suggested. “Could be she knows something that might help us make sense of your dream.”

“Perhaps,” Jenna answered, her voice tinged with exhaustion. She recalled her visit to her childhood home earlier that day, the air thick with tension and unspoken words. “But it’ll have to wait. Today was already a lot for her.”

“How so?” he inquired. “At least, if it’s something you want to talk about.”

She shared with Frank the moment her mother had handed her the bottle of bourbon, a silent plea for change in her weary eyes. Jenna described how she had obliged, tipping the contents into the sink as Margaret watched a silent battle against her demons playing out in the quiet of the afternoon.

Frank listened intently, nodding once. “Good for her,” he said, his voice soft with empathy. Jenna appreciated the understanding; few knew the depth of her family’s struggles like Frank did. It was a small victory, the discarded liquor, but it felt monumental, as if the tides were finally turning in her mother’s long fight with addiction.

Frank leaned back in his chair, “So, Margaret’s really trying this time?” he added, his voice carrying the weight of years spent watching her struggle.

Jenna nodded, feeling a cautious flicker of hope. “She is. I think she really is.”

“Did something specific get her started in a better direction?”

“It was Zeke Canfield who made a difference,” Jenna explained. “He refused to sell her any more alcohol.” She paused, looking down at her hands, which rested idle on the kitchen table. “Said he couldn’t be a part of her self-destruction anymore.”

“Zeke’s got a big heart,” Frank commented, a smile touching his lips. His approval was evident, not just for Zeke’s intervention but for the small victory in the long battle that Jenna’s family faced. The local culture in Trentville bred a close-knit community—a network that sometimes served as a safety net for its most vulnerable members.

“Sometimes it takes a village, doesn’t it?” Jenna mused aloud, her eyes meeting Frank’s. There was an unspoken understanding between them, a shared history of loss and the fight against the darkness that often threatened to swallow their small town whole.

Jake added, “Some villages are more helpful than others. There are obviously some good people in this one.”

“Let’s call it a day,” Frank decided, glancing at the clock above his desk. They all needed rest, a respite from the day’s heavy cloak of uncertainty. Tomorrow would bring its own challenges, its own demands for their persistence and resolve. For now, they could take solace in the stillness of the approaching night, storing strength for whatever lay ahead.

Before Jenna could respond, the distinct buzz of her cellphone cut through the quiet of the kitchen. With a swift motion, she retrieved the device from her pocket and glanced at the screen. Hilda Thornton’s name flashed against the backlight. With a resigned sigh, Jenna answered the call.

“Jenna, thank heavens!” Hilda’s voice was breathless, tinged with fear. “It’s urgent! You have to believe me this time.”

Jenna tensed, preparing for the worst but hoping for another false alarm. “What is it, Hilda?”

Jenna pressed the phone closer to her ear, the hum of concern in Hilda Thornton’s voice resonating against the silence of Frank’s kitchen. Years of false alarms from Hilda had nurtured a patience in Jenna that she hadn’t known she possessed, but the tremor in the elderly woman’s words today was different, urgent in a way that couldn’t be quickly dismissed.

“None of your officers will listen to me,” Hilda gasped with barely contained panic. “You must come, Jenna. It’s not like before, I swear it.”

“Tell me what’s happening,” Jenna urged, her voice calm, her eyes darkening as she focused on extracting clarity from chaos.

“There’s someone... something here,” Hilda’s voice broke. “I hear it moving, whispering. You have to believe me, Jenna—there’s a ghost in my attic.”