Page 9

Jenna eased her cruiser into a vacant spot outside a building with peeling paint on a weathered facade. Although this place stood at the town’s edge, its existence was woven into the fabric of local lives. Above the door, the neon ‘OPEN’ sign sputtered intermittently, casting an uneven glow onto the gravel lot. She glanced at the flickering light, a sigh escaping her lips before she pushed the car door open and stepped out into the cooling night air.

As Jenna entered the building, a bell above the door issued a soft chime. Zeke Canfield, proprietor and sole clerk of Trentville’s only liquor store, glanced up from where he was restocking a shelf behind the counter. His figure, tall and slender as a reed, straightened upon seeing her. Salt-and-pepper hair framed his craggy face, and his eyes—a clear blue that had seen their share of hardship—held hers in a moment of quiet recognition.

“Evening, Sheriff,” Zeke greeted her from behind the counter. “Everything alright?” There was no smile on his lips, only the barest uptick at the corners, but in his gaze lingered something else—a flicker of concern that seemed out of place amid rows of bottled spirits.

“Everything’s fine, Zeke,” she said, stopping at the counter. “I actually came to thank you.”

The lines on Zeke’s face deepened as confusion momentarily furrowed his brow. “Thank me? What for?” he asked, leaning slightly forward, the curiosity genuine in his seasoned features.

Jenna exhaled softly, her voice lowering, not out of secrecy but because of the delicate subject. “For not selling to my mother yesterday,” she revealed. Her mother’s struggle was no secret in the close-knit fabric of Trentville, where personal battles often became communal knowledge. “She told me what happened. How you refused to sell her bourbon.”

Zeke’s expression shifted as he absorbed her words. It was not a thank-you he had anticipated, perhaps not even one he felt he deserved, given the complexities of addiction with which he was all too familiar. Yet, here stood the Sheriff, acknowledging a moment of tough love that, unknown to him, had rippled wider than the confines of his store.

Zeke’s gaze lingered on Jenna, his eyes reflecting a moment’s journey from confusion to comprehension. The edges of his mouth turned up slightly, not quite a smile but an acknowledgment of shared difficulty. “Ah, I see,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of personal experience with such matters. “Well, it wasn’t an easy thing to do, Sheriff. Your mother’s been a customer for a long time. But I could see what it was doing to her. Sometimes, you gotta do what’s right, even if it’s hard.” His hands rested on the wooden counter, worn smooth by years of service and countless exchanges.

There was a stillness in the air, a respectful pause as Jenna let Zeke’s words settle.

“She poured out her last bottle today. Actually, she asked me to do it for her,” she confided. “And of course, I did.”

Zeke’s eyebrows arched upward in surprise. “That’s a big step. A real big step,” he responded, his gruff voice holding a note of respect.

“It is,” Jenna affirmed, a trace of pride warming her words. She added, “And I think your intervention played a part in that. I just... I wanted you to know that what you did has already made a difference.”

Zeke was silent for a long moment, then he reached under the counter and brought out a book whose leather cover was creased with the heavy use. He held it reverently, a volume that had clearly been a companion through turbulent times.

“Your mother reminds me of myself years ago,” Zeke said, his voice carrying a weight that resonated in the stillness. He flipped through the pages, each one heavy with ink. “This here’s my journal from when I first got sober. There’s something in it that I think maybe will help her.”

Jenna’s eyes softened with curiosity and empathy. She watched as Zeke tore out a page and held it out to her.

It was a list, meticulously penned, of local AA meetings and support groups—a lifeline scrawled in black and white. Jenna scanned the names and places, some familiar, others not. She saw that Trentville, for all its modesty, sheltered more havens for the healing than she had known.

“Town this size, you’d be surprised how many meetings we’ve got,” Zeke commented, a wry twist to his lips. “A lot of people are unhappy here—and unhappiness and addiction go hand in hand.” He circled a specific entry on the list with his pencil. “That’s the one I go to. Good folks there. Your mom said she wasn’t ready for this, but you might want to be sure she has list.”

Jenna nodded, her mind already mapping out the locations, envisioning her mother seated among strangers who would soon become comrades in recovery. The idea that Zeke, too, frequented these circles of confession and support added another layer to the man she had only known as the clerk behind the counter. Now he stood as a testament to the possibility of renewal—a guide for those like her mother who were only just beginning to make their way back from the brink.

Jenna accepted the paper, a tangible symbol of hope and struggle. She observed Zeke, his features marked by time and experience, and felt an unspoken kinship forming. It was an unexpected bridge between them, a shared understanding of what it meant to stand at the edge of change.

“Tell her she’s welcome to call me anytime,” Zeke added, leaning slightly forward as if imparting a sacred trust. “Day or night. I know how tough those first few days can be.”

“Thank you, Zeke. This means a lot,” Jenna replied, her voice subdued but sincere. She tucked the list into the pocket of her jacket, feeling the weight of it against her chest. The small gesture from Zeke was more than kindness; it was a lifeline extended from one survivor to another. Jenna knew well the isolating battle against demons both seen and unseen—how the silence of the night could twist into a clamor of past regrets and what-ifs.

Clearing her throat, Jenna hesitated before voicing the thought that had been gnawing at her since she stepped into the dimly lit store. “Zeke,” she started tentatively, “if my mother comes in here again trying to buy liquor, would you... could you give me a call?”

He smiled sadly, a reflection of understanding rather than amusement. “That’s something I’ll never do, Sheriff,” he says gently. “Trust is essential among alcoholics, and I won’t report on another’s progress or lack of it. I hope you can understand.” His eyes met hers, steady and resolute, conveying the solemnity of his conviction.

Jenna exhaled, a soft sound of acceptance, recognizing the boundary he had drawn. It was not about secrecy but respect—a principle carved from his own journey through sobriety. She nodded, acknowledging the wisdom in his refusal. In the fight for redemption, ownership of one’s actions was the first step. Zeke had reminded her of that.

“Of course,” she said, her voice carrying a hint of chagrin. “I understand. I shouldn’t have asked that of you. It was out of line.”

Zeke waved off her apology with an easy gesture, his weathered face creased in a sympathetic smile. “Don’t worry about it, Sheriff,” he said, leaning against the wooden counter that had seen better days. “We all have moments when we reach for something—anything—that might give us a hold on the chaos.” He paused, his gaze steady on Jenna. “But I’ll tell you what I can do. I won’t sell your mom any more liquor. That much is within my control, and it’s my promise to keep.”

“Thank you, Zeke,” Jenna replied, the tension easing from her shoulders. She acknowledged his commitment with a nod, appreciating the solidarity he offered in the unspoken battle they both knew too well.

Turning to leave, Jenna reached for the door handle when Zeke’s voice stopped her. “Sheriff?” he called out, and Jenna paused.

“Remember, recovery’s not just for the drinker. It affects the whole family. You have to care for yourself, too.”

“I will. Thanks again, Zeke,” Jenna responded. She stepped through the door into the evening air, the soft chime of the bell marking her departure. Turning from the doorway of the liquor store, she crossed the parking lot. A new sense of purpose buoyed her spirits as she made her way back to her cruiser. The list of AA meetings seemed like a tangible symbol of hope and as well as a reminder of challenges ahead.

She slid behind the wheel and let out a long breath, steadying herself. Her mother’s road to recovery was uncertain, riddled with potential pitfalls, yet Jenna couldn’t suppress a tentative sense of possibility. And now she had one more errand to run tonight. With a turn of the key, she set the cruiser into motion, her resolve fortified by the supportive undercurrent of Trentville’s small-town solidarity.

The drive was short, and the houses along the route darkened, save for the occasional porch light, as she passed the familiar landmarks of the small town. The act of reaching out to Zeke had been a gamble, a desperate grasp at control in a world where so much lay beyond her grasp. But now, with the unexpected gift of a list secure in her jacket and the quiet hum of the engine as her companion, Jenna allowed herself a sliver of hope.

Driving through the slumbering streets toward her mother’s house, Jenna’s cruiser cast a soft glow onto the weathered facades of homes steeped in history and secrets. Each passing seemed to whisper of her twin sister Piper’s absence, of mysteries unresolved, but Jenna focused on the present task. As she approached her childhood home, the absence of light from inside confirmed her mother had retired for the evening.

Jenna retrieved the sheet of paper from where it rested on the passenger seat, tracing the edges before folding it neatly. She took a moment, the pen poised above the paper as she deliberated over her words—words that carried more than information. “Dear Mom, Zeke gave me this, thought it might help you. No pressure. If there’s anything I can do, call.” A pause lingered before she added a final line, imbued with pride and love, “I’m so proud of you. I love you, Jenna.” Her handwriting was firm, each letter a testament to her commitment to her family, both present and missing.

Jenna stepped out of the cruiser and quietly approached the mailbox next to the door of her mother’s house. She inserted the folded piece of paper, its edges crisply bent, into the dark maw of the mailbox—a silent messenger carrying words of encouragement and love. With the task completed, she hesitated for a moment, envisioning her mother discovering the note in the morning, perhaps with a cup of coffee and a new day’s resolve in her heart. That seemed like something to feel good about at the end of a difficult day.

Turning back to her car, Jenna slid behind the wheel again and the engine hummed to life at the turn of the key. The dashboard lights illuminated her features as she navigated onto the road. Houses slipped by, their windows dark and insular, holding their own tales that might never reach her ears.

Jenna continued onward, her eyes fixed ahead while her mind wandered. The list for her mother, the concern for her community, and the unresolved ache for her missing sister—all of it swirled together, a complex tapestry of duty and devotion. Then her thoughts began to drift toward Sablewood Reservoir. Her mind circled the day’s grim discovery, wondering if this would be one of those nights when the veil between life and death thinned enough for her to meet those on the other side.

The headlights of her cruiser cut through the darkness, a solitary beacon on the deserted road as Jenna continued home. The thought of a lucid dream guiding her to answers about the deceased brought a sense of hope, yet interlaced with it was a thread of dread. These dreams, while potent in their revelations, also revealed stories that could be hard to bear.

Her grip on the steering wheel was steady, her eyes fixed ahead, yet her senses were attuned to the faintest whisper from beyond the tangible world. She could almost feel the presence of someone hovering on the farther side of that dark divide, waiting for her—a possibility that held both promise and a deep unease in equal measure.