CHAPTER NINE

As Jenna watched, Frank’s eyes assumed a faraway look. She knew it was the gaze he wore whenever he dredged up details from the depths of his memory—a memory that seldom failed him. Frank’s keen powers of observation were legendary in Genesius County. His nearly photographic memory had served as an invaluable asset during his time as sheriff—a trait Jenna admired and wished she could master for herself.

“Mark Reeves was his name,” Frank said, breaking the silence that had settled over the kitchen. “Came to the sheriff’s office asking about a good place to fish. I remember him clear as day.”

“Because of the tattoo?” Jenna asked.

“Partly,” Frank admitted, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. “It was quite distinctive. Not every day you see wings like that etched into someone’s skin around these parts. But there was something else about him—a sort of earnest curiosity. He was interested in the town, its stories.”

Jenna leaned forward, her elbows on the table. It was no surprise to her that Frank could identify a man from years past just based on a description from a dream, but the details he recalled seemed especially vivid this time.

“He was a good kid,” Frank continued, warmth softening his voice. “Said he was an aspiring writer, traveling across the country to ‘discover America.’ He reminded me of those beatnik writers from back in the day—restless souls wandering the land in search of stories.”

Jenna nodded. It fit well enough with the image she’d met in the dream.

“Mark stayed at the Twilight Inn the night he came to my office,” Frank went on. “Even back then, it was nothing fancy.”

She knew the small, run-down motel across from Hank’s Derby truck stop. The building itself hadn’t been updated in decades, so it was probably much like it had been back when Mark Reeves had stayed there. And the place where she’d encountered the man in her dream would be the logical choice for catching a bus near there.

“Next morning,” Frank continued, “we met up and headed out to Shannon Creek in Whispering Pines Forest. Seemed like the perfect spot for what he was after.”

“Sounds like you two hit it off,” Jenna observed, trying to reconcile the friendly, adventurous spirit Frank described with the worried figure she’d seen trying to get on that bus.

“We did,” Frank agreed with a nod. “Mark could talk Hemingway and Kerouac like they were old buddies of his.” Frank’s eyes were distant, reflecting on the literary debate he’d shared with the young writer. “We stood there in the stream, casting our lines, and he spoke of The Sun Also Rises and On the Road with such passion, I believed he might just be the next great American novelist.”

Jenna could picture the scene: two kindred spirits connected by their love for words, surrounded by the dense canopy of pines, engrossed in the exchange of ideas. Shannon Creek, with its clear, burbling waters, and the surrounding forest that earned its whispering moniker from the hushed sounds of wind through pine needles, had always been a favorite hideaway for anglers and contemplative souls alike.

“His eyes,” Frank continued, “they lit up when he talked about his travels, the people he met, the stories he’d gathered. There’s a special kind of fire in people who chase the written word, Jenna. Mark—he had that fire.”

He then vividly recounted their evening, filled with the sweet satisfaction of a successful day of fishing. The creek’s bounty had seemed to jump onto their hooks with enthusiasm, and they eagerly reeled in their catches. As the sun began to set, they made their way back to Frank’s home, where they feasted on their freshly caught meal.

“Mark savored that meal like it was fit for a king,” Frank said, a half-smile creasing his weathered face. “He was grateful, you know? For the simple things—good food, good company. Things I appreciate, too.”

Frank fell into a silent reverie for a moment.

“Before we parted ways that night,” Frank said, “he shook my hand and said he’d write. I was sure that he meant it. I still have to believe that he was sincere at the time.”

“Did he tell you where he was headed?” Jenna inquired.

“No,” Frank said, shaking his head. “And he didn’t tell me where he’d come from, either. But he left with that firm promise to keep in touch, a promise unkept. And of course he knew my address.”

Frank’s eyes clouded over, his gaze drifting toward the window where a robin inspected the dew-covered grass. “You know,” he began, his voice softer now, his tone one of contemplation, “from what you’ve ever told me about your dreams—the lucid ones …”

He inhaled deeply.

“Not just anybody talks to you in your sleep,” he continued. “So I reckon that if Mark were still around, breathing the same air as us, he wouldn’t have showed up in your dream like that.”

She nodded slowly, her mind replaying the haunting vision of Mark Reeves she had seen.

“In the dream, he was at the bus stop, but he couldn’t get on the bus,” she said. “It stopped for him, but finally it just…left without him.” Jenna paused, a bitter possibility creeping into her voice. “Maybe it means he never left Trentville at all. That he couldn’t leave, not really.”

“That probably explains why he never contacted me,” Frank muttered. “It didn’t occur to me back then that his life might have ended here. I just thought I must have overestimated his … reliability.”

“But did anyone report finding a body?” Jenna asked. “You were sheriff, surely you would have heard about that.”

“You’re right, of course. If a stranger had died anywhere in the county, naturally or otherwise, I’d surely have been informed of it sooner or later. But I didn’t get word of anything. Did you notice anything else in the dream? Anything peculiar?” Frank asked, his investigator’s instinct surfacing.

Jenna closed her eyes, sifting through the ethereal memories. “A clock,” she said, opening her eyes to meet Frank’s questioning look. “I heard it ticking, loud and insistent, like a warning. He complained about the sound. Then he said it was all about time.”

“Time,” Frank murmured. “It can be important in our line of work, but what can it mean for the dead?”

That question tripped off another memory for Jenna.

“How long ago was it when he came through here?” she asked. “Was it about five years ago?”

Frank leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing slightly as though sifting through memories again. “No,” he replied after a pause. “It was almost exactly ten years ago when we went fishing.”

“Ten years…” Jenna echoed. “That’s strange. In the dream, he kept talking about ‘five years.’ He mentioned that number more than once, but he never explained it.”

“Five years, huh?” Frank murmured, his gruff voice cutting through Jenna’s contemplation. “I guess it could’ve been some personal milestone or deadline he set for himself.”

“Maybe…” Jenna conceded, not entirely convinced. “Those words just feel significant, like it’s a clue or a message that I’m missing.”

“Or maybe it’s nothing at all,” Frank added, the lines on his face deepening with concern. “You know, these dreams of yours can be cryptic, to say the least. We’re treading into speculation. And speculation doesn’t bring folks home.”

“True,” Jenna admitted, her voice trailing off uncertainly. But deep down, she sensed this piece of the puzzle was important. Mark’s urgent tone, the repeated phrase… five years .

The dead who spoke to her in dreams could be hard to understand, but they didn’t just show up for no reason. She was sure that when Mark Reeves’s spirit sought her out, it had to be for a reason. She was used to trying to decipher the supernatural elements of her dreams, but this time it felt especially urgent.

Then Frank seemed lost in thought for a long moment. “Jenna,” he began, breaking the silence, “I reckon the timing of all this isn’t lost on you, is it? Twenty years since Piper…” He let the sentence trail off, an unspoken acknowledgment of the disappearance of Jenna’s twin sister.

She felt a familiar tightness grip her chest, the old wound of Piper’s absence opening just a fraction. She nodded slightly, the gratitude for Frank’s remembrance of the date warming her. “Yeah, twenty years ago yesterday,” she confirmed.

“Has Piper… Well, has she ever come to you in your dreams?” Frank asked carefully, his question probing the depths of Jenna’s private torment.

“No,” Jenna replied. “She hasn’t.”

Her eyes clouded over as she contemplated the meaning behind Piper’s continued silence in her subconscious realm. It was a silence that left room for hope—hope that somewhere, somehow, Piper was still out there alive. But she couldn’t be sure. There were too many things she didn’t understand about her dreams.

“Until I have evidence to the contrary,” she said, “I’ve got to assume that Piper is still alive.”

Jenna’s gaze drifted to the view outside—a tableau of small-town tranquility so sharply at odds with the turmoil within her. As often happened, her mind was making connections faster than she could voice them clearly. “Do you suppose Mark’s appearance right now might have anything to do with Sarah Thompson’s disappearance?”

Frank’s nod was slow, contemplative. “I guess it might,” he conceded. “But Sarah hasn’t appeared to you in a dream, has she?”

“No, she hasn’t,” Jenna admitted. “And I want to believe that means she’s still out there… still alive.”

“Even if the chances are slim?” Frank asked gently, already knowing the answer.

“Even then.” Jenna’s eyes held a flicker of vulnerability. “Slim chances haven’t stopped me before. They’re not going to stop me now.”

“Of course they won’t,” Frank said, a note of admiration in his voice for the resolve that defined his successor and protégée.

Sure that the man in her dream had told her something more, she leaned forward and put her head in her hands, closing her eyes, trying to remember. Then it was as though she heard again those chilling words that Mark Reeves had spoken with such conviction.

“He said that no one could help him now,” she said.

“Well, I guess not,” Frank said sadly.

“But he did tell me that ‘someone else is in terrible danger.’ And it was then that he said, ‘there isn’t much time.’”

“There’s that word again, ‘time,’” Frank muttered. “Jenna, if you’re going to unravel this mystery about Mark Reeves, you’ll need to dig into his past, anything that can be found out about him. And there’s no one better at uncovering that kind of history than Emily Carson.”

Jenna tilted her head in acknowledgment, the librarian’s reputation for being a human archive of Trentville well known to her. “Yeah, that makes sense,” she mused. “Emily got a mind like a steel trap for details. I’ll pay her a visit right away.”

Rising from the table, she gathered the plates and utensils, her movements efficient and purposeful. She placed the dishes in the sink, her thoughts already on whatever information Emily could potentially provide.

“Thank you again, Frank. For breakfast and for… everything.” She glanced at him, her eyes conveying gratitude deeper than words could express.

“Always here for you, kid,” Frank replied, his gruff voice tinged with concern. “And remember, I’m here if you need anything.”

“Will do,” Jenna promised, stepping outside where her patrol car waited dutifully by the curb. The morning air embraced her with a comforting warmth.

Her hand rested on the door handle of her car, hesitant for just a moment as she allowed herself to feel the full weight of her responsibility—not just as the sheriff, but as a sister still searching for answers. Every fiber of her being told her there was an unseen link between the fates of Mark and Sarah—and for all she could guess, even Piper. Talking to the librarian was now her top priority.

She pulled open the car door and slid behind the wheel. No sooner had she buckled her seat belt than her phone rang, its insistent tone jarring her from her thoughts. “Damn,” she muttered under her breath, glancing at the caller ID. It was Mayor Claire Simmons.

Jenna exhaled slowly before picking up the device. Reluctance gave way to duty as she pressed the answer button, bringing the phone to her ear.