Page 33 of In Her Grasp

Jake nodded, deep in thought. “We’re missing something,” he acknowledged. “A detail, an event, something that ties these victims together beyond childhood friendships.”

Jenna sighed, the car’s engine humming a low accompaniment to her contemplation.

“Jake,” Jenna said after a pause, her tone losing some of its usual edge. “Thanks for not thinking I’m crazy with all this dream stuff.”

It was rare for her guard to drop, even more, to express gratitude for matters so personal. She dared a glance at him,expecting a joke or a quip to break the tension. Instead, she was met with earnest sincerity. “You’re not crazy, Jenna,” he reassured her. “If these dreams are helping us get closer to the truth, then they’re as real as any evidence we gather during the day.”

“Sometimes I sound crazy even to myself,” Jenna said with a shake of her head.

Jake looked at her, his expression one of quiet resolve. “Jenna, your dreams have helped us solve cases before. I may not understand it, but I trust you. We’re partners, remember? Besides,” Jake added, his tone turning lighter, “if you ever start predicting lottery numbers in your dreams, I expect a fifty-fifty split.”

“Maybe a three-way split with you, me and Frank,” Jenna said with a wistful smile, “since you two are the only people I can talk to about all that.”

“That sounds fair to me.”

“Then it’s a deal,” she chuckled, allowing herself a moment of levity before their conversation took a backseat to the task ahead. The car crested a hill, and in the distance, the outline of a farmstead came into view.

“That’s it,” Jake said. “Take the next right.”

Jenna navigated the bends of the private road leading into Tommy Larson’s property. The car’s tires crunched over the gravel, stirring a cloud of dust that hung lazily in the morning air. It was an expansive plot of land, the farmhouse sitting like a steadfast guardian amidst fields that showed the green of crops growing. It was the kind of homestead that had been rooted in the land for many generations. They soon reached the farmhouse, an old home nestled close to several large trees.

“Here we are,” Jenna said, cutting the engine. The silence of the countryside enveloped them, broken only by the distant sound of cattle and the soft rustle of wind through trees.Somewhere outside, a rooster crowed, a reminder of the world moving forward despite the occasional darkness.

The farmhouse bore the marks of time and weather, its wooden siding faded to a soft grey. Flower beds lay were blooming, no doubt the work of a farm wife’s caring hands. Jenna walked up the steps, her boots thudding against the wood, and rapped on the screen door.

It wasn’t long before the door opened, revealing a woman dressed in a simple floral apron, her hair twisted into a practical bun. Her eyes, a soft blue reminiscent of the sky above, held a touch of concern. They knew this was Betty Larson, the wife of the man they wanted to see.

“Morning, Sheriff, Deputy,” she said, eyeing their uniforms. “What brings you out this way?”

“Official business, I’m afraid,” Jenna replied. “We need to talk to your husband.”

The woman stepped back and gestured for them to enter. “Tommy’s in the kitchen,” she said. “He was just getting ready to head out for his morning chores.”

Tommy Larson sat at the worn kitchen table, cradling a white mug in his hands. The aroma of fresh coffee mingled with the faint scent of cinnamon from a cooling pie, lending the space a comforting, lived-in feel that contrasted sharply with the reason for their visit. He glanced up as Jenna and Jake entered.

“Betty, these are the folks who were at the store yesterday,” Tommy said, nodding toward Jenna and Jake. “Sheriff Graves and Deputy Hawkins.”

Betty’s nod was curt, her eyes flicking between her husband and their guests. A protective undercurrent hummed beneath the pleasantries, typical of small-town kinship—a sense of unity against outsiders, even those sworn to protect.

“Good to see you again, Tommy,” Jenna began, positioning herself so she could keep an eye on both Larsons withoutappearing confrontational. “I’m sorry to drop by unannounced, but we’ve got some important updates on the case.”

Tommy set his mug down and gave her his full attention. His wife still stood in the background, listening but not venturing to enter the conversation.

“Tommy,” she said, her voice steady and clear, “we found two more bodies in the Sablewood Reservoir yesterday. One of them—we have strong reason to believe—is Clive Carroway.”

She watched Tommy closely, searching for any flicker of recognition or guilt that might betray more than surprise. His face paled slightly, and he swallowed hard, a man coming face-to-face with a ghost from his past. The disappearance of Clive Carroway, a story that had rippled through Colstock six years ago, had just resurfaced with the undeniable reality of death.

“You … you’re saying that Sly is dead too?” Tommy stammered. “But I thought he just left town.”

“Tommy,” Jenna began, “we’re hoping you can help us make an identification.”

She retrieved her cellphone from her pocket. With a few swipes, she brought up the image of the chain found around the neck of the corpse—an ornate piece that had once shone but was now tarnished by time and the reservoir’s murky depths.

“Does this look familiar to you?” she asked, holding the screen toward Tommy.

He leaned forward, squinting at the photo before recoiling as if struck. “That’s... that’s Clive’s,” Tommy gasped, his shock rippling through the room. The chain clearly struck a chord with him, and his rugged face contorted with recognition.

“Clive won that at the carnival one year,” Tommy murmured, his voice tinged with memories. “Wore it everywhere, like a trophy. That little cylinder,” he pointed a shaking finger at the screen, “used to hold a rabbit’s foot. Said it was lucky. I guess it rotted away in the water after all those years.”

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