Page 30 of In Her Grasp

Jake nodded. “We always do. We’ll find something tangible to tie these cases together—to give us a possible reason for these murders, and maybe a hint about how the killer got hold of each one.”

“Get some rest, Jake,” Jenna urged, though her own mind raced ahead to the endless possibilities and dark alleys their investigation might lead them down next. Her fingers drummed against the steering wheel, a silent acknowledgment of the dreams that she was certain awaited her—dreams where the dead whispered secrets she would rather not hear, but needed to listen to all the same.

“Think you might get another one of those dreams tonight?” Jake said with a note of concern.

“I don’t know. Could be.”

“Your dreams… they’ve helped before.”

“Helped and haunted,” Jenna corrected, a rueful smile touching her lips. “I’m scared of what I might see, Jake. But yes, they could be the key.”

She knew her dreams had a way of piercing through the veil, revealing truths hidden in plain sight. Yet each visitation came at a cost, dragging her into an ethereal world where the dead spoke and peace was a stranger.

“Whatever happens, you’re not alone in this,” Jake reassured her, placing a comforting hand over hers for a brief moment before pulling away.

“Thanks,” she said, drawing strength from his solidarity. His presence, solid and reliable, was an anchor in the maelstrom of her thoughts.

Jenna felt the familiar thrum of the case pulsating between them, a silent language of shared purpose that had become their norm. But beneath that, another current tugged at her resolve. She unconsciously fidgeted with the keys, betraying her restless thoughts.

“Alright then, we’ll start early. Get fresh eyes on everything,” she said, more to fill the silence than anything else.

“Early, it is,” Jake agreed, his voice low.

The moment hung suspended, like the last clinging note of a song that had just ended, before Jenna turned her attention back to the steering wheel. It was time to say goodnight, yet neither moved.

“Jenna,” Jake began, but he hesitated, leaving his thought unfinished.

“Goodnight, Jake,” Jenna said quickly, a little too briskly, feeling an urgent need to retreat from the vulnerability of the moment.

“Goodnight,” he echoed, and with those words lingering between them, the car door opened and shut again with a soft click, leaving Jenna alone with the hum of the engine and a swarm of thoughts that refused to be silenced.

Jenna watched Jake walk up the path, the muscles of his back shifting under his shirt, a steadiness in his stride that belied the complexity of their partnership. He paused at the door, glancing back at her with an expression that held a depth she wasn’t prepared to dive into just yet. Then he disappeared inside, the door closing softly behind him.

Jenna felt the weight of her attraction mingling with the gravity of their work. He was more than her deputy; he was the one person who saw beyond her well-tailored facade of a tough small town investigator. But with so much at stake, with her sister’s ghost forever between them, how could she dare to explore the treacherous waters of what might be?

She started the car and flicked the headlights back on, casting beams onto the empty street, and pulled away from the curb.

Soon the late drive through Trentville’s slumbering streets led Jenna’s cruiser past the silhouette of her childhood home, the one-story structure now a mere profile under the moon’s silver gaze. No lights flickered through the windows; her mother had surrendered to sleep, the house’s darkness a blanket of assumed tranquility from the outside. Jenna’s eyes lingered on it, a pang of concern etching lines in her brow as she wondered about the battles that might have raged within those walls today—silent skirmishes against the bottle.

She thought of her mother’s hands, once steady and strong, now trembling with the effort of resisting the urge to drink. Jenna knew that it was going to be a long process, perhaps a whole lifetime; each day was a stone added to the weight her mother carried. It was like watching someone walk a tightrope—any moment could spell a disastrous fall, yet Jenna couldn’t be there to catch her every time.

“Stay strong, Mom,” she whispered an unspoken promise to check in soon. The cruiser pulled away, leaving behind the house that held as many memories as secrets, its disrepair mirroring the fractured family narrative.

Upon reaching her bungalow, Jenna sat for a moment in the driver’s seat, gathering her resolve. She reminded herself to call Frank Doyle tomorrow whenever she had any meaningful news to share with him. He’d want to know about the bodies,about the creeping fear that their killer might still be lurking in Genesius County. Frank’s wisdom, sometimes delivered with the subtlety of a sledgehammer, had often guided her through the murk of difficult cases. This time would be no different.

Exiting the car, Jenna stepped into the night’s embrace, the air thick with summer heat and the scent of earth. Her home welcomed her with the familiar creak of the screen door and the soft sigh of the wooden floorboards beneath her boots. She made her way through the dimly lit hallway, toeing off her footwear and letting the badge of office—the gun belt—slip from her waist, placing it on the side table where it always rested.

The routine was methodical: a quick hot shower, watching the droplets scatter like tiny prisms around her, drawing at least some of the tension out of a body that ached from her day’s endeavors. Each action was a deliberate untethering from the day’s grim discoveries. Brushing her teeth, Jenna avoided her own gaze in the mirror, not wanting to confront the weariness that lay there. Instead, she focused on the mechanical motion, the bristles scrubbing away more than just the remnants of coffee.

In the quiet sanctuary of her bedroom, Jenna changed into a simple cotton t-shirt, the fabric whispering over her skin. She sank onto the edge of the bed, allowing herself a moment to breathe—to be not the Sheriff but simply Jenna Graves, whose heart was haunted by loss and whose dreams were both a curse and a calling. With a final glance around the room, she reached over to switch off the lamp, surrendering to whatever sleep might offer.

The mattress yielded softly as Jenna lay back, the springs whispering beneath her weight. Her room was steeped in darkness, the kind that seemed to seep into her pores, a tangible reminder of the day’s grim discoveries. She pulled thelightweight blanket up to her chin, its familiar scent a faint comfort against the chill of unease that had settled over her.

Closing her eyes, Jenna tried to steady her breathing, to coax her mind toward rest. But the quiet only amplified the undercurrent of thoughts that churned relentlessly through her troubled brain. In the blackness behind her lids, shadows began to morph and twist, a spectral procession of unresolved cases and haunting memories that refused to be banished to the depths of sleep.

The sense of foreboding was strong, as if the spirits were already lining up at the edge of her consciousness, eager to impart their silent testimonies through the cryptic medium of dreams. The boundaries between the living and the dead, so resolute in daylight, frayed at the edges as Jenna teetered on the brink of slumber.

She exhaled slowly, surrendering to the inevitable descent into the dream realm where answers often lurked, shrouded in enigma. It was here, in this liminal space, that Jenna found her most potent clues, though they came at the cost of peaceful rest.

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