CHAPTER SEVEN

Jenna stood on Old Orndorf Road with her arms crossed, waiting for the Highway Patrol men to return from the forest trails that were marked by flight, struggle, and capture. Jake was pacing a few feet away, the muscles in his neck tense with anger. Before she could ask what was bothering him, Colonel Spelling emerged from the shadows of nearby trees.

Jake stopped pacing and spoke up, “Colonel, we’ve already lost too much time.”

The accusation in his voice made his meaning clear—Spelling had made a terrible mistake in dismissing Jenna’s concerns a while ago, when he had seemed so sure that Amber Stevens’s disappearance wasn’t anything serious. Jenna watched Colonel Spelling’s jaw work silently, frustration evident as he collected his thoughts. His eyes narrowed as he faced Jake. The morning sun cast harsh shadows over his face, throwing the creases of his frown into sharp relief.

“We’re doing everything we can now,” he said, his tone defensive. “You two didn’t give me enough to go on earlier. I get a dozen reports like this across the state every day. The supposed missing usually turn up on their own.”

Jenna observed the exchange, the air thick with unspoken recriminations. Jake’s frustration mirrored her own impatience with the slow churn of bureaucracy. She knew that every second counted, and despite Spelling’s assurances, she couldn’t shake the feeling that vital clues were slipping away like sand through fingers.

“Let’s focus on the tasks at hand,” Jenna brokered peace, directing her gaze between the two men. “Colonel, we found a cell phone beneath Amber’s SUV. It’s likely to be hers. We need it to be checked for prints and turned over to a technician who can get at the contents.”

“My techs can do that,” he replied. “I’ll take it back to headquarters with me.”

Jake looked reluctant, but he pulled the evidence bag holding the phone from his pocket and handed it over. Jenna cleared her throat, ready to steer the conversation back to more of the matters at hand.

“How do you plan to move forward right now, Colonel?” she asked.

“APB for Amber Jennings and Jason Reeves,” Spelling replied without hesitation. “Reeves is our prime suspect. I’ll get his plate number to dispatch and call that neighbor you mentioned – the one who saw his truck. She can describe the vehicle for me.”

“Good,” Jenna nodded, relieved that they were finally moving in full pursuit. The urgency of the situation had rendered their prior disagreements irrelevant; there was only the chase now, and the unyielding drive to bring a resolution to the case that consumed them all.

“Colonel, how do we best divide the labor moving forward?” she asked.

Spelling’s eyes flicked to hers, and for a moment, Jenna saw the weight of responsibility he shouldered. “The Highway Patrol will take charge of the statewide search efforts,” he declared, regaining some of his usual command. “What about local leads? You two are better equipped to chase those down.”

“We’ll look into Amber’s last known contacts,” she responded as she consulted her notes. “We’ve got the names of the three co- workers who were with her at Paws and Harmony just before she vanished. We’ll interview them.”

“Good,” Spelling said, his tone now clipped with efficiency. “Get whatever information you can from them. Let me know if anything important turns up.”

Jenna glanced at Jake, who gave a curt nod in agreement. They knew their roles well; it was time to dig deeper into the lives that had orbited around Amber Stevens, hoping to find any bit of information that would help unravel the mystery of her disappearance.

Jenna’s hand rested on the door handle of her patrol car, the metal warmed by the June sun. She gave Jake a nod, and they both slipped away from Spelling’s intense scrutiny. As she assumed her usual position behind the wheel, the familiar weight of her sheriff’s badge pressed against her chest, a silent reminder of duty.

“Jake, let’s get Marcus Flint on the line,” she instructed. “He’s the first co-worker Dr. Reynolds mentioned.”

Jake’s fingers worked over his phone, and within moments the line connected.

“Marcus Flint speaking,” came the brisk, professional greeting.

“Mr. Flint, this is Sheriff Graves and Deputy Hawkins. We need to talk with you about Amber Stevens.”

“Of course, Sheriff. I heard that she, uh, is not going to be at the clinic tonight and that something might be wrong.” When Jenna didn’t offer any more information, he added, “I’m at the clinic right now, butI can take some time to talk with you.” His voice was cooperative, yet held an undercurrent of concern.

“Thank you, we’ll see you soon.” Jenna ended the call, feeling the gears of investigation shift into motion.

With the conversation concluded, Jenna turned the key in the ignition, the engine’s hum breaking the stillness of Old Orndorf Road. As the car trundled back toward smoother roads, Jake broke the silence.

“Spelling should’ve trusted your gut, Jenna. He wasted time doubting you.”

Jenna maneuvered around a pothole, her hands steady on the wheel. “He’s operating on protocol, Jake. We didn’t have much to offer him earlier, and my... instincts aren’t standard evidence.”

“Still...”

“Look,” Jenna interjected, “we play by the rules as much as we bend them. But right now, we’ve got some leads to follow, and that’s what matters.”

Jake’s gaze found the horizon, and he fell into a contemplative quiet. As Jenna navigated the cruiser over the uneven terrain, silence settled between them like dust after a storm. Jenna sensed the internal conflict within her partner.

“Jake,” she said tentatively, “I know this isn’t easy. My...abilities, they complicate things.”

He turned his head slowly, meeting her emerald eyes with his blue ones. “Yeah, they do. It’s one thing to read about psychic stuff in books or watch it on TV. It’s another to work a case where it’s real.”

“Having visions, talking to ghosts—it’s not exactly by-the-book police work,” Jenna replied. She kept her focus on the road ahead, but her periphery caught every nuance of Jake’s reaction.

He exhaled, a long breath that seemed to carry with it the burden of unspoken thoughts. “It’s complicated, Jenna. Our job, our partnership—it’s all tangled up with something I can’t see or touch. And sometimes that makes it harder.”

Silence descended once more, heavy with the acknowledgment of their shared predicament. Jenna felt the keen edge of his admission; it was a testament to the trust they’d built, yet it also underscored the gap that her unique insight had wedged between them.

The cruiser crested a hill, and Trentville unfolded below, quaint and unsuspecting. Jenna knew their partnership had been irrevocably altered. Logic and intuition were interwoven in ways that defied conventional methods. She drove on, steering them both through the familiar streets and the unknown territory of their evolving dynamic.

***

Amber’s gaze traced the lines between the heavy beams overhead, following them as if they might lead somewhere beyond the stone confines of the small room she was in. The flickering light from one kerosene lamp cast long shadows across the space she recognized as an old root cellar. But the long shelves along two walls held no vegetables stored for a family’s winter. Instead meager rations of snacks and bottled water had been left there.

The flame sputtered, its glow dimming as the fuel dwindled. She sighed. Soon she would have pour some more kerosene into it and adjust its wick so as not to plunge into darkness. She’d done this a couple of times since she’d been here; she’d figured out how to do it the first time its light began to wane. In fact, the amount of time it took for the lantern to burn down was one of the few things that gave her a sense of time passing, though it was an inexact measure of how long she’d been here.

Hours had morphed into an eternity within these cold stone walls. She could only hear the incessant chirping of crickets and occasional cries of distant birds to remind her that life persisted beyond this earthen tomb. She clung to those few sounds of nature as a lifeline, though they offered no salvation, only the bitter knowledge that she was alone, utterly alone. So far, she’d heard nothing at all from any other human. Her own screams had long since surrendered to the reality that they stirred nothing but the dust motes dancing in the lantern light.

Clambering off the cot, she winced as she put weight on her injured ankle. It wasn’t broken, but the sprain was bad, and the injury had led to her capture. The memory of the chase was still fresh, the fear visceral. Her mind replayed the moment—the uneven terrain of Old Orndorf Road where she had first stumbled, followed by branches whipping at her face as she staggered through the woods, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Then the sickening give of her ankle as it twisted again beneath her, the ground rushing up to meet her before hands grabbed her from behind.

A cloth clamped over her mouth had smothered her cries. A bitter, acrid taste had invaded her mouth, an unexpected intruder. Its scent was sharp and chemical-like, a stinging assault on her nostrils that made her eyes water. Then darkness swept over her like a merciless wave.

Amber understood that any semblance of control had been stripped from her, but she had no clue as to why. She reached for a bag of chips, her movements mechanical. Each bite tasted of dust and despair, the crunch sounding too loud in the stifling silence of her prison. A few swallows of water followed to wash down the staleness.

She gasped at a sound that came from just beyond the heavy wooden door of her prison—deliberate, measured footsteps, then a shuffling outside that door. A cover over a peephole slid aside briefly as a single eye observed her, an unseen presence scrutinizing its captive.

Her heart hammered against her ribcage as a voice sliced through the stillness, a breathy, hoarse whisper. “You’d better replenish the lamp,” the voice urged, each word a rasp that teased familiarity—a voice not quite a stranger’s, yet not familiar enough to place. It taunted her with its vague recognition, adding another layer to her disquiet.

“Who are you? Why are you doing this?” Amber’s voice was sharp, a blade cutting through the stale air of the root cellar. Silence followed, punctuated only by the labored breaths of her captor on the other side of the thick door.

“Lisa,” the voice finally replied, taking an unsettlingly calm tone, “we will discuss everything in due time. Please, make yourself as comfortable as possible under the circumstances.” A pause, and then an odd addendum, “I do apologize for the spartan accommodations.”

Amber felt a chill run down her spine. “I’m not Lisa,” she corrected him, an edge of fear sharpening her words. “My name is Amber. Amber Stevens.”

The chuckle that echoed back at her was mirthless. “Ah, I expected you to say your name wasn’t Lisa,” the voice said with eerie nonchalance. “But it’s certainly not Amber. Would you prefer that I call you Nancy?”

Her heart pounded against her chest, anger mingling with dread. This had to be some twisted joke.

“Stop it! What do you want from me?” she snapped back, her throat tight with pent-up frustration.

The response was another chuckle, chilling in its indifference. “We can continue this conversation when you’re ready to be more reasonable.” The footsteps began to retreat, the sound growing fainter until silence reclaimed the cellar.

Left alone once again, Amber’s resolve crumbled for a moment, and she sat in stunned silence, trying to process the exchange. But paralysis was a luxury she couldn’t afford; shaking off the shock, she pushed herself up from the cot. Each step towards the lantern was a study in pain, her ankle protesting with a sharp jolt that shot up her leg.

Gritting her teeth, she hobbled over to the small table where the lamp stood. She picked up the gallon can of kerosene with trembling hands, unscrewing the cap with difficulty. The scent of the fuel was sharp in her nostrils, grounding her to the moment. She poured carefully, ensuring the liquid met the wick without spilling over. Gingerly, she poured the liquid into the lamp, careful not to spill any more than necessary. If this contraption caught fire, she’d have no way to escape from it. That door was bolted shut from the outside.

She got the lamp’s tank filled, then coaxed the wick a little higher. The renewed flame brought with it an unwelcome companion—a sense of foreboding, as if each flicker illuminated not just the cellar, but also the unknown terrors that awaited her beyond its walls.