Page 20 of In Her Prayers

“What do you make of the time gap between the deaths?”Jake’s voice pierced the quiet.

“I don’t know, Jake.It could mean we’re dealing with more than one killer.Or maybe...”

“Maybe what?”Jake prompted, his gaze steady on her.

“Maybe we’re looking at some sort of...legacy.A killer passing on their ‘work’ to another.”The words tasted like bile as they left her mouth, heavy with implications that twisted her stomach into knots.

Two bodies spanning three decades, and a third victim yet to be found—the thought circled in her mind like a carrion bird.

“And, you said there’s another?”he asked.“You think the man playing an autoharp …”

“Yes.There’s at least one more body somewhere in that church.Whatever we’re dealing with, it’s not over.And given those skips in time …”

Jake finished her thought for her.“There might be more victims to come.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Jake let his gaze linger on Jenna as she navigated the patrol car through Trentville’s dappled streets.The morning sun cast a warm glow on her chestnut hair.It was small, unnoticed details that had only recently caught his attention—like the way strands of her hair turned golden in the sunlight.

She was more than his superior, more than the determined sheriff with a haunted past—she was complex, with unknowable depths and quiet strength that commanded respect without asking for it.And as the light shifted, highlighting the subtle curve of her lips lost in thought, Jake felt a now-familiar tightness in his chest, both admiration and something more tender.

The drive to Frank Doyle’s house was a quiet one, punctuated only by the hum of the engine and the occasional crackle of the radio.When they pulled up to the curb, the timing was uncanny.Before Jenna could turn off the ignition, the front door opened, and there stood Frank, eyes alert and expectant.

Frank Doyle’s tall frame stood as sturdy as an old oak.His face was a map of weathered lines and deep-set wrinkles, each one telling a story of hard-earned wisdom and years spent under the relentless Missouri sun.His short white hair was thick and unruly, matching the gruff exterior that hid an enormous heart.Despite his age, he held himself with a dignity that spoke volumes about the man he once was—a sheriff who’d seen it all, yet still had kindness gleaming in his gray eyes like soft moonlight on a quiet river.

“Morning, Frank,” Jenna called out as she stepped from the car.

“Jenna, Jake,” Frank replied, his voice rough like gravel.

As he stepped out of the cruiser, Jake’s voice was low, “How does he always do that?Always seem to be expecting your visit, I mean?”

Jenna glanced back with a fleeting smile.“Frank’s always had a knack for knowing when I’m coming to see him.It used to drive me crazy, but now I’m kind of used to it.”

Frank greeted them, stepping aside to allow them entry.His eyes crinkled warmly at the corners, softening the hard lines etched by years of service.“Coffee’s fresh,” he announced, gesturing towards the kitchen.

The scent of strong, black coffee greeted Jake, leading him through the living room and into in the old kitchen awash with morning light.He pulled out a chair for Jenna before taking his own seat across from Frank’s chair.Mugs of coffee made soft clinks as Frank set them down on the table, its worn surface bearing witness to countless such conversations.

Frank’s gaze met Jake’s briefly, an unspoken acknowledgment passing between them.The former sheriff may have been retired from active duty, but his instinct for police work was as keen as ever.Jake had seen that same look before—the one that said Frank had sensed their arrival long before they turned onto his street.Jake shook his head slightly, still puzzled by the older man’s timely intuition.

“I heard about the bodies at the church,” Frank said, his voice low as he sat down.“Nasty business.”

“It’s worse than you know, Frank,” Jenna told him.

Jake watched the play of emotions across Frank’s face as Jenna recounted details of the discoveries at St.Michael’s, the body in the Sunday School room closet and in another closet in the nave.She also spoke of the community’s reaction, the fear and suspicion that had rippled through the meeting in the parish hall.

“Any dreams about this, Jenna?”Frank leaned forward, elbows resting heavily on the table.

There was a brief hesitation, a flicker of reluctance in Jenna’s emerald eyes before she gave a slight nod.Jake knew that look - it was the same one she wore whenever she let slip the veil that hung between her waking world and the realm of her dreams.At that moment, he felt like both protector and bystander, aware of the profound trust Jenna placed in him, yet still separated by the kind of experience he knew he’d never fully comprehend.

“Last night,” Jenna’s voice was steady, her gaze anchored to a spot on the table.“I dreamed about St.Michael’s Church.”

She spoke of the church’s strange darkness, the whispering echoes that played tricks with sound, and the words that became butterflies or strange languages, book pages that fluttered up into the air.She described the ghostly figures with such vivid detail it was as though she had sketched them into existence right there in Frank’s kitchen.The man with the autoharp came to life in her narrative, his spectral fingers plucking strings that vibrated with an otherworldly resonance.

As Jenna’s account unfolded, Jake watched Frank closely.When she mentioned the autoharp player, a subtle shift crossed the former sheriff’s features.Jake knew the telltale signs of a man trying to mask his reaction, and Frank was doing just that.

“The women both sang,” Jenna said.“One of them sang a hymn …”

“Can you sing it for me, Jenna?”Frank’s voice was strained, almost as if the request cost him something.

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