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The sinking sun casting elongated shadows across St. Michael’s Church as evening fell. The search of the church building had been methodical, each inch scoured with painstaking attention. After finding the second grotesque secret—another body, hidden away in a closet wall—the searchers had found nothing more.

Jenna had seen death before—too often—but this felt different; it was as though the very walls of the church were complicit in hiding the truth. The seeming absence of additional bodies did little to ease her mind. The church was old, its foundation laid by hands long turned to dust, and she knew that age could still obscure concealed places and mysteries to uncover.

Now she stood by the entrance to the church parish hall, a large room dedicated to community activities, and the only part of the church aside from the rectory that Jenna and her team was convinced harbored no bodies. Her eyes traced each parishioner as they slipped through the doors for a hastily called meeting. Hushed voices carried fragments of fear and speculation about the news that had spread after the first body was discovered earlier that day. A wildfire of rumors had already unsettled the small town.

Murmurs among the crowd announced the arrival of Mayor Claire Simmons. Jenna could see that even that normally steely woman appeared muted.

“Sheriff Graves,” Claire said, her words lacking their typical sharpness.

As Jenna returned the greeting, she observed the softening lines around Claire’s eyes. She knew that her work solving the murder of Claire’s brother Clyde had changed their interactions. Now, instead of suspicion, Jenna saw in Claire something akin to camaraderie. Jenna wondered how long this goodwill would last.

When no more people were streaming in, Jenna left her stand at the door and moved to the front of the parish hall, where Father Walsh stood at a podium offering nods and soft words to his parishioners. Jake was standing nearby, calmly checking out the crowd, and Pete Martinez lingered to one side, the hollows under his eyes deep with what he had discovered.

Jenna felt the weight of every gaze when Father Walsh called on her, and she stepped up to the podium.

“Good evening,” she began, her voice stilling the sea of murmurings. “Thank you all for coming on such short notice. Earlier today we uncovered something deeply troubling within St. Michael’s. I believe most of you know that two hidden dead bodies have been discovered.” She paused, not to dramatize but to allow for absorption. “We can’t go into more details about this discovery now. But because of this, the church will remain closed to the public until further notice.”

“Excuse me, Sheriff Graves,” a voice called out, slicing through the hum of whispers that followed Jenna’s announcement. A woman in her sixties, with worry-lines cradling her mouth, stood up, her hand quivering slightly. “We need answers! Is it true what they’re saying?”

“I heard they found a whole cemetery under the floorboards!” an elderly gentleman proclaimed, his voice shaky with the thrill of scandal. Jenna’s heart sank. The fiction of the town’s imagination was quickly outpacing reality, and she knew the dangers that such stories could pose. She had seen fear turn neighbor against neighbor before, and it wasn’t something she wanted to witness again.

“My cousin said it was the work of a satanic cult!” Another parishioner chimed in, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and excitement. Jenna recognized the woman as the owner of the local bookshop, usually a merchant of romance novels and history texts, not wild conspiracy theories.

“Is it true that the bodies are hundreds of years old?” a teenager asked, his voice cracking under the weight of his own morbid curiosity. Jenna noted the boy’s pale face, the way his friends leaned in to hear her response.

Jenna raised her hands, signaling for silence, and the room gradually gave way to a tense quiet.

“Please,” she began, her tone clear and authoritative, her eyes sweeping the room, “it’s essential that we stick to facts and not let unfounded rumors dictate our actions. What we’ve found is unusual, yes, but jumping to conclusions helps no one. Speculation can cause unnecessary panic, and that’s the last thing we need.”

Her gaze swept across the faces before her — each one marked with varying shades of worry. Jenna knew that grounding them in reality was crucial; anything less could send ripples of panic through Trentville and the whole county. “Rumors serve no purpose but to cloud our judgment,” she continued. “Rest assured, my team and I are examining every piece of evidence with meticulous care. We will get to the bottom of this together.”

She saw that the tension in the room didn’t lift so much as mutate into a collective, held breath — waiting for what came next. Jenna saw Claire Simmons watching her, mouthing the words, “Should I?” Jenna shook her head no. She didn’t think that a statement from the mayor would hold back the anxiety in that audience.

It was then that Colonel Chadwick Spelling of the Missouri State Highway Patrol stepped forward, his uniform crisp, the medals upon his chest glinting under the lights. His stride was confident, a man accustomed to facing unrest head-on.

“Folks,” he began, his baritone voice resonating in the now quiet room. Jenna watched the parishioners’ expressions shift from concern to something akin to reverence as they listened. There was a gravity to the well-known lawman, a reassuring solidity that seemed to anchor the room.

“Your safety, your peace of mind, is paramount to us,” Spelling continued, his hands clasped behind his back. “But to ensure both, we need your full cooperation. The investigation at hand requires thoroughness, and for that, the church must remain undisturbed.”

He paused, letting his words sink in, then added, “Please grant us the patience and space necessary to do our work effectively. I assure you, we are doing everything within our power to expedite this process.”

His assurance seemed to act as a balm, smoothing the furrowed brows of the worried townsfolk. For now, the tide of concern had been stemmed. Then there came a question from the back, plaintive and edged with a community’s worry.

“How long will the church be off limits?”

“Can’t give an exact timeline,” Colonel Spelling replied. “But we don’t anticipate the search taking more than two or three days. We’ll do our best to work quickly and efficiently.”

Dissatisfaction rippled through the room again. Jenna could feel the anxiety swell; the church was more than a building—it was a cornerstone of Trentville’s spirit, now cordoned off as a crime scene. She prepared herself for the barrage of questions, for the new surge of communal fear that threatened to break loose.

Before the tide of murmurs could turn into a wave, Father Walsh approached the podium. His thinning hair and round spectacles framed a face marked by concern that seemed to age him beyond his years. Yet, when he spoke, a resonance filled the parish hall.

“Let us not forget,” Father Walsh began, his voice steady yet imbued with emotion, “the strength that lies within our faith. In times such as these, it is our unity, our coming together as a community, that will see us through. And you are not cut off from the church, just the main building itself for a short while. I will continue to meet with you individually or in groups right here in the parish hall.”

Heads bowed as Father Walsh concluded with a prayer, his words weaving a sense of calm through the room. Jenna watched as shoulders relaxed and breaths released, the tension dissipating just enough to stave off panic. Jenna acknowledged the role that Father Walsh played, not just as a clergyman but as a pillar of the Trentville community. His ability to soothe frayed nerves was nothing short of vital, especially now.

As the prayer ended, Jenna’s focus shifted back to the task at hand. Her mind was wired, running through lists of what needed to be done next. She glanced at the clock again—8:16 p.m. Time seemed to have slowed, each minute stretching out as if aware of the gravity of their situation.

As the meeting ended, the wooden floor of St. Michael’s parish hall groaned under the shuffle of feet as the townsfolk began their reluctant exodus. Jenna’s gaze swept over the dispersing crowd, and saw that the mayor was making her way out quietly, speaking calmly with each person who approached her.

Then she spotted Larry Clark threading his way toward them through the rows of folding chairs. Larry Clark, the town’s beloved piano tuner, was a man in his seventies, strong and robust but with a gentle demeanor. His silver hair and spectacled eyes lent him an air of wisdom and warmth. His gait was hesitant, his shoulders hunched in a way that spoke volumes about the unease gripping Trentville.

“Father,” Larry’s voice quivered slightly as he neared the small group at the front, “I know this might not be the best time, but the piano in the Sunday school room is long overdue for tuning. Would it be possible for me to just pop in and take care of that?”

Jenna watched as Father Walsh’s expression softened with sympathy, yet remained immovable. The creased lines on the priest’s face deepened as he prepared to deliver unwelcome news. Jenna’s heart went out to Larry, whose dedication to his craft was as much a part of the town’s fabric as the church steeple piercing the evening sky.

“Unfortunately, Larry,” Father Walsh began, pausing with a gentle inhale, “that won’t be possible right now. We need to ensure the integrity of the investigation.” His words were careful, measured, but the finality in them resonated.

Jenna’s thoughts drifted momentarily to her childhood home, where Larry had been a familiar figure, meticulously tuning their family piano with a tuner’s fork and soft hums. He’d been patient with her and Piper, always ready with a smile or a joke to ease their frustration at missed notes. Even then, Jenna had sensed a quiet sadness behind his laughter. When money had been tight for a client, Larry had often been the one to offer his services without expecting full payment.

As Larry nodded in understanding, resigned to the situation, Jenna felt an ache for the normalcy they all once took for granted. The simple pleasures and routines, like Larry’s regular visits to tune pianos, disrupted by the sinister undercurrent that had taken hold of their lives. It was a stark reminder that the discovery at St. Michael’s had changed everything, perhaps irrevocably.

“Thank you,” Father Walsh added with genuine warmth, placing a hand on the piano tuner’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Larry,” the priest said,. “But I want to thank you for all the years of service you’ve given to our church. As soon as this is over, you’ll be the first person we call.”

Jenna watched the man’s defeated retreat. It wasn’t just the desecration of sacred ground that cut through the town’s heart, she realized; it was also the fracturing of routine, the daily threads that wove the fabric of their community—now torn asunder.

The last murmurs from the parishioners faded, leaving behind an uneasy hush. Jenna, Jake, Father Walsh, and Colonel Spelling convened near the podium. “Let’s touch base about tomorrow’s plan,” Jenna suggested. They needed to maintain focus, to keep moving forward.

“Agreed,” Spelling replied, his keen eyes meeting Jenna’s before scanning the now vacant hall.

Colonel Spelling’s silhouette still loomed tall. Jake stood beside her, the weariness in his posture mirroring her own. Their shared resolve was unspoken but palpable in the charged air.

“First light,” Colonel Spelling asserted, his tone carrying the unspoken urgency of their quest. “We’ll start with the sacristy and work our way out.”

“Dr. Stark should have information for us by then,” Jenna added. “Deputy Hawkins and I are scheduled to meet with her in the morning.”

She glanced at Jake, noting the readiness in his eyes. He was more than a deputy now; he had become her anchor in a storm that threatened to engulf them both.

“Let’s keep this contained,” she continued, her voice clear and commanding despite her fatigue. “No leaks, no rumors. We handle this with precision.” Agreement was silently exchanged, a mutual understanding that they were not merely investigators but guardians of a small town’s trust.

The conference concluded with nods of assent, each member of the group carrying away a portion of the night’s burden. Jenna lingered for a moment, her gaze tracing the lines of pews, the stained-glass windows telling their stories, the altar where faith met fear.

The last of the murmured farewells echoed off the walls as Father Walsh’s retreating figure disappeared into the hallway leading to the rectory. The stoop to his gait spoke volumes, carrying the burden of a congregation in turmoil. Colonel Spelling’s exit was even more brisk, a sharp nod his only goodbye, the click of his heels against the floor fading into the night outside. Jenna watched both men leave, the heavy silence settling around her and Jake like dust.

She glanced at Jake, noting the way his gaze lingered on the door through which Father Walsh had vanished—a sign of his silent concern for the man who had become more than just a community leader in these trying times. Jenna was relieved that the meeting had ended peacefully. But in the emptied parish hall laid bare with its vacant chairs, she thought she could hear ghostly remnants of anxious whispers, warning of what they might discover in the church walls tomorrow.