Page 21 of In Her Prayers

Jenna nodded, her chestnut hair shifting around her face.She closed her eyes for a moment, gathering the haunting melody from the recesses of her memory.Then she began to sing, her voice soft but clear, resonating through the stillness of the kitchen.

“In shadows deep, the secrets keep,

Through courage, truth we strive to reap.

In dreams they stir, in whispers speak,

Guiding the lost, the brave, the meek.”

Jenna’s voice captivated Jake in a way he hadn’t expected.Until their drive over here from the morgue, he’d never heard her sing before.Her voice, usually clipped and businesslike, was transformed in song - it flowed like a gentle brook, soft and soothing.Jake found himself caught in its current, the melody pulling at something deep within him.It was another layer of Jenna he hadn’t known existed, a hidden depth that made her all the more intriguing.His gaze lingered on her face as she sang, the morning light casting her in an almost ethereal glow.He watched as Frank’s hands tightened around his coffee mug, his knuckles whitening.

“Can’t say I’ve heard that one before,” Frank muttered, shaking his head slightly.His expression was a careful mask, but Jake saw lines of concern etched deeper into his weathered face.

“I hadn’t either,” Jake admitted.

“And the other?”Frank asked Jenna.

Jenna hesitated.“It was an old tune that Jake recognized.”

“‘Cross Road Blues’ by Robert Johnson,” Jake added.“A classic blues piece about desperation and crossroads.”

“Can you sing that one too?”Frank asked.

Jenna nodded and sang.Where the hymn had been ethereal, this song was earthy and raw:

“I went to the crossroad, fell down on my knees

I went to the crossroad, fell down on my knees

Asked the Lord above, ‘Have mercy, save this poor girl, if you please.”

Frank nodded, his expression unreadable, but Jake caught the briefest glimmer of recognition in the older man’s eyes.That look – it was more than mere familiarity.It was an acknowledgment of a shared history with the lyrics or perhaps their implications.

The former sheriff’s face lost some color, and he took a long swig of his coffee, his hand trembling ever so slightly.Jake filed the observation away, an important piece of the puzzle they were slowly assembling.

“Any ideas why these songs, Jenna?”Frank asked, as if hoping to glean more from her response.“Why they’d be the ones to come to you in your dream?”

Jenna shook her head, her weariness evident.“Not sure, but there’s always a reason,” she replied.

“I take it there’s more to this story,” Frank said.

Jenna nodded, “Jake and I just visited Melissa Stark at the morgue.”

Jake sat quietly, watching Jenna’s lips move, her voice steady as she recounted the stark atmosphere of the morgue.The chill of the coroner’s office seemed to have followed them into Frank’s cozy kitchen.When Jenna spoke of Dr.Stark’s findings: one body from around 1960, another from about 1990, Jake observed Frank closely; the former sheriff’s stoic face was a mask hiding an internal struggle.

“1960 was before my time as sheriff, but 1990...”Frank’s voice faded into the space between words, suggesting a narrative left unfinished.His eyes shifted away, focusing on a spot in the grain of the wooden table, as if it held the answers he couldn’t articulate.

The silence that settled was telling.Jake sensed the undercurrents of history and regret that lay beneath Frank’s half-spoken sentences.It was more than just the shock of the gruesome discovery; there was a personal connection, Jake felt sure of it.He leaned forward, elbows on the table, his own instincts urging him to dig deeper, to understand the significance of Frank’s hesitation.

Before Jake could voice his thoughts, Jenna’s hand flinched, a subtle tremor betraying her tension.She drew in a breath that seemed to pull the morning light into her, steeling herself.

“There’s something else, Frank,” she whispered, her voice low in the quiet room.“I think...I think there must be another body hidden somewhere in the church.The man with the autoharp from my dream.”

Frank’s gaze lifted slowly from the table, meeting Jenna’s earnest eyes.His jaw clenched, a visible sign of the inner turmoil he was wrestling with.

“So you say the date was around 1960 for one of the women?”Frank repeated, almost to himself, his voice barely above a whisper.There was a distant quality to his tone, as if he were reaching back through years, sifting through memories long filed away.A faint crease formed on his forehead, the mark of a man trying to piece together fragments of a past that refused to stay hidden.

Jenna nodded, her expression marked with the vulnerability that came from sharing one’s deepest intuitions..“But the man with the autoharp...I don’t think he belongs to either time.Not exactly, not in the way we understand it.”

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