CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

As Jake Hawkins stepped out of the cruiser, he was thinking of the last time he’d been to Frank Doyle’s home—a few days ago, just after Jenna had first confided in him about her lucid dreams. That conversation was still very much on his mind, both her words and the way his own feelings had been challenged by her revelation.

He sighed under his breath as he and Jenna climbed up the steps to Frank’s front porch. During the time he and Jenna had worked so closely together, Jake’s professional admiration for his superior officer had deepened into something more personal, though he hadn’t dared to say anything about it. But things had changed in ways he never could have expected. Ever since she’d told him about her extraordinary abilities, Jake had sensed a turning point in their relationship, although he didn’t know exactly which way or what that might mean.

He forced his thoughts back to the investigation at hand. The two graves they had unearthed earlier were a grim reminder of death’s indiscriminate hand. Jake had seen more gruesome sights when he was still a beat cop working in Kansas City, but he’d never expected to see anything like that when he’d come to Trentville, hoping to get away from the horrors and the moral darkness of a big city. That kind of brutality seemed out of place here, amid the quiet ebb and flow of small-town life.

Frank’s front door opened before Jenna’s knuckles could rap against the wood. There stood the former Sheriff, a figure as rooted to Trentville as the courthouse itself. His thick white hair was slightly disheveled, the lines on his face deepened by years of service but still capable of a warm smile. His welcome was gruff but genuine.

“Come in, you two,” Frank said, stepping aside. “Let’s see if we can make sense of this mess over coffee.”

He ushered them into his home, a dwelling that spoke of a life spent in the service of others. The hallway was lined with photographs of a younger Frank with what Jake assumed were family members. As they passed through the living space, Jake couldn’t help but notice how every detail—from the worn-in armchairs to the hand-crocheted throws—exuded a sense of warmth and history.

The scent of freshly-brewed coffee pulled them further into the house—the same scent that had greeted Jake the last time he’d come here. It was as if Frank always had freshly-brewed coffee ready for unexpected visitors. Then again, maybe Frank was always expecting visitors.

“Please, sit down,” Frank motioned toward the wooden table that was the centerpiece of the cozy space. Jake noticed that another aroma filled the room of sweet apples and cinnamon, making his mouth water and stomach rumble.

Frank poured the coffee with practiced ease, the dark liquid swirling into each mug. He handed one to Jake, who wrapped his hands around its warmth, grateful for the familiar ritual on this day when so much seemed strange.

Then Frank pulled an extra treat from the oven—freshly-warmed slices of homemade pie with golden crusts shimmering. He placed a generous slice in front of each of them.

“The neighbors sometimes drop things by,” he said with a grin.

Jake took this as further proof that Frank inspired affection and goodwill among everyone around him—proof a good life well-lived.

“Thanks, Frank, I just realized I’m hungry again,” Jake said, picking up a fork and pitching in.

Frank took his seat at the head of the table, and Jenna sat to his right. Observing the two of them, Jake noted the unspoken understanding that flowed between Jenna and her mentor. It was an easy rapport built on years of trust and shared experiences.

As Jenna just picked at the pie in front of her, he noted how lines of exhaustion had marked her features. She sipped from her coffee as though she needed that more than food.

He knew she was thinking about the women whose bodies they’d seen in those graves, and how her dreams had led her to them. Now, Jake was the only other person in the world besides Frank who knew about her exceptional abilities. The weight of that secret was new to him, and it felt heavier than his deputy’s badge. He respected Jenna’s abilities, her intuitions and her dreams that bordered on the supernatural, but accepting the reality of it all was another matter entirely. He was aware that the former Sheriff had navigated these waters long before him.

“Jake,” Frank’s voice cut through Jake’s reflections. “How are you holding up with all these... developments?”

Jake shifted in his seat, the warmth of the coffee cup seeping into his palms. He knew exactly what Frank meant by “developments”—his recent discovery of Jenna’s mysterious gifts. He appreciated Frank’s straightforward manner—no sugarcoating, just hard truths and gruff wisdom. He saw that Jenna was just watching quietly, waiting for his answer.

“Frank, I won’t lie—it’s tough,” Jake said, his voice tinged with the strain of recent events. “Jenna’s...abilities, it’s not something I’m used to. But I’m dealing.” He fixed his gaze on the swirling steam rising from his mug, trying to anchor himself in the moment. “But I’m here to support Jenna, and that’s what I’ll always do.”

Frank nodded, a knowing look in his gray eyes. “You’ll get the hang of it,” he assured him. “And when you do, you’re going to find that this town has layers you never imagined. Some of them darker than you’d ever expect in a place like Trentville.”

Jake absorbed the words, considering the sobering implications.

The conversation shifted as Frank turned his attention back to Jenna. “Tell me about your visit with Ruth Henderson,” he prompted, leaning back in his chair, the creak of aged wood accompanying the movement.

Jenna exhaled, a frown creasing her forehead. “Ruth confirmed some things for us. Everyone thought Lisa just ran off to escape her father’s strict hand, but Ruth always feared something worse. She and her mother were both afraid that something terrible might have happened to her,” Jenna recounted, her voice somber. “They couldn’t help wonder whether Claude Donovan might have hurt Lisa,”

The possibility felt heavy and uncomfortable. Jake thought of Ruth harboring such a dark suspicion about her own father, a man who should have been a protector, not a threat. He wondered if that fear had cast a shadow over Ruth’s life all these years.

“Did she say why she felt that way?” Frank asked.

“It had always been a feeling, a sister’s intuition,” Jenna replied, shaking her head. “But now that she knows her sister was murdered, she can’t help wondering whether her suspicions of her father are now fully confirmed.”

“Sometimes, that’s all we have to go on,” Frank interjected. “Gut feelings and hunches. They’ve solved more cases than one might think.”

Jake met Frank’s steady gaze, understanding the unspoken message: they had to trust in the instincts that had led them here, to this kitchen, to this conversation that would hopefully unravel the truth of what happened to Lisa Donovan—and perhaps others lost to Trentville’s shadows.

“Ruth thinks Lisa may have had a secret boyfriend,” Jenna mused, breaking the silence. “Of course she hopes it was somebody kind who gave her a good reason to run off with him.”

“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Frank confessed, scratching at the back of his neck. “When I was in school with her, Lisa was pretty much a mystery. Her folks kept a tight leash on her. You’d hear stories about her dad’s temper, but as for friends—let alone boyfriends …” He shook his head, “Lisa kept to herself.”

“Frank, did you ever come across anything linking Claude Donovan to Lauren Knox?” Jenna asked.

Frank leaned back, his hands clasped over his midriff, eyes narrowing in thought. “Lauren’s case is as cold as they come. No connections to the Donovans or any other case that I could find at the time.” He paused, considering. “But this town has layers, and not all of them see the light of day. It’s possible I missed something buried deep.”

Jake watched Frank’s face, carved by years of service. There was an unspoken acknowledgment in the older man’s eyes—a recognition that the soil of their small town held more than just the roots of its abundant flowers.

“Could be we’re dealing with two separate tragedies here,” Jake suggested. “We don’t have any solid reason to think that it was Lauren Knox’s body in the grave next to where Lisa Donovan was buried.”

“Maybe not,” Jenna said. “But I still believe both of those deaths must be connected with whatever happened to Amber Stevens. Lisa’s spirit hinted that someone was being kept captive, someone whose life was in danger. I can’t help thinking that someone must be Amber. It would help if we knew who the other buried woman was.”

“We have to wait for Dr. Stark’s lab results,” Jake remarked. “Maybe she can give us an ID on the other corpse.”

“Waiting’s the hardest part,” Jenna agreed, her voice barely above a whisper. There was a shared understanding between them, a recognition of the toll this case was taking on all who touched it.

“Maybe we’re just not seeing the whole picture yet,” Frank said. “What other evidence did you find at the scene?”

“A pair of initials carved into an oak tree—SV + NS, carved into the oak tree at the scene. I also saw them in my dream. Surely they mean something. The problem is, they don’t match anyone involved—Lauren, Lisa, Amber, or Claude Donovan.”

“Could be someone else’s story entirely,” Frank mused, his gaze lingering on his empty coffee mug as if it might reveal more. “Those initials could be from a pair of ordinary young lovers, nothing more than a pair of kids leaving their mark.” The uncertainty in his voice told Jake that he wasn’t convinced.

“Nothing’s ever that simple in those dreams,” Jenna murmured, staring into her coffee as though it held answers. “It might be a place where other couples had carved their names over the years. Some others flashed by. But that pair, SV and NS, are important.”

“You’re sure of that?” Frank asked.

Jenna nodded slowly, though her eyes spoke of the toll this case—and all the others—had taken on her. She sat forward, resting her elbows on the table, a sign she was gearing up for the challenge. Jake admired that about her; no matter how weary, Jenna Graves never backed down.

“The woman who visited me in my dream,” she replied, her emerald eyes dark with certainty. “It was Lisa Donovan, it just had to be. She kept pointing at those initials, insistent. Yes, I’m sure they do mean something.”

Jake watched Jenna’s expression, her conviction stirring a sense of urgency. He scratched the stubble on his chin, contemplating their next move. “We could ask Colonel Spelling to have his guys dig into it—see if highway patrol can turn up anything statewide on SV and NS.”

“Without knowing when those initials were carved or any context?” Jenna’s voice was skeptical. “It’s a needle in a haystack. We don’t even know if we’re looking for someone still around here or long gone.”

“True,” Jake admitted, feeling the weight of these unsolved mysteries that seemed to be stumping all of them.

The silence that followed was thick with contemplation.

Frank took a final bite of his pie, followed by a swallow of coffee. The he stood up, pushing his chair back with a scrape against the linoleum floor. The lines in his face softened with a hint of paternal concern for Jenna. “You two take a moment. I might have an idea.”

Frank’s smile, though meant to be reassuring, seemed almost incongruous in the tension-filled kitchen. “There’s still something to be said for low-tech investigative techniques,” he mused. Then, with a casualness that belied the gravity of their meeting, he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing slightly as he retreated into the depths of the house.

Jake watched him go, then turned to the job of finishing up his pie. The kitchen, with its sunlit windows and the scents of lingering in the air, felt like a stark departure from the grim discoveries they were facing that morning.

“Jake,” Jenna asked, her voice cutting through the silence, “how are you really holding up with... everything?”

He met her gaze, noting the way her forehead creased, an outward sign of the internal battles she fought daily. “I’m doing okay,” Jake replied, offering her a half-smile. It wasn’t the whole truth, and he was sure Jenna knew it. The truth was more complex, still tangled with the shock of her confidences.

Before they could delve any deeper into personal territory, Frank returned, banishing the momentary solitude. In his hands was a worn Trentville High School yearbook, its cover faded from years of handling. 1984-85, the gold embossed letters read.

“Let’s start looking here,” Frank declared as he settled back into his chair, flipping open the yearbook with a sense of purpose. Jake leaned in, his curiosity piqued. Might this old hardbound volume really hold a key to unlocking the mysteries that haunted Trentville?