Page 11 of In Her Grasp

“I know the dentist over there,” Melissa replied. “He’s an old timer who doesn’t always follow strict procedures. I think he’ll send them to me if I ask.”

“Thanks, Melissa. We appreciate the quick turnaround,” Jenna responded, feeling the first tentative thread of progress weaving through their uncertainty.

“Of course, Jenna. Melissa assured before ending the call.

“I’ll need until tomorrow morning to confirm anything,” Melissa’s voice was level over the phone. “I’ll reach out as soon as I have something definitive either way.”

“Thanks, Melissa. Keep me posted,” Jenna replied, ending the call. She placed her cellphone on the old wood table in Frank’s kitchen, its surface scarred by years of use—a silent witness to countless strategy sessions like this one.

The room felt still in the aftermath of their conversation, the late afternoon sun slanting through the window and casting long shadows that seemed to stretch with the weight of the silence. Jenna glanced at Jake, noticing the faint frown on his brow. Since the day had yielded no breakthroughs, and the evening promised nothing more, her mind turned to more personal news.

“Frank,” Jenna began, breaking the silence, “I had another one of those dreams last night.” She hesitated, folding her arms defensively. “It was a woman in the fog, holding a bird, a sandpiper in fact.”

Frank’s eyebrows rose slightly, the only sign that he was intrigued. “Sandpiper, huh?” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “That could be symbolic, but I’m not sure exactly how. Something to do with your sister?”

Jenna nodded. In her mind, the connection between the bird and her sister’s name was strong. Her dreams felt like riddles, pieces of a puzzle that often seemed linked to her twin’s disappearance. Though it had been two decades, each time, it rekindled the flame of hope that Piper was still out there, waiting to be found.

“Could be,” she conceded. These cryptic visions were both a gift and a curse, offering potential insights but nothing firm.

“Maybe you should ask your mother about ‘sandpiper,’” Frank suggested. “Could be she knows something that might help us make sense of your dream.”

“Perhaps,” Jenna answered, her voice tinged with exhaustion. She recalled her visit to her childhood home earlier that day, the air thick with tension and unspoken words. “But it’ll have to wait. Today was already a lot for her.”

“How so?” he inquired. “At least, if it’s something you want to talk about.”

She shared with Frank the moment her mother had handed her the bottle of bourbon, a silent plea for change in her weary eyes. Jenna described how she had obliged, tipping the contents into the sink as Margaret watched a silent battle against her demons playing out in the quiet of the afternoon.

Frank listened intently, nodding once. “Good for her,” he said, his voice soft with empathy. Jenna appreciated the understanding; few knew the depth of her family’s struggles likeFrank did. It was a small victory, the discarded liquor, but it felt monumental, as if the tides were finally turning in her mother’s long fight with addiction.

Frank leaned back in his chair, “So, Margaret’s really trying this time?” he added, his voice carrying the weight of years spent watching her struggle.

Jenna nodded, feeling a cautious flicker of hope. “She is. I think she really is.”

“Did something specific get her started in a better direction?”

“It was Zeke Canfield who made a difference,” Jenna explained. “He refused to sell her any more alcohol.” She paused, looking down at her hands, which rested idle on the kitchen table. “Said he couldn’t be a part of her self-destruction anymore.”

“Zeke’s got a big heart,” Frank commented, a smile touching his lips. His approval was evident, not just for Zeke’s intervention but for the small victory in the long battle that Jenna’s family faced. The local culture in Trentville bred a close-knit community—a network that sometimes served as a safety net for its most vulnerable members.

“Sometimes it takes a village, doesn’t it?” Jenna mused aloud, her eyes meeting Frank’s. There was an unspoken understanding between them, a shared history of loss and the fight against the darkness that often threatened to swallow their small town whole.

Jake added, “Some villages are more helpful than others. There are obviously some good people in this one.”

“Let’s call it a day,” Frank decided, glancing at the clock above his desk. They all needed rest, a respite from the day’s heavy cloak of uncertainty. Tomorrow would bring its own challenges, its own demands for their persistence and resolve. For now, they could take solace in the stillness of the approaching night, storing strength for whatever lay ahead.

Before Jenna could respond, the distinct buzz of her cellphone cut through the quiet of the kitchen. With a swift motion, she retrieved the device from her pocket and glanced at the screen. Hilda Thornton’s name flashed against the backlight. With a resigned sigh, Jenna answered the call.

“Jenna, thank heavens!” Hilda’s voice was breathless, tinged with fear. “It’s urgent! You have to believe me this time.”

Jenna tensed, preparing for the worst but hoping for another false alarm. “What is it, Hilda?”

Jenna pressed the phone closer to her ear, the hum of concern in Hilda Thornton’s voice resonating against the silence of Frank’s kitchen. Years of false alarms from Hilda had nurtured a patience in Jenna that she hadn’t known she possessed, but the tremor in the elderly woman’s words today was different, urgent in a way that couldn’t be quickly dismissed.

“None of your officers will listen to me,” Hilda gasped with barely contained panic. “You must come, Jenna. It’s not like before, I swear it.”

“Tell me what’s happening,” Jenna urged, her voice calm, her eyes darkening as she focused on extracting clarity from chaos.

“There’s someone... something here,” Hilda’s voice broke. “I hear it moving, whispering. You have to believe me, Jenna—there’s a ghost in my attic.”

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