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Jenna pressed the phone tighter to her ear, listening to Frank’s words. But when he spoke the name of the man she should talk to, she groaned.

“Rollins?” she echoed. “Are you sure?”

“He’s like a living archive,” Frank assured her, “knows every family tree and town tale there is.”

“I know he was the mayor of Trentville for a while, but that was a long time ago.”

“He was a lot more than that, Jenna. A fiddler and banjo player who knows a vast array of folk music and a collector of antiques. He was the founder and longtime president of the Genesius County Historical Society; he has collected documents and primary source materials that rival the public library, and his house is a like a museum of Genesius County history.”

“But Frank,” Jenna said, a bit fearful that the topic she wanted to raise might be sensitive with her retired mentor. “How old is he?”

“Pushing a hundred, I guess,” Frank replied cheerfully.

“How reliable can his memory be?” Jenna demanded.

“Still sharp as a tack on his good days.” Then Frank admitted, “But it’s true those days are getting rarer.”

“I met his niece, Agnes,” Jake remarked, “She’s moved back here to care for him. Seems to have a surprisingly modern approach to archiving. She said she’s going digitize Jasper’s lifetime of work.”

“Agnes Rollins...” Jenna mulled over the name, picturing the woman who’d returned to Trentville not six months prior. “She used to be a judge, wasn’t she?”

“Yes, and a woman judge was quite a rarity in her time,” Frank said, then added, “She’s a very well organized person.”

“Alright,” Jenna conceded with a cautious optimism. “We’ll pay Jasper a visit and see how far Agnes has gotten with those records. But if this is a wild goose chase, Frank...we can’t afford the time. A killer is still out there with a branding iron.”

“It’s the best lead I can think of, Sheriff,” Frank implored, his tone earnest. “If those words, ‘The sky remembers,’ mean anything, Jasper’s the one to decipher it. I’ll give Agnes a call and tell her you need Jasper’s help.”

“Okay, then,” Jenna replied. “But you need to be there with us. Jake and I will pick you up. We’re at the courthouse now, it won’t take long to get there.”

Pulling into Frank’s driveway, Jenna spotted the former sheriff standing on his porch, his silhouette stoic and waiting. As he settled into the back seat, she caught the weariness in his eyes. With a silent nod, she steered the patrol car in the direction of Jasper Rollins’ residence. The journey was a quiet one, the cruiser’s tires humming against the asphalt as they weaved through Trentville’s sleepy streets, bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun. The anticipation in the car was palpable, unspoken hopes lingering in the air as they neared their destination.

When her car rolled to a stop in front of the Victorian-style home, she could see that the once grand facade showed the relentless passage of time. The paint was dulled, and the overgrown garden was a tangle of neglect. The place stood as a poignant symbol of a town—and a case—grappling with the ghosts of bygone days.

“Looks like history itself is trying to forget,” Jake murmured, eyeing the structure.

“Or maybe it’s a reminder that some things refuse to be buried,” Frank countered, stepping out of the patrol car.

As soon as they knocked, Agnes opened the door, as if she’d been awaiting their arrival. Agnes stood framed in the doorway, a sturdy figure against the backdrop of the house’s faded grandeur. Her hair, a mix of silver and chestnut, was pulled back into a neat bun at the nape of her neck. There was an air of organization about her, from the way she held herself to the crispness of her attire. Her eyes were kind yet clear, as though they had seen much but remained undeterred. In her hands rested a pair of spectacles, which she twirled absent-mindedly—a habit perhaps born out of years spent poring over legal texts and now historical records.

“Jenna, Jake, Frank... come in,” she greeted them.

Her voice had an easy cadence to it—calm and measured—that instantly put Jenna at ease. She stepped aside to let them in, her movements precise and purposeful—a testament to years spent upholding law and order in a courtroom.

As they entered the living room, Jenna couldn’t help but feel a sense of awe. It was as though she had stepped into a time capsule, an intimate chronicle of Genesius County’s past. Antique maps and sepia-toned photographs adorned the walls, each one telling a story of days long gone. A glass case housed an impressive collection of vintage coins and stamps, remnants of transactions and communications from another era. On one corner stood a worn-out fiddle and banjo, silent witnesses to countless community gatherings that Jasper must have enlivened with his music.

Stacks of old books towered precariously high on wooden shelves, their spines bearing the names of local authors and titles about Trentville’s history. Among them were dusty ledgers. In one of those that was laid open she saw meticulously penned records – births, deaths, marriages – tracing the town’s genealogy back generations.

In the heart of this living museum sat Jasper Rollins himself, a fragile relic in his own right, embodying the collective memory etched into every artifact around him. His frame was shrunken with age, his skin paper-thin and mapped with veins. His gnarled hands rested on the arms of a worn armchair that had clearly cradled him through countless hours of research and reflection.

“Uncle Jasper,” Agnes said softly, touching his shoulder. “We have visitors.”

Jasper looked up, and for a fleeting moment, Jenna saw a spark of the formidable intellect that had once made him Trentville’s most revered chronicler. But as quickly as it appeared, it was gone, leaving behind only the frailty of a man whose memories were slowly slipping away. The historian’s eyes, clouded with age, flickered towards her, a slight squint forming as he attempted to make out the faces of his visitors in the dimming light of the room.

“Mr. Rollins, I’m Jenna Graves, the sheriff here,” she began gently, not wanting to startle him. “This is my deputy, Jake Hawkins, and the former sheriff, Frank Doyle.”

Agnes stood close to Jasper, her hand lightly touching his arm in a reassuring manner. “Remember, Uncle? They’re all from the sheriff’s office. Here to talk to you about some important matters.”

Jasper’s gaze shifted towards Agnes, and a faint smile creased his lips, acknowledging the familial bond if not the full context of the situation. “Try again, Sheriff,” Agnes whispered.

“Jasper,” Jenna told him, “there have been two murders during the last couple of nights—Clyde Simmons and Roger Bates.”

“Clyde Simmons … Roger Bates …” Jasper repeated vaguely.

“That’s right,” Jenna said. “You might be able to help us find their killer. We’ve come across something... a phrase that we think you could help us with.” She couldn’t tell if he was hearing her when she said, “the land remembers.”

The old man seemed to be searching, reaching for a connection that stubbornly eluded him. In that moment, Jenna felt an acute disappointment. She shared a look with Jake, seeing her own disappointment mirrored in his expression.

Jenna watched as Jake reached into the folder he had brought and withdrew a single sheet of paper—his detailed sketch of the cryptic brand that had been found seared into the flesh of the two victims. The symbol was stark against the white background, a tree with branched, intricate and haunting. He handed it to Jasper with a reverent slowness, as if passing over a sacred relic.

“Mr. Rollins, does this mean anything to you?” Jake asked. “Bates and Simmons were both branded on the chest with this image.”

Jasper took the paper, his gnarled hands trembling slightly as they made contact with the image. His gaze fixed on the design, and for a moment, there was no sign of recognition. Then, like sunlight piercing through clouds, clarity ignited in Jasper’s eyes. His lips parted, and a voice emerged, stronger than any words he’d spoken so far.

“The Big Sky,” he murmured.

In that instant, as Jasper whispered those three words, Jenna’s mind catapulted back to the unsettling landscape of her dreams. She remembered the spectral figure of Roger Bates and the ominous warning: “The sky is too big for you.”

“Jasper, please,” Jenna implored, leaning closer to the old historian. “What does that mean—’the big sky’? Anything you can remember could help us.”

But as quickly as the veil had lifted, it descended once again. He looked down at the sketch, then up at Jenna, his expression crumpling into frustration and agitation.

“I... I don’t...” he stammered, the words trailing off into a sigh.

“Jasper, it’s okay,” Jenna said gently, masking her disappointment. “You’ve helped us more than you know.” But she didn’t fully believe her own words.

“That might be enough to go on,” Agnes Rollins said. “Come with me.”

Agnes guided the trio through a narrow hallway lined with framed photographs of Trentville’s history. Jenna’s eyes flicked from one sepia-toned image to another, each capturing a fragment of time. When they came to a stop before a door, Jenna realized that Jasper had gotten onto his feet and followed them. Frank was now supporting the older man by one arm.

The door opened to reveal a small room where the past and present collided; walls of overstuffed filing cabinets stood around a sleek computer setup with a large screen.

“Here we are,” Agnes announced with the confidence of someone who knew what was collected there. “I’ve digitized most of Uncle Jasper’s records. It took the better part of winter, but it’s searchable now.”

“I’m searching for the words ‘big sky,’” Agnes muttered under her breath, as her fingers moved across the keyboard with surprising agility.

And then, there it was—a file labeled “Big Sky Ranch, 1859.” Agnes clicked it open, and the monitor filled with scanned pages of land deeds and faded letters, the ink of history bleeding through digital pixels.

“Here it is,” she pointed to an entry. “‘Big Sky’ was the name of a ranch.”

Jasper leaned forward, his eyes locking onto the screen as if it were a window. His hand trembled slightly as he reached out, almost touching the glow of the display.

“Big Sky...” he whispered, and this time his voice was not just clear, it carried a newfound strength. “Yes, I remember now.”

Jenna leaned closer, her body poised to catch every word that fell from Jasper’s lips. The old historian appeared to draw upon hidden reservoirs of energy

“Big Sky Ranch,” Jasper said, “was Mitch Bishop’s life work. A pastureland paradise sprawling over the Genesius County hills, rich with cattle marked with that tree-shaped brand. His success, however, soured the milk of human kindness,” Jasper’s tone darkened, his words became bitter. “Men of supposed repute—politicians eyeing greener pastures, bankers with ironclad fists, and envious fellow cattlemen—they coveted Mitch’s kingdom.”

Jasper staggered a little, and Frank helped him sit down in a chair. Then the old man continued his tale of treachery.

“They banded together to bleed Mitch dry. Accusations on his character, each one a fabrication. Loans, once given with handshakes and smiles, became impossible to repay. And when those weren’t enough to break Mitch, they poisoned his livestock—the final blow to a man whose soul was bound to his herd.”

Jasper’s narrative halted, a poignant pause before he resumed. “And when all was lost, Mitch stood defiantly in the town square, his pride in tatters but his spirit unbroken.” The old man’s hands mimed the action, breaking an invisible line across his knee. “He snapped his branding iron in two and let the pieces fall to the dirt at his feet.”

Jake leaned forward as he absorbed the information. His eyes met Jenna’s, a silent exchange passing between them—an understanding that they had learned something crucial.

Silence settled over the group, thick with possibility and fear. They sat in the dimming light, pondering the ghosts of Trentville’s past and how they might be manifesting in the present to carry out these grisly murders.