Page 15 of In Her Grasp

The atmosphere seemed to crackle with an electric current as they stood at a stalemate, and then the Mayor finally broke the deadlock with a slight nod, her lips a taut line.

“Fine,” the Mayor said, her tone conveying resignation. “But I expect a full report the moment you have that ID confirmed. Is that clear?”

“Crystal clear, Mayor,” Jenna replied, nodding once with crisp finality. The meeting had reached its end, not with a bang but a simmering ceasefire.

Jenna turned on her heel, signaling Jake with a glance that it was time to leave. As she exited the office, the weight of the encounter lifted slightly from her shoulders, even though she knew the respite would be short-lived. The walk back to the patrol car was a decompression of sorts.

“That was... intense,” Jake remarked as Jenna unlocked the doors, the click of the mechanism punctuating the stillness around them.

“Always is with her. But we stand our ground,” Jenna replied with conviction. “We can’t let political pressure compromise our work.”

The drive to Jake’s apartment passed in a contemplative silence, each lost in their own thoughts. As they drove through the quiet streets of Trentville, the houses blurred into the darkness. Each home held its own secrets, its own stories. Jenna’s mind briefly wandered to the attic they had left behind, to the raccoon that was mistaken for a ghost. A small smile touched her lips—a rare moment of levity in an otherwise heavy day.

The patrol car eased to a stop outside the small Jake had rented when he moved here, the headlights illuminating the familiar path leading to his door. The engine idled, a soft purr in the stillness of the evening, as Jenna put the car in park. They sat there for a moment, wrapped in an awkward silence, each lost in their thoughts. Jenna’s gaze drifted over to Jake, taking in his profile in the dim light.

For a heartbeat, Jenna considered voicing her appreciation to acknowledge the complex bond that was forming between them. But the words felt too revealing, too raw for the professional barriers they upheld. Instead, she offered him a small nod, an unspoken acknowledgment of the day’s trials and the challenges yet to come.

“Goodnight, Jake,” she said softly.

Their gazes held for a beat longer than necessary before Jake cleared his throat and opened the car door.

“See you in the morning, Jenna. Try to get some rest,” he said as he stepped out into the cool night.

Jenna watched him walk away, the distance growing with each step. His presence had become a constant in her life, a reliable source of support and understanding. Her thoughts swirled with the complexities of the case, the unresolved threads of her sister’s disappearance, and the undercurrent of something more between herself and Jake. But now was not the time for personal entanglements; there were duties to fulfill, both to the living and to the memories that haunted her.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Jenna eased her cruiser into a vacant spot outside a building with peeling paint on a weathered facade. Although this place stood at the town’s edge, its existence was woven into the fabric of local lives. Above the door, the neon ‘OPEN’ sign sputtered intermittently, casting an uneven glow onto the gravel lot. She glanced at the flickering light, a sigh escaping her lips before she pushed the car door open and stepped out into the cooling night air.

As Jenna entered the building, a bell above the door issued a soft chime. Zeke Canfield, proprietor and sole clerk of Trentville’s only liquor store, glanced up from where he was restocking a shelf behind the counter. His figure, tall and slender as a reed, straightened upon seeing her. Salt-and-pepper hair framed his craggy face, and his eyes—a clear blue that had seen their share of hardship—held hers in a moment of quiet recognition.

“Evening, Sheriff,” Zeke greeted her from behind the counter. “Everything alright?” There was no smile on his lips, only the barest uptick at the corners, but in his gaze lingered something else—a flicker of concern that seemed out of place amid rows of bottled spirits.

“Everything’s fine, Zeke,” she said, stopping at the counter. “I actually came to thank you.”

The lines on Zeke’s face deepened as confusion momentarily furrowed his brow. “Thank me? What for?” he asked, leaning slightly forward, the curiosity genuine in his seasoned features.

Jenna exhaled softly, her voice lowering, not out of secrecy but because of the delicate subject. “For not selling to my mother yesterday,” she revealed. Her mother’s struggle was no secret in the close-knit fabric of Trentville, where personal battles oftenbecame communal knowledge. “She told me what happened. How you refused to sell her bourbon.”

Zeke’s expression shifted as he absorbed her words. It was not a thank-you he had anticipated, perhaps not even one he felt he deserved, given the complexities of addiction with which he was all too familiar. Yet, here stood the Sheriff, acknowledging a moment of tough love that, unknown to him, had rippled wider than the confines of his store.

Zeke’s gaze lingered on Jenna, his eyes reflecting a moment’s journey from confusion to comprehension. The edges of his mouth turned up slightly, not quite a smile but an acknowledgment of shared difficulty. “Ah, I see,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of personal experience with such matters. “Well, it wasn’t an easy thing to do, Sheriff. Your mother’s been a customer for a long time. But I could see what it was doing to her. Sometimes, you gotta do what’s right, even if it’s hard.” His hands rested on the wooden counter, worn smooth by years of service and countless exchanges.

There was a stillness in the air, a respectful pause as Jenna let Zeke’s words settle.

“She poured out her last bottle today. Actually, she asked me to do it for her,” she confided. “And of course, I did.”

Zeke’s eyebrows arched upward in surprise. “That’s a big step. A real big step,” he responded, his gruff voice holding a note of respect.

“It is,” Jenna affirmed, a trace of pride warming her words. She added, “And I think your intervention played a part in that. I just... I wanted you to know that what you did has already made a difference.”

Zeke was silent for a long moment, then he reached under the counter and brought out a book whose leather cover was creased with the heavy use. He held it reverently, a volume that had clearly been a companion through turbulent times.

“Your mother reminds me of myself years ago,” Zeke said, his voice carrying a weight that resonated in the stillness. He flipped through the pages, each one heavy with ink. “This here’s my journal from when I first got sober. There’s something in it that I think maybe will help her.”

Jenna’s eyes softened with curiosity and empathy. She watched as Zeke tore out a page and held it out to her.

It was a list, meticulously penned, of local AA meetings and support groups—a lifeline scrawled in black and white. Jenna scanned the names and places, some familiar, others not. She saw that Trentville, for all its modesty, sheltered more havens for the healing than she had known.

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