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Jake let his gaze linger on Jenna as she navigated the patrol car through Trentville’s dappled streets. The morning sun cast a warm glow on her chestnut hair. It was small, unnoticed details that had only recently caught his attention—like the way strands of her hair turned golden in the sunlight.

She was more than his superior, more than the determined sheriff with a haunted past—she was complex, with unknowable depths and quiet strength that commanded respect without asking for it. And as the light shifted, highlighting the subtle curve of her lips lost in thought, Jake felt a now-familiar tightness in his chest, both admiration and something more tender.

The drive to Frank Doyle’s house was a quiet one, punctuated only by the hum of the engine and the occasional crackle of the radio. When they pulled up to the curb, the timing was uncanny. Before Jenna could turn off the ignition, the front door opened, and there stood Frank, eyes alert and expectant.

Frank Doyle’s tall frame stood as sturdy as an old oak. His face was a map of weathered lines and deep-set wrinkles, each one telling a story of hard-earned wisdom and years spent under the relentless Missouri sun. His short white hair was thick and unruly, matching the gruff exterior that hid an enormous heart. Despite his age, he held himself with a dignity that spoke volumes about the man he once was—a sheriff who’d seen it all, yet still had kindness gleaming in his gray eyes like soft moonlight on a quiet river.

“Morning, Frank,” Jenna called out as she stepped from the car.

“Jenna, Jake,” Frank replied, his voice rough like gravel.

As he stepped out of the cruiser, Jake’s voice was low, “How does he always do that? Always seem to be expecting your visit, I mean?”

Jenna glanced back with a fleeting smile. “Frank’s always had a knack for knowing when I’m coming to see him. It used to drive me crazy, but now I’m kind of used to it.”

Frank greeted them, stepping aside to allow them entry. His eyes crinkled warmly at the corners, softening the hard lines etched by years of service. “Coffee’s fresh,” he announced, gesturing towards the kitchen.

The scent of strong, black coffee greeted Jake, leading him through the living room and into in the old kitchen awash with morning light. He pulled out a chair for Jenna before taking his own seat across from Frank’s chair. Mugs of coffee made soft clinks as Frank set them down on the table, its worn surface bearing witness to countless such conversations.

Frank’s gaze met Jake’s briefly, an unspoken acknowledgment passing between them. The former sheriff may have been retired from active duty, but his instinct for police work was as keen as ever. Jake had seen that same look before—the one that said Frank had sensed their arrival long before they turned onto his street. Jake shook his head slightly, still puzzled by the older man’s timely intuition.

“I heard about the bodies at the church,” Frank said, his voice low as he sat down. “Nasty business.”

“It’s worse than you know, Frank,” Jenna told him.

Jake watched the play of emotions across Frank’s face as Jenna recounted details of the discoveries at St. Michael’s, the body in the Sunday School room closet and in another closet in the nave. She also spoke of the community’s reaction, the fear and suspicion that had rippled through the meeting in the parish hall.

“Any dreams about this, Jenna?” Frank leaned forward, elbows resting heavily on the table.

There was a brief hesitation, a flicker of reluctance in Jenna’s emerald eyes before she gave a slight nod. Jake knew that look - it was the same one she wore whenever she let slip the veil that hung between her waking world and the realm of her dreams. At that moment, he felt like both protector and bystander, aware of the profound trust Jenna placed in him, yet still separated by the kind of experience he knew he’d never fully comprehend.

“Last night,” Jenna’s voice was steady, her gaze anchored to a spot on the table. “I dreamed about St. Michael’s Church.”

She spoke of the church’s strange darkness, the whispering echoes that played tricks with sound, and the words that became butterflies or strange languages, book pages that fluttered up into the air. She described the ghostly figures with such vivid detail it was as though she had sketched them into existence right there in Frank’s kitchen. The man with the autoharp came to life in her narrative, his spectral fingers plucking strings that vibrated with an otherworldly resonance.

As Jenna’s account unfolded, Jake watched Frank closely. When she mentioned the autoharp player, a subtle shift crossed the former sheriff’s features. Jake knew the telltale signs of a man trying to mask his reaction, and Frank was doing just that.

“The women both sang,” Jenna said. “One of them sang a hymn …”

“Can you sing it for me, Jenna?” Frank’s voice was strained, almost as if the request cost him something.

Jenna nodded, her chestnut hair shifting around her face. She closed her eyes for a moment, gathering the haunting melody from the recesses of her memory. Then she began to sing, her voice soft but clear, resonating through the stillness of the kitchen.

“In shadows deep, the secrets keep,

Through courage, truth we strive to reap.

In dreams they stir, in whispers speak,

Guiding the lost, the brave, the meek.”

Jenna’s voice captivated Jake in a way he hadn’t expected. Until their drive over here from the morgue, he’d never heard her sing before. Her voice, usually clipped and businesslike, was transformed in song - it flowed like a gentle brook, soft and soothing. Jake found himself caught in its current, the melody pulling at something deep within him. It was another layer of Jenna he hadn’t known existed, a hidden depth that made her all the more intriguing. His gaze lingered on her face as she sang, the morning light casting her in an almost ethereal glow. He watched as Frank’s hands tightened around his coffee mug, his knuckles whitening.

“Can’t say I’ve heard that one before,” Frank muttered, shaking his head slightly. His expression was a careful mask, but Jake saw lines of concern etched deeper into his weathered face.

“I hadn’t either,” Jake admitted.

“And the other?” Frank asked Jenna.

Jenna hesitated. “It was an old tune that Jake recognized.”

“‘Cross Road Blues’ by Robert Johnson,” Jake added. “A classic blues piece about desperation and crossroads.”

“Can you sing that one too?” Frank asked.

Jenna nodded and sang. Where the hymn had been ethereal, this song was earthy and raw:

“I went to the crossroad, fell down on my knees

I went to the crossroad, fell down on my knees

Asked the Lord above, ‘Have mercy, save this poor girl, if you please.”

Frank nodded, his expression unreadable, but Jake caught the briefest glimmer of recognition in the older man’s eyes. That look – it was more than mere familiarity. It was an acknowledgment of a shared history with the lyrics or perhaps their implications.

The former sheriff’s face lost some color, and he took a long swig of his coffee, his hand trembling ever so slightly. Jake filed the observation away, an important piece of the puzzle they were slowly assembling.

“Any ideas why these songs, Jenna?” Frank asked, as if hoping to glean more from her response. “Why they’d be the ones to come to you in your dream?”

Jenna shook her head, her weariness evident. “Not sure, but there’s always a reason,” she replied.

“I take it there’s more to this story,” Frank said.

Jenna nodded, “Jake and I just visited Melissa Stark at the morgue.”

Jake sat quietly, watching Jenna’s lips move, her voice steady as she recounted the stark atmosphere of the morgue. The chill of the coroner’s office seemed to have followed them into Frank’s cozy kitchen. When Jenna spoke of Dr. Stark’s findings: one body from around 1960, another from about 1990, Jake observed Frank closely; the former sheriff’s stoic face was a mask hiding an internal struggle.

“1960 was before my time as sheriff, but 1990...” Frank’s voice faded into the space between words, suggesting a narrative left unfinished. His eyes shifted away, focusing on a spot in the grain of the wooden table, as if it held the answers he couldn’t articulate.

The silence that settled was telling. Jake sensed the undercurrents of history and regret that lay beneath Frank’s half-spoken sentences. It was more than just the shock of the gruesome discovery; there was a personal connection, Jake felt sure of it. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, his own instincts urging him to dig deeper, to understand the significance of Frank’s hesitation.

Before Jake could voice his thoughts, Jenna’s hand flinched, a subtle tremor betraying her tension. She drew in a breath that seemed to pull the morning light into her, steeling herself.

“There’s something else, Frank,” she whispered, her voice low in the quiet room. “I think... I think there must be another body hidden somewhere in the church. The man with the autoharp from my dream.”

Frank’s gaze lifted slowly from the table, meeting Jenna’s earnest eyes. His jaw clenched, a visible sign of the inner turmoil he was wrestling with.

“So you say the date was around 1960 for one of the women?” Frank repeated, almost to himself, his voice barely above a whisper. There was a distant quality to his tone, as if he were reaching back through years, sifting through memories long filed away. A faint crease formed on his forehead, the mark of a man trying to piece together fragments of a past that refused to stay hidden.

Jenna nodded, her expression marked with the vulnerability that came from sharing one’s deepest intuitions.. “But the man with the autoharp... I don’t think he belongs to either time. Not exactly, not in the way we understand it.”

Frank exhaled, a slow release that seemed to deflate the tension in the room. His eyes, once steely gray, now softened with a certain sorrow. “I’m listening, Jenna,” he said, his posture opening to her words. “Tell me everything you can remember.”

Jenna recounted more of her dream, the vivid details spilling out with a clarity that made the hairs on Jake’s arms stand on end. The spectral figures, the cryptic melodies, all of it painted a picture that was both haunting and eerily beautiful. As she spoke, Frank listened with a focus that bordered on reverence, his weathered features etched with the realization that this was no ordinary case. This was personal, and it cut to the core of who they were—protectors of a town that had secrets.

Jake observed as Frank Doyle’s expression shifted, the furrows deepening on his brow with a concern that seemed to weigh down the very air around them. Frank’s response came slow, deliberate. He nodded, the movement carrying the weight of years and unspoken understanding.

“Jenna, I’ve known you your whole life. I’ve seen firsthand how your dreams can reveal truths no one else can see. If you say there’s another body, I believe you.”

Jake felt a surge of complex emotions at their exchange. There was admiration for Jenna’s unique gift—an ability that had more than once proven invaluable to their work. Gratitude swelled within him, too, for Frank’s steadfast belief in Jenna; it was a support that had never wavered, even in the face of the inexplicable and the supernatural. Yet, amid these sentiments, Jake grappled with a twinge of alienation, acutely aware of his peripheral place in the bond shared by mentor and protégé.

“The problem is,” Jenna continued, the frustration evident in her voice as she wrapped her hand tighter around the steaming mug before her, “I can’t tell anyone else about this third body. Not without revealing my... ability.” She paused, her gaze flitting between Jake and Frank, the only two confidants privy to her secret. “You and Jake are the only ones I can talk to about this.”

Jake sat straighter, feeling the responsibility settle on his shoulders—a silent vow to protect Jenna and her extraordinary gift. In the confines of Frank’s modest kitchen, they formed an unlikely trio: the weary sheriff with her psychic abilities, the mentor whose belief defied logic, and he, himself—the deputy caught between professional duty and personal loyalty.

“The woman in the choir robe... I don’t think I know anything about her,” Frank said, his voice trailing into the silence. He hesitated, his eyes losing focus as he gazed past the walls of the kitchen, seeing something far beyond the sunlit room. With a visible effort, he swallowed hard, moisture pooling in the corners of his eyes—eyes that had witnessed decades of Trentville’s sorrows.

“But the others...” His voice cracked like dry leaves underfoot, betraying an inner turmoil that he fought to keep at bay. “I’m afraid I might know exactly who they were.”