CHAPTER TWENTY

As Jenna guided the cruiser along a narrow dirt road, the setting seemed all too familiar. They passed by rows of crops in neat lines—a tribute to someone’s dedication, but not different from many small farms in the area. But when a tiny house came into view, its porch wrapped around it like an afterthought, she had a strong feeling that this was the very place she had visited in her lucid dream.

“Looks like we found Lucas Brennan’s place,” Jake remarked, breaking the silence. Jenna nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line, acknowledging the obvious without diverting her focus. Then she saw it, the thing that was an exact match for what she’d seen, not just the vague sensation that she’d been here before.

A short distance from the house, an old windmill water pump stood against the sky, its blades motionless in the still air. Jenna gasped, for this was not just any windmill—it was the exact one from her dream, the very same structure she had seen amid warnings of danger and pleas of the dead. She felt a pull toward it, an ethereal tether that left no room for doubt. They were exactly where they needed to be.

“Jake, the windmill,” Jenna said softly. “It’s the same one.”

He followed her gaze, remembering her description. His nod was all the confirmation she needed—they were on the right track.

“Let’s hope we’re not too late,” Jake replied, expressing their fears as Jenna eased the cruiser to a stop, gravel crunching beneath the tires. The pickup truck in the driveway was impossible to miss. Its faded blue paint was chipped and peeling, and one of the headlights was cracked, like a spiderweb woven from neglect.

“Looks like he might be home,” Jake murmured, his gaze fixed on the house that seemed too small to hold any secrets.

Jenna scanned the perimeter, her trained eyes searching for signs of disturbance or recent activity. But there was nothing—only the oppressive silence that wrapped around the farm. They stepped out of the cruiser, and together they approached the front door, its paint weathered by time and the harsh Missouri elements. Jenna lifted her hand and rapped sharply on the wooden surface, sounding hollowly through the air. There was no response, no rustling from inside, no shadow moving behind the threadbare curtains.

“Lucas Brennan!” she called out firmly, her voice carrying authority and an undercurrent of urgency. “Sheriff’s Office, we need to speak with you.”

Still, no answer came. Jenna met Jake’s eyes, and they shared a look that spoke volumes without words. Her intuition that had guided her so often before hummed with alertness. She squared her shoulders, taking a breath of the still, humid air that hung thick over the farm. She raised her hand once more, rapping against the wood with deliberate force. “Lucas Brennan,” she called out again, this time with an added edge of command. “This is Sheriff Jenna Graves. I need to speak with you.”

The quiet that answered seemed to mock her attempt at authority. She glanced back at the pickup truck, its presence a silent assertion that Lucas was almost certainly around there somewhere, perhaps watching them with wary eyes. The morning sun cast a warm glow over the fields nearby, but no one moved anywhere in view.

The suspicion that had been simmering in her gut now bubbled to the surface; it was unlike anyone in Trentville not to answer, especially with law enforcement on their doorstep.

“Something’s not right,” Jenna murmured, turning to face Jake. With a nod toward the side of the house, they agreed wordlessly to begin their search for answers.

As they circled around the quaint structure, Jenna kept her senses sharp, her gaze sweeping across each visible inch of the property. Here, away from the front door’s false promise of hospitality, the scene felt different—more real, more raw. She noted the way the long grass was trampled in spots, how the windmill’s odd shadow seemed to point accusingly at the earth.

“Look here,” Jake said, indicating a set of footprints that led around to the back of the house. They were fresh, the edges sharp in the soft soil. This was no old trail; someone had passed by recently.

“Lucas?” Jenna’s voice was strong as she called out, but the only answer was the distant caw of a crow. She exchanged another glance with Jake. They had come looking for answers, and they would not be deterred by silence or evasion.

She paused, her attention drawn to a particular feature at the back of the house—an angled pair of metal doors set flush with the ground. They were weathered, with peeling paint that hinted at neglect, and a heavy padlock hung open, suggesting it was more for show than security.

“Looks like a basement entrance,” Jake observed, stepping beside her. Jenna nodded, taking in the details—the rust along the edges, the way one door sat slightly ajar as if inviting them to uncover its secrets. Her intuition flared, a feeling of deep recognition settling over her.

“Basements…” she murmured, an image flashing before her eyes—a woman, fearful and lost. “It could be that dark place I saw in my dream.”

Jake looked at her, skepticism playing on his face, but by now he knew better than to dismiss her insights. Jenna moved closer, her gaze fixed on the gap between the doors. If her dreams were a bridge to another realm, then this basement might hold answers to questions they hadn’t yet thought to ask.

She reached out, her hand hovering over the cold metal, hesitant. Could the woman from her dream have been trapped here five years ago? Might the one who was missing right now be locked up somewhere below?

“The woman from my dream, she could have been here,” she said. “This is the kind of place where she could have been locked away five years ago. And maybe Sarah Thompson is down there right now.”

“We need to find out,” Jake said.

“Without a warrant?” Jenna questioned, though her gut screamed urgency.

“Jenna, we both know this could be a matter of life or death. The doors aren’t locked.” Jake’s tone was firm. He was ready to cross that line if it meant saving a life. A nod passed between them, a silent agreement in the face of potential peril.

“Let’s do this,” she hissed. His hand met the other door, and together they pulled the heavy slabs open, unveiling the gaping maw of the basement beyond.

“Stay close,” Jake murmured, the unspoken promise to protect her evident in his gaze.

Stepping into the unknown, they descended. The air turned musty, thick with secrets as they left the safety of daylight behind.

The daylight dimmed as they descended creaking wooden steps, a thick stillness enveloping them. Jenna’s senses were heightened, her every nerve primed for discovery. The musty smell of the basement spoke of years without visitors, or so it seemed. But then she felt a sudden wave of alarm when her gaze settled on the objects just within the reach of the light spilling in from the open doors. There, standing solemnly on the concrete floor, were three old suitcases, their colors dulled by time and neglect.

The sight of the luggage startled Jenna, jolting the ethereal images from her dreams into stark reality right in front of her. Their presence was a grim punctuation in the quiet of the basement, a visible echo of the fear that had prickled her subconscious in her dream. These were no ordinary travel remnants; their presence here suggested a tale of a journey uncompleted.

As she stepped closer to the battered forms, the air felt heavier around her, laden with the question of what those cases might contain—or what they signified. As Jenna’s hand hovered over the suitcases, recognition flared within her—a flash of the dream that had disturbed her sleep, where Melissa Brennan, known as Birdie, stood clutching these same cases, her voice urgent yet resigned. “I’m leaving while the going is good,” she had said, an ominous farewell hanging between them.

“Jake,” Jenna murmured, “these are the ones. The suitcases from my dream. The ones that Melissa Brennan had packed.” Her words helped bring the vision back with piercing clarity. “In my dream, these felt like a warning—like she knew something was going to happen.”

“Frank mentioned that Lucas spun a tale about Birdie packing up and leaving him, said it was five years ago.”

“Yes, Lucas told people she left him,” Jenna echoed, the memory surfacing. She studied the suitcases, the wear and tear speaking volumes.

There was more to uncover, and every fiber in Jenna’s being urged her to follow up on this mystery, the specter of Birdie’s fate urging her on. She circled the suitcases, her hand hovering above them as if she could divine their secrets through touch. The dusty patina on the leather spoke of years spent in this dim, musty basement, and not on the road where Melissa Brennan might have sought a new life.

“Jake,” Jenna’s voice broke the silence, “these haven’t been moved for a long time.”

Jake surveyed the faded luggage. He stepped closer, then reached out and gingerly pulled up on a handle, checking the weight. “Still packed with something,” he said. “It seems like Birdie was definitely planning to leave, but didn’t. As if…she never got the chance to actually go anywhere.”

“Exactly.” Jenna’s finger traced the handle of one suitcase. “You think Lucas kept her here? That maybe Birdie never walked out that door of her own free will?”

“Let’s remember we’re also looking for Sarah Thompson,” Jake said.

“Do you suppose she was brought here, maybe held here against her will?” Jenna asked. “And how about Mark Reeves?”

“I don’t know, Jenna,” Jake said with a shake of his head. “This basement isn’t exactly airtight or escape-proof. It wouldn’t be easy to hold anyone captive here, the way Birdie seemed to be in your dream.”

“Sarah’s still out there somewhere,” Jenna said. Her intuition screamed that time was running out, that Sarah’s window was closing just as surely as Birdie’s had shut years ago.

“Then we need to find her, fast,” Jake agreed. “Before she becomes another ghost story in this town.”

Jenna nodded, her resolve hardening. She couldn’t let another family suffer as her own had, not when she was this close to uncovering the truth. The connection between the disappearances prickled at her senses, urging her deeper into the mystery that shrouded this small mountain town.

Jenna stepped back from the trio of old suitcases, but a quick search of the basement revealed no other rooms, no place where anyone might be hidden now, whether living or dead.

“We can’t spend more time here,” she said urgently. “There’s more to this property.”

“Agreed,” Jake replied, his gaze sweeping the dimly lit space one last time before following Jenna up the concrete steps.

Outside, the air was thick with the scent of turned earth and growing things—a stark reminder that life continued above ground, even as dark secrets festered beneath. The farm’s expanse beckoned, holding potential clues in its grasp.

“Let’s check the perimeter of the property,” Jenna suggested, her eyes scanning the horizon past the tiny house and farm, looking for anything amiss. Her hand rested on the service weapon at her hip, an instinct honed by her years in law enforcement.

Jake nodded, and side by side, they moved cautiously, circling the house. Jenna’s mind raced, piecing together fragments of her vision—Melissa “Birdie” Brennan’s desperate plea; Mark Reeves, long vanished without a trace; and the missing Sarah Thompson. Each step felt like a move on a chessboard, where the next could reveal either a hidden trap or a path to the truth.

The silence of the morning was abruptly shattered by a loud blast splitting the air. The sound of the shot ricocheted off the walls of the small house and set birds erupting from the nearby trees in a flurry of panic.

Jenna automatically whipped out her weapon and stepped behind the blue truck in the driveway for shelter. She turned toward the source of the sound, eyes wide and alert, her body tensed for action. Jake was instantly by her side, his own weapon drawn. There was no need for words; they both knew the stakes had just been raised.