CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Jenna guided the patrol car into a space in front of the Twilight Inn, its neon sign flickering weakly against the nighttime sky. The building hunched beneath the weight of years, paint peeling like sunburnt skin, windows reflecting streetlights with a tired gaze—a relic from an era when such places thrived on the hopes of passing travelers. She killed the engine, the sudden silence pressing in on her. What secrets did this old place hold within its worn walls? Could it harbor clues to a mystery that eluded her so relentlessly?

Her hand rested on the ignition key for a moment longer than necessary, her mind racing through the possible outcomes of this impromptu visit. Jenna’s intuition, that unspoken companion, murmured softly, urging her forward even as her rational mind cataloged the odds stacked against them.

Jake made no comment, but she could feel his gaze on her profile, his features undoubtedly mirroring the questions she sensed from him.

“Something on your mind, Jake?” she asked, preempting his questions.

“Well, you could say that,” he replied wryly, though his tone carried an undercurrent of concern. “Now that we’re here, I’m not convinced that this establishment is likely to keep much in the way of records. We could be just wasting our time.”

“Well, besides what Frank told me, let’s just say I have a hunch,” she said, finally turning to meet his questioning eyes. “And you know better than anyone, my hunches often turn out to be right.”

Jake nodded, the corners of his mouth lifting in a half-smile. He trusted her, but his need for logical explanations pressed heavily between them. “Then let’s see where this hunch leads us,” he said, and they both stepped out into the cool night air.

The door to the front office creaked as Jenna pushed it open, a bell above announcing their entrance. Dust swirled in the air, visible in the sparse illumination provided by a solitary light fixture hanging from the ceiling. Behind the desk, an elderly man sat hunched over a crossword puzzle, his silver hair thinning and his glasses perched precariously on the bridge of his nose. His gaze lifted from the newspaper, and his weathered face creased into a semblance of a smile—or perhaps a grimace—as he took in the sight of the uniformed sheriff and her deputy.

“Evening,” he greeted, his voice rough like sandpaper. “What can I do for you, officers of the law?”

“Good evening,” Jenna replied, her tone professional. “I’m Sheriff Jenna Graves, and this is Deputy Hawkins. We’re looking for information about a guest who might have stayed here around ten years ago.”

The manager’s face was a canvas of years spent overseeing the comings and goings of countless guests, and the lines seemed to deepen as he contemplated her question. His bushy eyebrows rose slightly, skepticism etched in the deep lines of his face. He leaned back in his chair, which groaned under his weight, and regarded her with curiosity.

“Ten years is a long stretch,” he said slowly. “A lot of people come and go. Memories fade.”

Jenna nodded, understanding the difficulty of what she was asking. But she had learned long ago that the past could speak volumes if one knew how to listen—and she had come here hoping that the echoes of history would yield something, anything, to help solve this mystery. Her gift had led her into this line of investigation, and she needed to follow up on it.

Her voice betrayed none of the urgency that pulsed beneath her skin. “I understand that, sir. But by any chance, do you still have records from back then? People who signed in and out?”

The man’s scoff sent a ripple through the musty air of the Twilight Inn’s front office, and he shook his head as if in disbelief. “Nope,” he grunted with a dismissive wave of his hand, as if trying to swat away the absurdity of her request. “No such thing here. Paper gets old, space runs out. We don’t hold onto things nobody comes back for.”

He glared at her, his posture unyielding against the backdrop of yellowed wallpaper and faded tourism brochures.

Jenna masked her disappointment with a practiced nod. The absence of records was a setback, yet not an unanticipated one. As a small-town sheriff, she had learned to navigate the often-frustrating voids in data that rural recordkeeping presented. If the physical evidence had long been discarded, perhaps human memory would prove more durable.

“You seem to know this place well,” she commented, her tone more casual and chatty. “Were you perhaps working here during that time? Your familiarity with this place could be very helpful.”

The man paused, his eyes narrowing as he appraised her once more. He seemed to weigh the merit of engaging further, the creak of his chair marking the passage of silent seconds. Finally, he conceded with a slight tilt of his head, “Yeah, I’ve been managing this place since before the turn of the century.”

Jenna felt a flicker of relief. Her intuition, that strange internal compass honed through years of navigating the blurred lines between dreams and reality, suggested she was on the right track. This man was a living archive, a potential key to unlocking tales of the past. Now all she needed was for the man’s recollections to emerge from the fog of a decade’s worth of guests and transients who had passed through the doors of the Twilight Inn.

“I’m hoping you might remember a particular guest—Mark Reeves.” She watched for any flicker of recognition that might cross the man’s features. As she spoke, she summoned the image of Mark from her dream: the buzz cut, the red beard, and especially the tattoo—an intricate pair of wings etched into his skin.

“Medium height, buzz cut, red beard,” Jenna continued methodically, as if presenting evidence to a jury. “He had this distinctive tattoo of wings on his forearm.” She paused, letting the details sink in, then added, “He was a memorable character, a writer, one who probably had stories to tell. Just traveling through, but he did some fishing while he was in Trentville.”

“How do you know …?” Jake hissed, and she glanced at him in time to see the surprise on his face at the vividness of her description.

“Frank described him to me,” she explained quickly.

The manager leaned back in his chair, which groaned under his weight. His eyes seemed to drift into the past as he considered her words. Jenna held her breath, hoping for at least a small shard of memory that could be the key to unlocking a door long sealed shut.

“Reeves,” the man behind the desk murmured, his voice a low rumble that barely rose above the hum of the aged air-conditioning unit. A frown creased his brow as he delved into the recesses of his mind, sifting through transitory faces and forgotten names.

Jenna remained silent, giving him space to recall, hoping beyond hope that the name and description would dredge up more than just a passing recollection. She needed a breakthrough, something concrete to grasp onto in the ever-twisting maze of her investigation. Mark Reeves was a piece of the puzzle—a vital one—and she couldn’t afford to let it slip through her fingers.

The manager’s eyes widened as recognition flickered behind his spectacles. “Red beard, right. Reeves,” he said with a note of surprise that made Jenna lean in closer. “I remember him, alright. Didn’t pay his bill, left a bunch of his things behind in the room. A green duffel bag and an old fishing rod, if memory serves.”

Jenna’s heart skipped at the confirmation—not only had Mark Reeves been here, but his personal effects had been abandoned at this old motel. That was a strong indication that their owner might have disappeared in Trentville, as she had suspected. Besides that, the belongings could hold vital clues or maybe even fingerprints, something tangible to link the past to her present search. “Did you keep those belongings?” she asked, her voice tight with restrained excitement.

Again, the manager’s scoff sliced through the brief silence that followed Jenna’s question. “Keep them? Certainly not,” he grumbled, his aged hands fidgeting with a pen on the countertop. “Those items were taking up valuable space. And why would I store someone’s belongings when they skipped out on their bill?” His gaze held hers for a moment, as if the very idea was preposterous.

Jenna felt the disappointment seep in, a cold undercurrent beneath her initial surge of excitement. She knew better than to expect favors from a man who dealt in nightly transactions rather than sentimental keepsakes. The possibility of Mark Reeves’s duffel bag and fishing rod revealing something crucial now seemed to evaporate into the musty air of the Twilight Inn’s front office.

“Fair enough,” she conceded, masking her dismay with a nod of understanding. “It was a long shot, but worth asking.”

Before another word could be exchanged, the front door creaked open, admitting a weary traveler dragging a suitcase behind him. The man’s entrance was a reminder of the endless turnover of guests, each with their own stories, none lingering longer than necessary.

“Excuse me,” the newcomer said, approaching the desk. “I need to check in.”

“Of course,” the manager replied, turning his attention to the new arrival with practiced ease.

“Thanks for your time,” Jenna said, offering a polite smile to the manager before motioning to Jake. They stepped out into the night, leaving the dimly lit office behind. The air outside was thick with the scent of summer foliage, and the chirping of crickets accompanied their walk back to the patrol car.

“Leaving his stuff here, that does seem to support your suspicions that this guy might never have left Trentville alive,” Jake remarked quietly as they neared the vehicle, his voice tinted with the frustration Jenna herself felt. “Of course, we still have no proof of anything, nothing really to go on. The old guy’s memory could even be wrong, or he could have been misleading us.”

Jenna was silent for a moment. Jake’s silhouette stiffened beside her, his confusion palpable in the dim light.

“But I still don’t get it, Jenna. Why are you so fixated on this Reeves guy, anyhow? He didn’t even show up in the database of the missing or dead.”

“Sarah and Mark are pieces of the same puzzle,” she insisted. “I can feel it. We’re still missing something crucial here.”

She stared at Jake for a moment. He was rational, grounded in the tangible world, while she navigated realms that defied explanation. They had already searched for tangible leads, grasped at the wisps of decade-old memories, and they hadn’t turned up the evidence they needed. Now Jenna was sure that the truth they sought lay just beyond the reach of conventional investigation.

“Look, I deserve a better explanation than that,” Jake said.

Jenna realized he was right. It was time to open the door to her most closely guarded secret, her gift that blurred the lines between the living and the dead. She hoped Jake would understand, despite the invisible walls that secrecy had built between them.

“Jake,” she began, “there are some things I’ve never told you. But now, it’s critical you know … well, everything.”

She watched him, a frown on his brow as he waited for her to continue. Jenna took a deep breath; the moment of revelation, once so daunting, now seemed like the only path forward. But not here, standing in a motel parking lot. Without another word, she motioned across the desolate road toward the neon lights of Hank’s Derby truck stop.

“Let’s go over there,” she suggested. “I’ll tell you everything—over coffee. All your questions, every doubt you have, I’ll lay it all out.”

She was aware that once she started to share her secret, there would be no turning back. Her fate and Jake’s, their ability to work together or maintain any relationship at all, hung on his reaction. And she could not tell what that was going to be.