Page 1 of In Her Grasp

PROLOGUE

The night pressed down on Sablewood Reservoir, smothering sound and light, rendering the water’s surface a mirror to the darkness above. Mike Larson, whose hands had once effortlessly maneuvered the gavel at countless auctions, now clawed at the air, grappling with a form as elusive as smoke. His stocky build, an advantage in his all-too-frequent physical altercations, offered little aid against the force that pinned him at the water’s edge.

His breathing came in ragged gasps, each exhale visible in the chill air. Mike’s senses, once dulled from years of work at Lohmeyer’s Feed Store and too much drinking to soften the edges of a hard life were now painfully acute. The soft lap of water against the muddy bank underlined the struggle, a gentle whisper in stark contrast to the chaos of the moment.

A masked figure loomed over him—a specter that seemed to be born of the same darkness that had turned the reservoir into a pool of ink. Mike knew strength; he’d baled hay, wrestled steers, and thrown punches with the best of them. But this was something different, an onslaught that suggested a fury beyond the physical. Despite his efforts, Mike found himself forced backward.

The attacker advanced without hesitation, the mask hiding any trace of humanity. Mike’s fight was silent, with desperate splashes and thrashing limbs. He sought leverage where there was none, his mind racing, searching for an answer to questions he hadn’t had a chance to ask: why was this night, this place, spelling the end of Mike Larson?

His attacker was more than a mere shadow now—a tangible force with a grip that seemed to draw strength from the depths of Sablewood Reservoir itself. Panic clung to Mike as tenaciouslyas the cold that enveloped him, his mind struggling to piece together the fragments of the evening that had led him here.

His breath escaped in a plume, a ghostly white cloud that dissipated too quickly into the night air. Mike’s limbs flailed helplessly against the relentless pull of the water. He tried to scream, but the sound was swallowed by the vastness around them. Each move he made to escape only served to entangle him further in the reservoir’s icy grasp. He could not fathom the reason behind this assault—what vendetta could fuel such malice? There was no sense, no logic, only the chilling certainty that someone wanted him gone, submerged, forgotten.

For a brief moment, the struggle brought their faces close enough for Mike to peer into the eyeholes of the mask. What he saw there was a darkness deeper than the night—a hatred so intense it was beyond his imagining. The eyes bore into him, and he knew then, with a clarity that cut through the fog of panic, that this was no accident. This was the reckoning he had feared, the thing that had lingered at the edges of his conscience for years.

Then he fell limp from exhaustion. He felt straps being wrapped around his shoulders and pulled tight, and then a heavy weight on his back pulled him down. As the icy water enveloped him, a shockwave of cold surged through his body, a visceral alarm that left no room for doubt or confusion. The temperature was a thief, snatching the warmth from his skin as it crept higher. Panic flared within him, a primal response from deep within his psyche, fueling a frantic push for survival, but the weight on his back was implacable.

Then came the crushing pressure on the back of his head, an ironclad force that brooked no resistance. Water surged around him, above him, and then there was nothing but the stifling, claustrophobic embrace of the reservoir. His lungs screamed forair that wasn’t there, his body rebelled, but whatever held him down was unyielding.

In those moments, submerged in the liquid void, Mike renewed his fight with the ferocity of a caged animal. Yet even as he battled, part of him understood the futility. The shore was a distant concept now, the realm of the living a world apart. There was only the cold, the pressure, and the inexorable descent into depths from which there could be no return.

In the tumultuous struggle between life and death, Mike’s mind betrayed him, tearing down the barricade he had painstakingly built over the years. Memories surged forth, unbidden and sharp as shards of glass. There he was again, younger, more carefree, a teenager with sun-kissed hair and laughter on his lips. The Sablewood Reservoir sparkled under the high sun, the same waters that now threatened to claim him. The echo of youthful voices carried in his head, mingling with the muffled sounds of the current struggle. Friends splashed around him, their jovial shouts a stark dissonance to the silent battle he now waged alone.

His efforts waned as another memory surfaced—something that had followed him into adulthood, a secret buried in the depths of these very waters. He winced, a physical reaction to a mental wound. A terrible deed was done in the throes of adolescence, one that had festered in the dark corners of his conscience ever since. It was something so grave he had locked it away, thrown away the key, but it clung to him now, an anchor dragging him deeper into both the literal and figurative abyss.

Mike grappled with empty water, finding nothing solid to hold onto. The realization dawned on him, chilling even amidst the cold embrace of the reservoir: this was no random act of violence. It was retribution. The faceless figure, the relentless pursuit—somehow, it was connected to that day. To that mistake.

What had been a sin of youth now returned as an executioner’s sentence, the past reaching out with vengeful arms to drag him down to where memories became eternally silent. And as he struggled, Mike knew that what he had once pushed beneath the surface was somehow the very thing that now pulled him under.

Mike’s muscles screamed, his efforts growing feebler with each passing second. His chest was a furnace of pain, the need for air gnawing desperation within him. The darkness of the Sablewood Reservoir enveloped him, thick and suffocating, a tangible force that seemed to conspire with his attacker to keep him submerged.

Mike’s thrashing slowed, his body betraying him as his strength ebbed away. The masked figure above him was relentless, an agent of vengeance delivering a sentence that Mike had written for himself. In this liquid grave, there were no auctioneer’s calls, no feed store banter—only silence and the inexorable pull of judgment.

His mind reeled back to Mary, to the life in the little town of Colstock they had built together, frayed at the seams by his own hands and his own instability. The love he had for her, the remorse that plagued him—they were phantoms now, just out of reach. He wanted to beg for her forgiveness, to cry out to anyone who would listen that he understood the enormity of his sin. But the water muffled his voice, and there was no ear to hear his silent apology.

The cold seeped into his bones, a numbing embrace that promised oblivion. Mike faced the inescapable truth as the last bubbles of breath escaped his lips: he had brought this fate upon himself. There would be no reprieve, no last-minute salvation. Regret was a heavy chain, and it dragged him down to where all light was extinguished. With one final, feeble kick, Mike Larsonsurrendered to the dark waters, letting the reservoir claim the secret it had kept for so many years.

CHAPTER ONE

Smoke swirled in the filtered early afternoon June sunlight, casting shifting patterns on walls adorned with tapestries and a medley of mystical symbols. At a small table, amid a landscape of scattered tarot cards and flickering candles, sat a woman in her thirties, her vibrant attire mirroring the room’s bohemian charm. Her black hair floated wildly around her face, and her blue robe sparkled with gold trim.

“Glad you stopped by, Jenna,” Cassie said. “I was just about to do a reading.

“Thanks,” Jenna replied, settling into a chair, her own neat uniform and short chestnut hair a contrast to her colorful friend.

She watched as Cassie shuffled the deck skillfully, then plucked a single card with a flourish and laid it face up on the table. It showed a woman sitting regally on her throne, flanked by pillars of black and white.

“The High Priestess,” Cassie began, “is a symbol of intuition and hidden knowledge. She invites you to listen to your inner voice.”

“Hidden knowledge, huh?” Jenna mused, the corners of her mouth tilting upward in a wry grin. Jenna wasn’t sure whether or not any of Cassie’s supposed gifts were real. And Jenna had never told Cassie about her own lucid dreams.

Cassie turned over another card, and this one depicted the vibrant dance of a man and woman under a golden sky. “Ah, The Lovers.” Her voice softened. “This one isn’t just about romance, Jenna. It’s about choices, partnerships, the merging of dualities. It suggests you’re at a crossroads.”

“Crossroads are nothing new to me,” Jenna replied evenly, her green eyes reflecting a lifetime of navigating such junctions alone.

“Perhaps,” Cassie ventured, tilting her head, “it’s time to consider the paths that also include others. The cards seem to think so. I’m talking about a serious relationship here, Jenna.”

“Really, Cass?”

---