Page 16 of In Her Grasp

“Town this size, you’d be surprised how many meetings we’ve got,” Zeke commented, a wry twist to his lips. “A lot of people are unhappy here—and unhappiness and addiction go hand in hand.” He circled a specific entry on the list with his pencil. “That’s the one I go to. Good folks there. Your mom said she wasn’t ready for this, but you might want to be sure she has list.”

Jenna nodded, her mind already mapping out the locations, envisioning her mother seated among strangers who would soon become comrades in recovery. The idea that Zeke, too, frequented these circles of confession and support added another layer to the man she had only known as the clerk behind the counter. Now he stood as a testament to the possibility of renewal—a guide for those like her mother who were only just beginning to make their way back from the brink.

Jenna accepted the paper, a tangible symbol of hope and struggle. She observed Zeke, his features marked by time and experience, and felt an unspoken kinship forming. It was an unexpected bridge between them, a shared understanding of what it meant to stand at the edge of change.

“Tell her she’s welcome to call me anytime,” Zeke added, leaning slightly forward as if imparting a sacred trust. “Day or night. I know how tough those first few days can be.”

“Thank you, Zeke. This means a lot,” Jenna replied, her voice subdued but sincere. She tucked the list into the pocket of her jacket, feeling the weight of it against her chest. The small gesture from Zeke was more than kindness; it was a lifeline extended from one survivor to another. Jenna knew well the isolating battle against demons both seen and unseen—how the silence of the night could twist into a clamor of past regrets and what-ifs.

Clearing her throat, Jenna hesitated before voicing the thought that had been gnawing at her since she stepped into the dimly lit store. “Zeke,” she started tentatively, “if my mother comes in here again trying to buy liquor, would you... could you give me a call?”

He smiled sadly, a reflection of understanding rather than amusement. “That’s something I’ll never do, Sheriff,” he says gently. “Trust is essential among alcoholics, and I won’t report on another’s progress or lack of it. I hope you can understand.” His eyes met hers, steady and resolute, conveying the solemnity of his conviction.

Jenna exhaled, a soft sound of acceptance, recognizing the boundary he had drawn. It was not about secrecy but respect—a principle carved from his own journey through sobriety. She nodded, acknowledging the wisdom in his refusal. In the fight for redemption, ownership of one’s actions was the first step. Zeke had reminded her of that.

“Of course,” she said, her voice carrying a hint of chagrin. “I understand. I shouldn’t have asked that of you. It was out of line.”

Zeke waved off her apology with an easy gesture, his weathered face creased in a sympathetic smile. “Don’t worryabout it, Sheriff,” he said, leaning against the wooden counter that had seen better days. “We all have moments when we reach for something—anything—that might give us a hold on the chaos.” He paused, his gaze steady on Jenna. “But I’ll tell you what I can do. I won’t sell your mom any more liquor. That much is within my control, and it’s my promise to keep.”

“Thank you, Zeke,” Jenna replied, the tension easing from her shoulders. She acknowledged his commitment with a nod, appreciating the solidarity he offered in the unspoken battle they both knew too well.

Turning to leave, Jenna reached for the door handle when Zeke’s voice stopped her. “Sheriff?” he called out, and Jenna paused.

“Remember, recovery’s not just for the drinker. It affects the whole family. You have to care for yourself, too.”

“I will. Thanks again, Zeke,” Jenna responded. She stepped through the door into the evening air, the soft chime of the bell marking her departure. Turning from the doorway of the liquor store, she crossed the parking lot. A new sense of purpose buoyed her spirits as she made her way back to her cruiser. The list of AA meetings seemed like a tangible symbol of hope and as well as a reminder of challenges ahead.

She slid behind the wheel and let out a long breath, steadying herself. Her mother’s road to recovery was uncertain, riddled with potential pitfalls, yet Jenna couldn’t suppress a tentative sense of possibility. And now she had one more errand to run tonight. With a turn of the key, she set the cruiser into motion, her resolve fortified by the supportive undercurrent of Trentville’s small-town solidarity.

The drive was short, and the houses along the route darkened, save for the occasional porch light, as she passed the familiar landmarks of the small town. The act of reaching out to Zeke had been a gamble, a desperate grasp at control in aworld where so much lay beyond her grasp. But now, with the unexpected gift of a list secure in her jacket and the quiet hum of the engine as her companion, Jenna allowed herself a sliver of hope.

Driving through the slumbering streets toward her mother’s house, Jenna’s cruiser cast a soft glow onto the weathered facades of homes steeped in history and secrets. Each passing seemed to whisper of her twin sister Piper’s absence, of mysteries unresolved, but Jenna focused on the present task. As she approached her childhood home, the absence of light from inside confirmed her mother had retired for the evening.

Jenna retrieved the sheet of paper from where it rested on the passenger seat, tracing the edges before folding it neatly. She took a moment, the pen poised above the paper as she deliberated over her words—words that carried more than information. “Dear Mom, Zeke gave me this, thought it might help you. No pressure. If there’s anything I can do, call.” A pause lingered before she added a final line, imbued with pride and love, “I’m so proud of you. I love you, Jenna.” Her handwriting was firm, each letter a testament to her commitment to her family, both present and missing.

Jenna stepped out of the cruiser and quietly approached the mailbox next to the door of her mother’s house. She inserted the folded piece of paper, its edges crisply bent, into the dark maw of the mailbox—a silent messenger carrying words of encouragement and love. With the task completed, she hesitated for a moment, envisioning her mother discovering the note in the morning, perhaps with a cup of coffee and a new day’s resolve in her heart. That seemed like something to feel good about at the end of a difficult day.

Turning back to her car, Jenna slid behind the wheel again and the engine hummed to life at the turn of the key. The dashboard lights illuminated her features as she navigated ontothe road. Houses slipped by, their windows dark and insular, holding their own tales that might never reach her ears.

Jenna continued onward, her eyes fixed ahead while her mind wandered. The list for her mother, the concern for her community, and the unresolved ache for her missing sister—all of it swirled together, a complex tapestry of duty and devotion. Then her thoughts began to drift toward Sablewood Reservoir. Her mind circled the day’s grim discovery, wondering if this would be one of those nights when the veil between life and death thinned enough for her to meet those on the other side.

The headlights of her cruiser cut through the darkness, a solitary beacon on the deserted road as Jenna continued home. The thought of a lucid dream guiding her to answers about the deceased brought a sense of hope, yet interlaced with it was a thread of dread. These dreams, while potent in their revelations, also revealed stories that could be hard to bear.

Her grip on the steering wheel was steady, her eyes fixed ahead, yet her senses were attuned to the faintest whisper from beyond the tangible world. She could almost feel the presence of someone hovering on the farther side of that dark divide, waiting for her—a possibility that held both promise and a deep unease in equal measure.

CHAPTER NINE

Jenna’s consciousness, still tethered to her slumbering form, was plunging toward a different reality. The transition was seamless, a slipstream carrying her into the lucid dream state she knew well. She saw that she was standing at the edge of the Sablewood Reservoir, but the stillness was unsettling—a void where not even the nocturnal chorus of crickets was heard.

Despite the absence of moonlight, her eyes adjusted to the darkness, piercing through the thick mist that swirled around her like wraiths in mourning. A chill crept along her skin as she scanned the expanse before her. The reservoir, often a mirror to the sky above, lay dormant, its surface an opaque canvas reflecting only the obsidian night. This place, no stranger to silence and secrets, held its breath.

Then a willow tree materialized from the mist, its branches weeping into the water, an emblem of the joining of nature and the supernatural. A ripple disturbed the water’s surface, soon followed by the emergence of a male figure that broke through the surface. Water streamed off of him, as if shedding the weight of his watery grave, each droplet catching what little light there was and casting fleeting, shimmering glimmers around his ghostly body.

Jenna’s heart thrummed against her ribcage, the rhythm quickening. Could this be another drowning victim reaching out through the veil of death?

As the spectral form drew nearer, the need to understand its purpose consumed Jenna. The connection between them was tenuous, a thread spun from the intangible fabric of dreams and the dead’s desire to be heard. Jenna focused on the figure, willing her psychic gift to bridge the divide, to receive themessage hidden in the ghostly silhouette that now stood mere inches from the shore.

Jenna’s voice pierced the silence that blanketed the reservoir, her question dissipating into the mist like a stone skipped across the water’s surface. “Are you Mike Larson?” The figure before her, an indistinct silhouette in the nocturnal haze, responded not with words but with a slow shake of his head.

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