Page 9

“Five minutes,” Jenna muttered to Jake. It was almost time to face the town’s brewing storm of fear and speculation. She sat at her office desk, and he was leaning against the filing cabinet, his arms folded across his chest. Then the door creaked open, and Colonel Spelling entered, his military posture slightly slumped with fatigue. “I’ve spoken to all twelve members on Lily’s list,” he said, rubbing his tired eyes.

“Anything?” Jenna asked. She knew he had been checking out the Green Gaia Guardians’ alibis for the time of Clyde Simmons’ murder.

“Nothing so far,” Spelling’s words were laced with frustration. “Their stories are consistent. They were all in a meeting, embroiled in a debate over their next move.”

“Doesn’t mean someone couldn’t have slipped out,” Jake put in calmly.

“Possible,” Jenna acknowledged, turning to him. “But the others would have to provide cover. And without evidence, we can’t make accusations.”

“Unfortunately not,” Spelling sighed. “They’re adamant about their whereabouts.”

“Engaged in a heated debate about their next protest, you said?” Jenna prodded, her green eyes narrowing in thought. “That fits their M.O., but it doesn’t help us much.”

“We’ve had similar luck with the Centaur’s Den patrons,” Jake said, tapping a finger on a page filled with neat handwriting. “Tom Buchanan, the rancher who argued with Clyde, was home with his wife by 10:30. The bartender, Mandy, confirmed his departure time.”

“I spoke with Carl Reeves,” Jenna said, her voice steady as she turned back to face Jake, “that troublemaker who’s always at odds with Clyde. He was at the Den until closing, corroborated by multiple witnesses.”

“Carl’s always been a thorn, but even a thorn can have an alibi,” Jake responded.

“Let’s not rule anything out yet,” Jenna continued. “Everyone’s a piece of this puzzle, even if they don’t fit where we expect.”

“Agreed,” Jake’s reply was firm. “We’ll keep digging.”

“Every interview, every inquiry about that damned tree symbol comes up empty,” Jenna muttered, studying the photocopied image that lay between them on the desk. It was a simple design — a tree, its roots and branches twisted into an intricate knot.

“None of the Green Gaia Guardians recognized it either?” Jake asked Spelling, who shook his head.

“It’s like the image made into a branding iron appeared out of thin air,” Jenna sighed, her gaze lingering on the symbol as if willing it to reveal its secrets.

“Let’s hope this isn’t the start of something bigger,” Spelling said, each word measured and grave.

“Let’s wrap this up,” Jenna decided, getting to her feet. “We can’t keep Mayor Simmons waiting, and Trentville needs some kind of reassurance tonight.”

They left the confines of her office and walked toward City Hall. The last rays of sunlight dipped below the horizon, surrendering to the night as Trentville’s citizens awaited them, eager for answers that Jenna only wished she could provide. A buzz filled the air, the town’s usual tranquility shattered by the undercurrents of anxiety and anticipation from its citizens as they converged upon City Hall.

When Jenna pushed open the doors to the hall, the crowd was dense, bodies packed together, the murmured conversations coalesced into a single, restless sea of sound. Melissa Stark was there, her professional demeanor doing little to hide her own unease. Lily Cummings stood near the front, her activist’s fire banked in somber reflection. And there too was Frank Doyle, the former sheriff and Jenna’s cherished and respected mentor, his weathered face betraying the same mix of determination and concern that Jenna knew all too well.

Jenna maneuvered through the throng, acknowledging nods and whispers of respect, feeling the weight of expectations pressing on her. The town looked to her for guidance, for protection, and she felt that responsibility keenly. As she edged closer to the front, passing rows of tense, expectant faces, the air seemed to thicken with collective fear. Taking a position near the low stage, she allowed herself a moment to center her thoughts.

When Mayor Claire Simmons took her position at the podium, her back rigid, the hall hushed as she surveyed her constituents. Mayor Simmons leaned forward. “Good evening,” her voice cut through the stillness, “I call this meeting to order.” The mayor’s voice wavered between mourning and command.

Jenna’s sharp gaze didn’t miss the subtle tremble of Claire’s manicured hands or the way her hawk-like eyes flitted over the crowd, searching for support—or perhaps threats.

Claire cleared her throat. “We are gathered here in grief,” she began, “and with a resolve to seek justice for Clyde Simmons—a man who served this community with fervor.” Her voice broke on her brother’s name.

Jenna felt the collective sorrow tighten around the room. Despite their fraught relationship, she couldn’t help but sympathize with Claire. They both knew the cost of public service—how it could consume your life and leave you exposed, vulnerable to every hidden enemy.

As Claire continued, Jenna absorbed the portrait she painted of Clyde: diligent, tenacious, and undeniably flawed. He was a man who had chased regulatory perfection with the same zeal he had for his nightly whiskey—a pursuit that had won him respect and resentment in equal measure. The crowd murmured in response, some nods of agreement mingling with lowered gazes filled with complex emotions.

“His end was violent, senseless, a reflection of cowardice and cruelty.” Claire’s voice cracked, echoing off the high ceilings, and Jenna felt the tension spike. It was a statement that cut too close to home for many in attendance, a reminder that such brutality had infiltrated their small town. Even though Claire didn’t delve into the grisly specifics of Clyde’s murder, shock rippled through the townsfolk. Jenna knew that too much information could unleash panic, and right now, she could feel Trentville teetering dangerously on the brink of chaos.

Then, the mayor announced that Sheriff Jenna Graves and Colonel Spelling would also address the gathering. Jenna stepped up on the stage and stood looking out over the sea of anxious faces. The microphone hummed with life before her voice broke through.

“Good evening,” Jenna began, nodding respectfully. “I know you’re all looking for answers, and I want to assure you that we are doing everything in our power to find those responsible for Clyde’s death.” She paused, allowing her words to settle in the heavy air of the town hall. The audience remained quiet.

“We have pursued multiple leads and are exploring every possible angle,” she continued. “We understand the importance of transparency, but we must balance this with the integrity of the investigation.”

As Jenna concluded and stepped back, Colonel Spelling rose to take her place at the podium. His uniform crisply ironed, medals gleaming under the fluorescent lights, he exuded an aura that commanded attention effortlessly. He positioned an overhead projector with precision, the click of its switch punctuating the silence that had resettled in the hall.

“Thank you, Sheriff Graves,” Colonel Spelling’s voice resonated, authoritative and certain. The projected image loomed on the wall behind him: a detailed sketch of an intricate tree symbol. It was stark, almost haunting in its simplicity against the white backdrop.

“This symbol was found at the crime scene,” he stated, his finger tracing the outline of the tree without touching the screen. “We’re appealing to anyone who may recognize it or understand its significance. Your knowledge could be crucial to this case.”

He let his words linger, allowing the townspeople to absorb the image, to search their memories for any scrap of recognition. Although he also avoided describing the actual branding of the victim, a subtle urgency in his tone that underscored the gravity of his request.

When no one offered an identification of the image, Spelling spoke again. “Community cooperation is vital,” he stressed. “We need to come together to shed light on this darkness.” Still, no answer came. Finally he announced that the floor would be open for discussion and the three speakers took their seats on the stage.

The moment Colonel Spelling stepped back from the podium, it was as if a dam had burst. Jenna felt the room’s tense silence shatter into a discordant symphony of voices. Standing on the low stage with the mayor and the head of the highway patrol, she watched the townspeople’s fear and suspicion swell into an audible storm. Chairs scraped against the floor, hands were raised, questions hurled like stones.

“Excuse me!” A voice cut through the clamor, sharp and assertive. Jenna turned to see Lily Cummings standing, arms folded across her chest. The leader of the Green Gaia Guardians had a fire in her eyes that matched the intensity of her words. “I’ve heard about the rumors. Some of you think the Green Gaia Guardians had something to do with this. We had nothing to do with Clyde’s murder!”

Jenna studied Lily for a moment. The environmentalist’s passion was undeniable, but so too was the tremor in her voice—an undercurrent of desperation that betrayed her usual composed demeanor. Her proclamation seemed to ricochet off the walls, igniting fresh whispers amongst the crowd.

“Let’s be real,” Lily continued, her gaze sweeping over the sea of faces. “It’s no secret that Clyde made enemies with his inspections. Some ranchers here have been hit hard—too hard. Maybe someone decided they’d had enough.”

As murmurs swelled into open speculation, Jenna could almost see community trust unraveling before her eyes.

Before the ripples of Lily’s assertion could settle, Tom Buchanan rose from his seat, his face reddening as he took the floor. His large frame commanded attention, and his voice, when he spoke, boomed over the throng.

“Enough of this nonsense!” he bellowed, and Jenna flinched at the raw anger in his tone. “Clyde’s inspections kept us honest, kept us safe! You think we’d kill for profit?”

Jenna noted the nods of agreement from other ranchers, their faces etched with indignation and grief. Buchanan’s hands clenched into fists at his sides as he glared at Lily, who met his gaze unflinchingly.

“Without standards, we’re no better than the back-alley butchers Clyde spent his life fighting against,” Tom argued, his voice resonating with a fervor that bordered on zealotry.

The charged atmosphere in the town hall had reached a fever pitch when Carl Reeves stood up, his voice slicing through the tense air like a serrated blade. “This is all just smoke and mirrors!” he shouted, casting a wild glance at Jenna. “You’re all being duped by these so-called protectors who can’t even keep one of their own safe!”

Jeers and applause clashed in a discordant symphony, the community’s trust fracturing further with each word hurled from Reeves’ mouth.

As if summoned by the need for calm, Deputy Jake Hawkins moved through the crowd with authoritative strides that demanded attention without a word. He stepped up on the stage and stood there, solid and unyielding, until his presence drew eyes and gradually subdued the chaos.

“Please,” Jake’s voice finally broke the hush, “let’s remember why we’re here. To seek justice for Clyde, not to tear each other apart.”

Jenna watched as the crowd reluctantly settled, the embers of contention still glowing in their midst. She owed Jake for that momentary peace, another debt in an ever-growing tally.

Yet, before the quiet could fully take hold, Mayor Claire Simmons rose from her seat, her face flushed with an anger Jenna had never seen directed at her before. The mayor’s voice, when it came, was a whip crack, echoing off the town hall walls.

“Why wasn’t this tragedy prevented? What were the police doing?” Claire’s polished exterior had cracked, revealing a torrent of grief and rage underneath.

“Mayor Simmons,” Jenna began, seeking to bridge the chasm with reason, “we are pursuing every lead—”

“Leads?” Claire cut her off, her voice rising sharply. “My brother lies cold in the morgue, and you are chasing ghosts, as always! Shouldn’t your focus be on the living?”

Jenna squared her shoulders, meeting Claire’s gaze directly. “My duty is to find the truth,” she stated firmly, her voice unwavering despite the turmoil inside. “And I will, for Clyde and for Trentville.”

But as Claire sat back down, seemingly appeased for the moment, Jenna knew the battle lines had been redrawn. The chamber had become a crucible of raw emotion again, every eye fixated on her, awaiting a response. But the noise, the cacophony of voices raised in anger and fear, turned her attempts to speak into whispers lost on the wind.

“Please, let me explain—” Jenna’s voice was steady but futile against the tide of unrest.

“Explain what? How you’ve let us down?” Someone shouted from the crowd, their face obscured by the sea of discontent.

She scanned the room, seeking an ally, a friendly face, but found only the reflection of chaos.