CHAPTER EIGHT

The drive to Frank Doyle’s house wasn’t long, and today Jenna appreciated it for a rare moment of tranquility. Frank’s bungalow emerged between the sprawling branches of oak trees, its modesty an honest reflection of the man who lived there. The wooden walls were weathered with time, bearing the marks of countless storms and seasons. A small porch with two creaky rocking chairs invited visitors to sit and stay for a while, a place she had enjoyed in cooler weather.

Moments after Jenna rapped her knuckles against the solid wood, the front door swung open, revealing the former Sheriff of Genesius County. His weathered face was marked by the years, and his short, thick hair was white, but he still stood tall and sturdy. Despite a gruff exterior, kindness softened the lines around his gray eyes, and he was wearing an apron.

“Jenna!” he exclaimed with genuine surprise and warmth. “Was just fixin’ to have some breakfast. Care to join me?”

“Sounds good, Frank,” Jenna replied. It was comforting to be here, to share a simple meal with someone who knew her so well.

As she stepped inside, Jenna was enveloped by the familiar scent of black coffee brewing. In the small living room, the familiar framed photographs lining the shelves held her attention, each one a frozen moment from Frank’s life. Children’s laughter seemed to echo from the walls: two boys and two girls who had grown up and moved on. The images portrayed beach vacations, Christmas mornings, and backyard barbecues—so unlike the solitude of Jenna’s own existence.

Her gaze lingered on one photograph of Frank and his late wife, arms wrapped around each other, love evident in their shared glance. Jenna felt a pang of longing—for that kind of connection, the partnership, the sense of belonging. Frank’s wife had died before Jenna was old enough to become a cop, but she’d always been aware that Frank had experienced a terrible loss. She also knew that the love that once filled these rooms had left an indelible mark on the man she respected so deeply.

“Jenna?” Frank’s voice drew her back from her reverie.

“Sorry,” she murmured. “Just got caught up in thoughts.”

Frank nodded in understanding. He had always been perceptive, keenly aware of the undercurrents of emotion that Jenna herself sometimes failed to acknowledge. She followed him into his kitchen, where the morning sun filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow on a well-worn table.

Jenna loved this room, steeped in memories of laughter and life lessons learned over steaming cups of coffee. Over the years, this had become a haven—a place where she could lay down the burdens of her badge and simply be Jenna Graves, not Sheriff Graves.

Frank moved to his stove and cracked eggs with a rhythm that spoke of countless mornings spent doing just the same.

“Toast?” Jenna inquired, pointing toward the breadbox.

“Please,” Frank replied, his attention momentarily divided between the skillet on the stove and Jenna’s movements.

The toaster clicked as she depressed the lever, the soft noise joining the symphony of breakfast preparations. Jenna turned back to watch Frank whisk the eggs, his wrist rolling in tight circles. He added a splash of milk, a pinch of salt, and a grind of black pepper. They worked in companionable silence, the only sounds the clink of utensils and the soft hum of the refrigerator. Jenna found comfort in the routine, in the simple domesticity of preparing a meal with someone who understood her unique burdens.

As the eggs began to coalesce in the pan, Frank looked up at her, his eyes meeting hers with an intensity that belied the casual atmosphere. “Have you had another dream?”

Jenna’s fingers curled around a mug she had chosen for her coffee, still trying to displace the chill that had settled in her bones from the night’s revelations. Frank’s question had caught her off guard.

“How did you know?” Her question came out more sharply than intended.

Frank chuckled, a low, comforting sound that filled the kitchen. “Jenna, you only show up unannounced at the crack of dawn when those dreams of yours stir up trouble,” he said, his voice teasing but not without an undercurrent of concern.

She set down her mug, the sound a soft thud against the countertop. A pinch of guilt twisted in her gut. “I’m sorry, Frank. I know I don’t see you as often as I should.”

“Hey, no need for apologies,” he cut her off gently, his smile kind. “But I won’t lie; these old walls do miss your company when you’re not chasing specters in your sleep.”

Jenna sighed and leaned against the counter, her gaze falling to the sizzling eggs in the pan. “I’ll try to come around more often,” she promised, although the words felt hollow. As sheriff, her days were consumed by responsibilities for the living; it was in the veil of night that the dead came calling.

“Well, my door’s always open,” he replied, sliding the eggs onto plates with practiced ease. “And I’m always here.”

He gestured to the table, and they moved to sit down, bearing plates laden with the fruits of their labor. Frank watched her settle into her chair before taking his own seat opposite her.

“Understand you’ve been keeping busy,” Frank said, his voice carrying the familiar, teasing lilt. “What with chasing down notorious fugitive parrots and all.”

Jenna glanced up, finding the quirk of his brow contagious as a laugh escaped her lips. “Cyril was quite the handful,” she admitted, shaking her head at the memory of feathers and squawks. “Never thought my job would include negotiating a bird’s surrender.”

“Times haven’t changed much since I was sheriff,” Frank replied, chuckling. “The players might be different, but the game’s the same. Always something strange brewing in Trentville and thereabouts.”

“But those are the moments that make the job… interesting,” she replied.

“Interesting,” Frank echoed, his tone suggesting that “interesting” was just one way to put it.

“I heard about another situation yesterday,” he added. “The disappearance of Sarah Thompson, the schoolteacher over at Trentville Elementary. Even got the Missouri Highway Patrol sniffing around.”

“Yes,” she acknowledged with a subdued nod, “that’s at least part of what I wanted to discuss with you. She disappeared while hiking in Whispering Pines.”

“So, tell me,” he asked, folding his napkin onto his lap, “how are you planning to tackle this one?”

Jenna reached for the salt, sprinkling it over her eggs before responding. “I’ve got my deputy working on it with the Forest Service, searching the woods. They’ll also be canvassing the area, checking with any possible witnesses.” She met Frank’s gaze squarely. “But there’s a feeling I can’t shake, Frank. It’s like static in the air just before a storm hits.”

“Instincts, huh?” Frank speared a piece of toast with his fork, a soft smile playing on his lips. “You’ve always had a knack for reading the undercurrents.”

“More than instincts this time,” Jenna confessed, pausing to take a sip of coffee. The heat of the liquid did little to warm the chill of uncertainty within her.

“It still feels strange,” Jenna began calmly despite the odd sensation that twisted in her gut, “to be able to talk to you about… my dreams.” She met Frank’s gaze, seeking the reassurance that only he could provide when it came to this part of her life.

Frank chuckled, a low rumble that filled the small kitchen. “Jenna, after all these years in the Ozarks,” he said, his eyes crinkling with good humor, “I’ve come to expect the unexpected. There are more things in heaven and earth than can be found in most folks’ philosophies.”

Her lips curved into a brief smile, grateful for his acceptance. It was a rare thing to find someone she could trust not to dismiss her experiences as fanciful nightmares or stress-induced illusions.

“Last night, I—” She hesitated, then took a deep breath, steadying herself. “I met someone in one of those lucid dreams.”

Jenna took a deep breath and continued. She described the scene as best she could recall, the vivid imagery playing back in her mind like a film reel.

“I found myself outside Hank’s Derby. I saw a man standing alone. He had a buzz cut and a red beard, rough-looking, like someone who’s been on the road awhile.” Jenna paused, her eyes losing some of their usual brightness as she delved into the memory. “He was carrying a duffel bag and had a case with a fishing rod propped up beside him. He looked… weary, but determined, like he had somewhere important to go but didn’t quite know how to get there.”

Frank listened intently, his face giving away nothing of his thoughts.

“Interesting,” was all he said at first, but Jenna could see gears turning behind his calm exterior. Frank prodded gently, leaning forward in his seat, elbows on the table. “Tell me, Jenna, did the man say anything to you?”

“Actually, yes,” Jenna finally replied, her voice barely heard as she traced the rim of her coffee mug with a finger, her gaze lost in the steam swirling upward. “But what struck me most about him was a tattoo on the back of his hand.”

“Don’t tell me,” Frank interrupted her gently, a knowing look in his eyes. He began to describe the inked image with an uncanny precision. “Wings—no, angel wings, spread wide across his skin. Starting right at the base of his thumb, the feathers detailed enough to seem almost…alive.”

Jenna stared at Frank, her eyes reflecting a mix of shock and affirmation. “Yes, that’s exactly what the tattoo looked like.” She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

She leaned forward, closing the distance between them. “The man… he mentioned you, Frank. Said maybe ‘Sheriff Frank’ could help me with my problem.” Her words hung in the air, mingling with the scent of freshly scrambled eggs and coffee.

Frank nodded slowly, his expression unreadable for a moment before the corners of his mouth turned up in a small, knowing smile. “I think he might be right,” he said, his voice carrying a weight that belied his casual demeanor. “I just might be able to help. At least I hope so.”

The air was full of a sense of something unfolding that neither of them fully understood. Jenna watched as Frank’s hands, always so sure while flipping omelets or cuffing a suspect, now hesitated in the air, as if the past were something tangible he could grasp—if only he reached out in the right direction.

Jenna felt her pulse quicken, not with fear but with the thrill of the unknown. Here in the comfort of Frank’s kitchen, surrounded by the remnants of a life well-lived, she again found herself on the cusp of something vast and uncharted. The possibility that the answers she sought might lie within reach sent a surge of determination through her veins.

Frank leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his gaze traveling back in time to a place Jenna could not follow. The lines on his forehead seemed deeper now, as if they were grooves mapped out by the weight of memories. His eyes, normally a clear gray, were clouded with thought. Jenna knew that look; it was the same one he wore whenever he turned over a case in his mind, connecting invisible dots.

“Frank, please tell me,” Jenna prompted gently, her voice breaking through the quiet of the room. He blinked, returning from wherever his thoughts had taken him, and fixed his gaze on her once more.

“Sorry, Jenna,” he said, his voice a little distant. “It’s just that… well, there’s a lot to unpack here.”

“Anything at all that you can tell me could help,” she insisted, leaning forward, her green eyes pleading for answers.

“Jenna,” Frank said, his voice carrying a solemn note that commanded her full attention. “The man in your dream—the one with the tattoo…” He paused, and Jenna felt the gravity of what he was about to tell her.