Page 26
As Jenna guided the cruiser through the hushed streets, Trentville slept, oblivious to the turmoil of earlier that night. She and Jake had just dropped Frank off at his own home, and now Jenna turned onto Mayor Claire Simmons’s street. Her eyes flickered momentarily toward the dashboard clock—nearly 2 a.m.
She parked the cruiser along the curb, headlights dimming, the engine’s purr fading into silence. Discreetly positioned across from the mayor’s residence was the patrol car Jake had requested. Jenna could see the outlines of two deputies, their postures alert and vigilant despite the late hour. They gave her a slight nod, a signal of recognition.
Together, she and Jake got out of the car and approached the front door of Mayor Simmons’s Victorian home, but before they could knock, the heavy oak door swung inward. Standing in the threshold was Mayor Claire Simmons, clad not in her usual power suit but in a silk housecoat. The meticulously styled hair Jenna had come to associate with the mayor was slightly undone.
“Please, come in,” the mayor said in a warmer tone than usual.
They crossed the ornate foyer to the study, where shelves lined with leather-bound tomes stood guard around them. The furniture was equally telling of the mayor’s affinity for control: Everything was placed just so, every antique chair and desk a piece in the strategic layout of power.
As Jenna settled into the supple embrace of an armchair, she caught sight of a slight tremble in Mayor Simmons’ hands. The disarray in Mayor Simmons’ appearance, the quiver of her voice, the subtle shaking of her hands; they all painted a portrait far removed from the stoic politician they knew. The woman was frightened—scared enough to let her impeccable armor slip.
“Why the extra security tonight?” the mayor asked.
Jake took the lead. “There was a development. Have you heard of the Big Sky Ranch?”
“Oh, yes,” the mayor said with a nod. “There was always a lot of talk about it in my family. It got broken up back in the 1900s, didn’t it?”
Jenna and Jake went on to explain how Jasper and Agnes Rollins had helped them discover that a vendetta was being held against living people descended from those who had conspired in the breakup of the ranch.
“One of those conspirators was Jupiter Bates, whose descendent Roger Bates was murdered on that account,” Jenna explained. “Another was your own ancestor, Hector Simmons, which was why the killer murdered your brother.”
“So, I... I could have been next?” Mayor Simmons whispered, her voice a ghostly echo of its usual commanding boom.
“That’s what we feared,” Jake said. “And that’s why we gave you extra security tonight.”
Jenna and Jake went on to describe their near-fatal confrontation with Robert Anderson, who turned out to be a distant grandson of Mitch Bishop himself, the thwarted owner of the Big Sky Ranch.
“But we’ve got Anderson in custody, Mayor Simmons,” Jenna said. “It’s over now.”
A small sound escaped the mayor’s lips—a cross between a gasp and a sob—and then the tears began to flow, unchecked. Jenna watched as Claire Simmons allowed herself the release of grief for the first time since the brutal murder of her brother.
Eventually, the sobs tapered off into shuddering breaths as Mayor Simmons regained a semblance of control. She reached for a monogrammed handkerchief, dabbing delicately at her eyes.
Jenna watched the transformation, recognizing the strength it took to compose oneself after such vulnerability. She’d seen it in herself, and she respected it in the mayor, knowing it wasn’t a dismissal of emotion but a necessary armor in their respective battles.
“I... I apologize,” the mayor’s voice creaked, roughened by her tears. “And I thank you both. Your dedication to this case, to this town... I underestimated you, Sheriff Graves. I’m sorry for that.”
Jenna said, “Your safety was our priority, Mayor.”
Then she and Jake stood to leave. As the mayor walked them toward the door, her demeanor had softened appreciably.
As Jenna drove toward Jake’s house, he shook his head with dismayed wonder.
“It’s like we’ve pulled back a curtain on this county, and now we’re finding old grudges and secrets that have been simmering for generations. Makes you wonder what else is out there.”
As the car slowed to a halt in front of Jake’s house, Jenna turned to face him.
“Whatever comes next,” she said, a small smile playing on her lips, “I’m glad I’ve got you watching my back, Jake.”
He met her gaze, and in his expression, she saw her own feeling mirrored. They were partners, yes, but it was more than that—they were two halves of a whole in more ways than one.
“Always, Jenna,” he replied, then stepped out of the cruiser. As Jenna drove on toward her home, she knew that this case was but one thread in the intricate tapestry of local history—a story that she and Jake would continue to unravel, together.
***
Jenna’s breath came in slow, even rhythms as she lay sleeping. The darkness around her thinned, revealing a familiar scene. A woman stood before her, cradling a sandpiper tenderly. Jenna’s mind sharpened as lucidity dawned upon her. This vision had visited her before.
“Follow,” the woman whispered. The word lingered, an echo fading into the stillness of Jenna’s mind—a command, a plea, a beacon guiding her into the unknown.
Obeying the hushed directive, Jenna watched as the sandpiper unfurled its wings, breaking free from the woman’s hold. It ascended with a silent grace, and Jenna willed herself to fly after it, as lucidity sometimes allowed her to do. She soared after the bird, her spirit liberated in the world of the dream.
She saw a park entrance below, the wooden sign “Whitmore Lake State Forest.” The sandpiper glided effortlessly ahead, leading her through the archway. Jenna followed, her feet finding he ground once more.
Trees rose high on either side of her, casting dappled sunlight onto a path that wound its way toward the bank of a lake. The bird flew ahead and landed on the wooden post at the end of a dock, looking back at her, cocking its head. But as Jenna walked onto the dock toward it, the bird launched into the air with a flutter of wings that sliced through the dream’s fabric.
As she began to awaken, Jenna could no longer fly. “Wait,” she murmured, but she had lost the ephemeral connection.
Jenna’s eyes snapped open, the morning’s gray light a jarring change from the vivid hues of her dream. She felt despair at losing the dream before it had given her the answers she needed. But then, as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, the words on the sign came back to her—”Whitmore Lake State Park.”
***
A day off was a rare commodity, but today Jenna had cleared her schedule, driven by an intuition too strong to ignore. As she approached the weathered sign that marked the entrance to Whitmore Lake State Forest, this time it was undeniably real.
She eased her foot on the accelerator, guiding the cruiser smoothly through the entrance. A gravel road snaked ahead, leading her deeper into the forest, and Jenna followed it towards the lake along the exact same route as in her dream. When she caught sight of a dock jutting out into the water, she recognized it from her nocturnal vision.
Jenna’s cruiser rolled to a stop, and she stepped out, her movements almost reverent in the quiet that surrounded her. The dock was deserted, save for the intermittent flutter of dragonflies skimming the lake’s surface. Jenna moved toward the post at the far end, the same one where the dream sandpiper had perched.
There, she saw characters carved into the grainy wood: “P.G. 7/29/2010”
Jenna gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. It was as if time had stilled, the hot breeze and the buzz of insects fading into nothingness. The lines of the carving were weathered but unmistakable and real.
“Did Piper...?”
Jenna’s voice trailed off as she traced the initials with a trembling finger. If Piper had indeed stood on this very spot, carving her mark five years after vanishing from their lives, then the implications were staggering. It meant that Piper had been here, alive, breathing the same air of freedom that now filled Jenna’s lungs.