Page 6

The sun was high in the sky as Jenna and Jake made their way back from the Hartley’s home. It cast a harsh light over a white tent that now stood over the area where Dr. Melissa Stark worked meticulously to prepare Clyde Simmons’ body for transport.

Stopping at the edge of the tent, Jenna asked, “Any more insights before you take him away?”

Melissa shook her head, the movement almost imperceptible in her bulky garb. “Nothing concrete yet, Jenna,” she replied, looking a bit fatigued already from the meticulous examination. “But I’ll fast-track the autopsy and tox screen. You’ll have preliminary results by tomorrow morning.”

“Thanks, Melissa,” Jenna said. Then, she and Jake turned to the rest of her team working on the site. The pastoral serenity of the pasture was supplanted by the soft buzz of police radios and the murmur of officers exchanging information. Jenna stepped forward and pulled off her hat, allowing her short chestnut hair to flutter in the slight midday breeze.

She spoke loudly, “Listen up!”

Her command sliced through the ambient noise, drawing the attention of every uniform in the vicinity. “I want this area locked down tight. No one gets in or out without my express permission.” She scanned the faces before her. “Document everything, no matter how insignificant it might seem. This isn’t just any case – it’s the Mayor’s brother. We can’t afford any mistakes.”

They nodded and murmured in assent, then each officer turned to their duty with renewed purpose. Some of them tended to the gawkers to make them leave the scene. As everybody set to work, Jenna allowed herself a brief moment to watch them. She knew that this case was already pushing the limits of what their small department was equipped to handle.

“Ready?” Jake asked.

“Let’s do this,” Jenna replied, her determination unwavering. “Mayor Simmons won’t be in the office on a Sunday. We’ll catch her at home.”

She slid behind the wheel of the patrol car, and Jake settled into the passenger seat. Their next move was clear: confront the mayor, seek whatever truth might lie hidden beneath layers of both political veneer and sorrow.

“She might not be expecting us,” Jake said as he tapped his phone awake. “Best we give her a heads-up.” Jenna nodded, watching as his thumb hesitated over the mayor’s contact before pressing down with resolve.

The phone rang out into the void and Jenna could almost see the mayor’s stern features as she heard the well-rehearsed politeness of Claire’s voicemail greeting—a veneer of composure so at odds with the raw undercurrent of grief the woman must have been grappling with. It was a sharp reminder of the duality Claire Simmons embodied, public servant and private citizen, now a mourning sister.

“Mayor Simmons, this is Deputy Hawkins. Sheriff Graves and I need to speak with you as soon as possible. We’re on our way to your house now. Please call back if you need to reschedule,” Jake spoke into the phone, each word clear and precise.

As the deputy ended the call, Jenna declared, “We need to loop in Colonel Spelling. A murder this high-profile...we’re going to need all the help we can get.”

Jenna watched as Jake pressed the speakerphone button on his device, the room falling into a tense quiet. “Colonel,” he began, his voice echoing in the hushed space. “We’re dealing with a situation here that requires your assistance.”

The Colonel’s response came through the phone’s speakers, stern and authoritative. “Understood. What’s the issue?”

Jake didn’t waver, his tone resolute as he explained their predicament, including the brand on the victim’s chest.

“The sheriff and I need a team at the crime scene immediately,” Jake said. “I’ll send you GPS coordinates. “Also, please call Coroner Melissa Stark. She can send you a photo of the brand mark.”

After a moment of silence, the Colonel responded again with a simple confirmation of support.

“I’ll come to the scene right away with a team,” Spelling said.

“Thank you, Colonel,” Jake acknowledged firmly before ending the call with a decisive tap on his screen.

“Spelling is on board,” he told Jenna.

“That’s good,” Jenna said. “Thanks, Jake.”

She fell silent, mulling over the forensic puzzle pieces they had—too few to form any coherent picture. Then Jake’s voice sliced through the quiet again.

“So,” he started cautiously, casting a sidelong glance at her, “how was your morning? Before all this, I mean. Did you find anything at Shelby National Forest?”

“Nothing,” she responded, her tone marked with the frustration that had been building since dawn. “Just more questions.” The image of sandpipers by a pond flickered in her mind, a brief moment of serenity. A symbol of what? Freedom? Escape? Or something more elusive—a clue, perhaps, fluttering just out of reach?

“I saw some sandpipers... but it’s irrelevant,” she trailed off, shaking her head as if to dispel the memory. The sight hadn’t given her the breakthrough she so desperately sought; it just started off another day without answers.

“Jenna,” Jake’s voice soft with concern. “I’m worried about you. This search for Piper, these dreams... it’s consuming you.”

She didn’t look at him, her hands tightening on the steering wheel as the road unwound before them. There was truth in his words, a concern she lived with every day. “I know,” she whispered, her voice barely rising above the sound of the tires on pavement. “But I can’t let it go. Not when I feel so close to... something. Anything.”

Jake’s hand lifted tentatively, hovering near her shoulder—an offer of comfort, perhaps, or simply a gesture of solidarity. Then, as if reconsidering, he pulled back, letting his arm fall to his side. Jenna caught the motion from the corner of her eye and appreciated the restraint.

The silence in the car stretched into minutes. Jenna’s focus remained fixed on the road, but in her peripheral vision, she caught glimpses of Jake staring pensively out the window. His strong profile was etched against the sky, his expression set with the determination she had come to rely on. Without meaning to, she found herself studying him in glances, the way his sandy hair fell just right, how his shoulders squared resolutely beneath his uniform.

She wondered if he felt it too, this magnetic draw that seemed to bridge the gap between personal and professional. There were moments, fleeting and rare, where she thought perhaps he did, when his eyes lingered on her a moment too long, or his touch lingered a fraction of a second more than necessary.

As the silence continued, it became a comfortable thing, a shared space where words were unnecessary. Jenna felt a whisper of gratitude for Jake’s presence, for the understanding he offered without question.

They arrived at the imposing Victorian home of Mayor Simmons, its pristine exterior belying the turmoil that undoubtedly lay inside. Jenna parked the cruiser, turned off the ignition, and exhaled slowly. They got out and made their way up the walkway to the entrance, but the door swung open before they could even knock.

Standing in the doorway was Claire Simmons, her hawk-like gaze piercing through them, her tailored suit as sharp and unyielding as the woman herself. Her manicured nails were a stark red against the white door frame, and her rigid posture seemed to radiate an aura of power that was at odds with the grief she must be feeling.

“Have you found him? The one who killed Clyde?” Claire Simmons’ voice cut through the space between them like a blade—sharp, direct, and unyielding.

“We’re still investigating, Mayor,” Jenna responded. “We need more information.”

“Then why are you here?” Claire’s eyes were two chips of ice. “I have nothing to say until my brother’s murderer is caught.”

“Mayor, we believe you might be able to help us get closer to finding the killer,” Jake commented diplomatically.

Claire regarded them for a heartbeat before stepping aside. “Sheriff. Deputy,” she conceded with a nod. “I suppose you’d better come in.”

Crossing the threshold, Jenna’s senses were immediately assailed by the scent of antique wood polish and the subtle hint of lavender. The foyer was a grand statement of wealth and meticulous taste, from the gleaming marble floor to the crystal chandelier that dripped light from the high ceiling. Claire Simmons was from an old and prosperous local family.

To her left, a sweeping staircase wound upwards, its banister a dark ribbon of carved oak. Every surface, every corner spoke of affluence and order—the kind of environment that Jenna knew could suffocate just as easily as it could shelter.

“Please, this way.” Claire said harshly as she led them into what appeared to be a sitting room. The space was no less impressive; deep burgundy drapes framed tall windows that bathed the room in natural light, while plush velvet sofas invited conversation or contemplation.

Jenna took note of the heavy desk that dominated one corner of the room, its surface a symbol of Claire’s role as mayor—with documents neatly arrayed next to a silver pen set. There were personal touches too—a candid photo of a younger Claire laughing with a man Jenna recognized to be Clyde, and a small stack of books with titles that hinted at political aspirations beyond Trentville—aspirations that Jenna was sure the mayor had put behind her, perhaps reluctantly.

“Sit,” Claire commanded, gesturing to the sofas as she took a high-backed chair across from them, her posture impeccable, the epitome of controlled composure. Jenna eased herself onto the edge of a sofa, straight-backed and alert, ready to navigate the delicate procedure of extracting information without causing further offense.

“Thank you for agreeing to speak with us, Mayor,” Jenna began, her voice carrying the same professional cadence she used at crime scenes—calm, collected, seeking facts amid chaos.

Jenna observed a subtle shift in Mayor Simmons’s demeanor, a fleeting glimpse of vulnerability before the mask of authority snapped back into place. Claire’s hands, usually still, betrayed a slight tremor that she quickly stilled by clasping them tightly together on her lap.

“Mayor Simmons,” Jenna spoke with a compassion she reserved for victims and their families, “we need to ask you some questions about Clyde. Anything you can tell us might help us find who did this.”

The room seemed to contract as Claire’s composure cracked. For an instant, her carefully curated exterior wavered, revealing the raw pain of a sister grappling with loss. But as quickly as it appeared, the moment passed, and Claire smoothed the crease between her brows.

“Of course,” Claire replied, her voice steadying with effort. “I understand. Clyde... he could be difficult.” The words were heavy with unspoken history.

“Difficult?” Jenna prodded gently.

Claire sighed. “Well, as you must know, Clyde didn’t make many friends, particularly not among the local ranchers. His... dedication to his work often put him at odds with those people.”

“His work,” Jenna echoed, aware of Clyde’s rigid standards as a meat inspector.

“Yes,” Claire continued, her gaze drifting toward the window as if seeking solace from the daylight streaming through. “And after Myra left him, it only got worse.” She fell quiet, looking down for a long moment. Then she added, “He started drinking. At first, just at home. Alone.” Claire’s voice was tinged with regret, each word measured and deliberate. “Like me, he had only been a social drinker, taking sips when it seemed necessary at certain occasions. But then... he’d started spending nearly every night at the Centaur’s Den. I suppose he sought some kind of twisted comfort there.”

Jenna noted the admission, the pattern of a man unraveling. She thought of the troubled individuals she had encountered over the years, those who spiraled downward where alcohol became both crutch and curse—her own mother included. It was a path that too often led to dark alleys of despair or violent confrontations. Clyde’s fate, it appeared, might well have been paved by this tragic progression.

A silence fell, and Jenna gave space for Claire’s confession to settle. She could almost feel the weight of the unsaid, the stories hidden behind this mansion’s closed doors, and the whispers that swirled around the Centaur’s Den. If Clyde had become a fixture there, a constant presence in the dim light of the bar—that could be where he’d attracted trouble.

Jake leaned forward, his notebook ready. “Where do you think Clyde was last night?” he asked. “

Claire Simmons’ gaze seemed to drift to a place far beyond the walls of her immaculate office, to memories perhaps clouded by regret or sorrow.

“He called me around nine from the Centaur’s Den,” she said, her words slow and weighted. “Said he was having a drink, wanted to talk.” A pause lingered, filled with unspoken thoughts, before she continued. “He didn’t sound sober, and I was busy with work, told him I’d call back later.” Her voice, usually so controlled, wavered and broke. “I never did.”

The room felt smaller then, as if the air had been sucked out, leaving behind an oppressive silence. Jenna’s heart clenched at the mayor’s confession—regret was a familiar companion, one that sat endlessly upon her own shoulders. She offered a silent nod of understanding, though no words of comfort came; what solace could be found in the face of such irreversible loss?

As they prepared to leave, Claire stood up, her demeanor transformed, her spine straightening as if pulling strength from the very foundations of her stately home. “I’m calling for a town meeting tonight at City Hall,” she declared.

A surge of alarm shot through Jenna. Although this was typically the mayor’s response when she was upset, a public assembly could raise more questions than answers. It could incite fear, or worse, hinder their investigation with rampant speculation. It was the last thing they needed right now. But could Jenna talk the mayor out of it?