CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The toot of a car horn cut through the morning stillness, pulling Jake from his thoughts. He glanced out the window to see the familiar patrol car parked at the curb. With a last look at the quiet order of his living room, he grabbed his keys and stepped outside. The air was fresh with the scent of dew on grass, typical for a June morning in Trentville.

As Jake approached the car, he saw Jenna was sitting rather stiffly behind the wheel, her gaze fixed straight ahead. Without a word, he opened the passenger door and slid into the seat beside her.

“Morning,” he offered, as the door closed with a solid thunk.

“Morning, Jake,” Jenna replied, her tone even. She pulled away from the curb, her hands steady on the wheel.

The silence between them was charged with an unspoken awareness that lingered from last night’s conversation, that moment when Jenna had confided in him about her lucid dreams. “Sometimes, I’m visited by the dead,” she had said matter-of-factly. Those words still echoed in his mind, refusing to be dismissed as mere fantasy.

Jake turned his head slightly, studying her profile. Her eyes remained focused on the road, but there was something haunting in her gaze, something that told him those words were more than just a claim. He realized that they were a burden she carried, a window to a world he couldn’t begin to understand. He couldn’t help but wish he could shield her from whatever pain those dreams brought with them.

He had seen a lot during his years as a beat cop in Kansas City, witnessed human behavior in its rawest forms, but this—this gift of Jenna’s—it was beyond his realm of experience. Doubt still mixed with his curiosity, yet he knew better than to dismiss her outright. Jenna was perceptive, analytical, and her intuition had proven itself time and again.

“About last night—” he started, only to be interrupted by Jenna’s swift shake of her head.

“Let’s talk at Frank’s,” she said, cutting off the conversation decisively.

Jake nodded, settling back into the seat. The drive to Frank Doyle’s house would be short, but in that brief span, his mind raced. Whatever Jenna had experienced in her dream, it was significant enough to bring them here, and as much as he wrestled with belief, he did trust her. He trusted her instincts and her dedication. He tried to reconcile the woman he knew—the sharp-shooting sheriff, the relentless investigator—with someone who claimed communion with the departed. He was trained to trust evidence, procedure, and what he could see with his own eyes.

The silence in the car settled between them like a third passenger. He stole a glance at her, noting the rigid set of her shoulders as she focused on the road ahead. It struck him that, despite working so closely together, there were layers to Jenna he hadn’t even begun to peel back. And now, with this revelation about her dreams, it felt as though an unbridgeable gap had opened up between them.

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, trying to think of something, anything, to say that might ease the atmosphere. But every potential opener seemed either too trivial or too probing, so he remained silent, watching the familiar storefronts of Trentville pass by in a blur. The drive was mercifully brief, yet Jake felt each second elongate as he grappled with his own thoughts.

His mind wandered unconsciously to the feel of Jenna’s hand accidentally brushing against his. The memory sent an unexpected jolt through him, and he clenched his fist to chase away the sensation. He had always admired her—the sharpness of her intellect, the dedication she brought to every case. But lately, his feelings had edged into territory he hadn’t intended to explore, especially not with his superior, his friend. He wondered if she noticed the way his gaze lingered a moment too long, or how his voice sometimes softened when he spoke to her.

“Almost there,” Jenna said suddenly, breaking into his thoughts. Her voice was neutral, but he could sense an undercurrent of… something. Nerves, perhaps? Anticipation?

They pulled into Frank’s driveway, and as Jenna parked the car, he braced himself for what was to come. Not just the discussion of her dream, but the navigation of this new, delicate dynamic that had sprung up between them. He didn’t know what Jenna’s dream entailed, but he was certain of one thing: life in Trentville was far from the simplicity he had sought when leaving Kansas City behind.

Jake knocked firmly on the door of Frank Doyle’s modest home, aware of Jenna standing awkwardly beside him. The door swung open, revealing Frank in a spattered apron. “Well, you two couldn’t have timed it better,” he said with a gruff chuckle. “Was just about to dig into some scrambled eggs. I’ll throw a few more on the skillet.”

“Thanks, Frank,” Jake replied, and the two of them stepped inside. As they moved through the small hallway, Frank commented with a knowing tilt to his eyebrows, “Jenna, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Actually, I did,” she replied, unsmiling, her green eyes reservoirs of secrets too heavy for one person to carry alone. “That’s why we’re here.”

Frank’s expression sobered. With a quick glance at Jake, he nodded slowly, understanding the gravity of her words.

Watching this exchange, Jake felt like the outsider in the room. He observed the ease with which Frank handled the news, not with disbelief, but with a readiness to accept what others would scoff at. In this strange town where he’d sought refuge, Jake was beginning to understand that the line between the living and the dead was not as clear-cut as his training had led him to believe.

“Let’s get those eggs before they burn,” Frank suggested, leading them into the heart of his home.

Jake leaned against the doorframe, his gaze flitting between Jenna and Frank as they navigated Frank’s kitchen with a familiarity that made his own presence feel superfluous. Jenna cracked another egg with one hand, deftly tossing the shell aside. As the eggs cooked, she flipped them skillfully, but Jake caught the briefest hesitation in her movement—a vulnerability he’d never seen in her at a crime scene.

In Kansas City, Jake had known every street corner like the back of his hand, but here in this unassuming kitchen he was the outsider, an observer to a dynamic that had been forged without him. His thoughts drifted to the day he had packed up his life and traded relentless sirens for the tranquil sounds of the Ozarks. He’d sought solitude, a respite from the ceaseless demands of urban policing. But now, standing on the periphery of Jenna and Frank’s easy rapport, he couldn’t help but wonder how many mysteries the tranquility of Trentville kept covered.

“Jenna, you told him about your dreams?” Frank asked with a sideways glance, as he whisked the eggs in the pan.

She nodded, her gaze meeting Jake’s for a brief moment before shifting back to Frank. “Yes, I did.”

“Jake,” he said, not without empathy, “you’ll get used to it. These things… they’re part of the fabric here. We’ll talk about it over breakfast, like old times.” His chuckle was meant to ease the mood, but it did little to dispel the knot in Jake’s stomach.

“Y’know, Jake,” Frank continued as the sizzle of eggs in the pan mingled with the scent of coffee brewing in the background. “I remember when I first cottoned onto Jenna’s… let’s say, unique knack for solving mysteries.”

Jake watched Jenna pause, her eyes flickering toward Frank before returning to her task.

“Old Miles Patterson,” Frank continued, “as stingy as they come. Passed without a will, and not a soul could find his fortune. We turned that house upside down more times than I care to count. Then Jenna here walks in, straight to a wall in the living room, and tells me to pull off the paneling.” Frank chuckled, shaking his head. “Sure enough, behind a false section—stacks of cash, dusty as old bones.”

“Instinct,” Jake offered, trying to keep his tone light.

“More than instinct,” Frank replied, locking eyes with Jake. “She admitted it to me when I pressed her. She said Old Miles told her about the stash himself. She said the dead speak to her sometimes, in dreams.”

The kitchen seemed to fall silent for a moment. “Frank,” Jenna said, as she got three plates out of the dish cabinet. “Let’s not make it sound more mysterious than it is. It’s just another tool in the kit.”

Jake watched as Jenna ladled the fluffy eggs onto each plate, her movements deft but with an edge of concentration that suggested her mind was elsewhere.

Frank, leaning against the counter, broke the silence again. “I wasn’t altogether taken aback by Jenna’s… abilities.” He glanced at Jake, perhaps gauging his reaction. “My own grandmother had a touch of the sight herself. Called it a burden and a blessing in equal measure.”

The revelation hung in the air, mingling with the scent of breakfast as Jenna finished filling the plates. It gave Jake something new to consider—was this sort of thing inherited? Was there a lineage of people in Trentville touched by the supernatural?

“Come on, let’s eat before it gets cold,” Jenna said, her voice bringing Jake back from his thoughts.

They gathered around Frank’s small kitchen table, a relic from another era with its worn surface and mismatched chairs. The morning light streamed through the window, dappling the tabletop and glinting off cutlery.

Jake took his seat, the chair creaking slightly under his weight. He noticed the practiced way Jenna avoided meeting his gaze, focusing instead on distributing the plates with a clinical precision. He glanced around the room that seemed to hold more secrets than any interrogation room he’d ever been in. He remembered his first day in this town, how the landscapes had seemed to hold promises of peace. Yet now he sat among people who dealt with the dead in ways that defied his understanding.

“Pass the salt, will you, Jake?” Frank’s voice pulled him out of his contemplation. Jake complied, reaching for the shaker and handing it over, trying to ground himself in the normalcy of breakfast routines.

“Thanks,” Frank said, his eyes twinkling under bushy brows.

The eggs were perfectly cooked, and Jake had to admit that despite the oddness of the morning’s conversation, the food was a welcome comfort. He tried to concentrate on the flavors, the homeliness of the scene, but his mind was inevitably drawn back to Jenna’s confession about the dead reaching out through the veil of sleep. Even now, as she ate with an almost mechanical efficiency, her eyes held a faraway look that spoke of trials Jake was only just beginning to comprehend. She was an enigma, this sheriff—a woman whose depths he was only beginning to glimpse.

Frank’s voice brought him back again, the former sheriff recounting some small-town anecdote with a chuckle that failed to pierce the morning’s tension. Jake managed a smile, nodding along, but his thoughts remained on Jenna and the strangeness that seemed woven into the very fabric of Trentville.

When the remnants of breakfast lay scattered across the table, Frank leaned back in his chair, a gesture that seemed to beckon the room into silence. Jake felt an odd stillness settle over the kitchen; even the tick of the clock on the wall seemed to hold its breath. He observed Jenna’s posture straighten, the look in her eyes signaling a shift in conversation.

“Jenna,” Frank said quietly, “why don’t you tell us about your dream?” His expectant look held an understanding that came from years of witnessing Jenna’s gift.

Jenna took a deep breath, her hands steadying as she looked up from her plate. Jake watched her intently, the air thick with anticipation for what she was about to reveal. There was something special in the way she silently prepared to recount her nocturnal visitation, gathering fragments of story from a narrative only she could see.

As she cleared her throat, ready to unveil the secrets of her slumbering mind, Jake knew that whatever she was about to say could change everything. Their cases had sometimes been bizarre before, but the inclusion of Jenna’s dreams both fascinated and terrified him. He readied himself to listen, to support, to learn how to delve into the unknown alongside her.