Page 22 of In Her Prayers

Frank exhaled, a slow release that seemed to deflate the tension in the room.His eyes, once steely gray, now softened with a certain sorrow.“I’m listening, Jenna,” he said, his posture opening to her words.“Tell me everything you can remember.”

Jenna recounted more of her dream, the vivid details spilling out with a clarity that made the hairs on Jake’s arms stand on end.The spectral figures, the cryptic melodies, all of it painted a picture that was both haunting and eerily beautiful.As she spoke, Frank listened with a focus that bordered on reverence, his weathered features etched with the realization that this was no ordinary case.This was personal, and it cut to the core of who they were—protectors of a town that had secrets.

Jake observed as Frank Doyle’s expression shifted, the furrows deepening on his brow with a concern that seemed to weigh down the very air around them.Frank’s response came slow, deliberate.He nodded, the movement carrying the weight of years and unspoken understanding.

“Jenna, I’ve known you your whole life.I’ve seen firsthand how your dreams can reveal truths no one else can see.If you say there’s another body, I believe you.”

Jake felt a surge of complex emotions at their exchange.There was admiration for Jenna’s unique gift—an ability that had more than once proven invaluable to their work.Gratitude swelled within him, too, for Frank’s steadfast belief in Jenna; it was a support that had never wavered, even in the face of the inexplicable and the supernatural.Yet, amid these sentiments, Jake grappled with a twinge of alienation, acutely aware of his peripheral place in the bond shared by mentor and protégé.

“The problem is,” Jenna continued, the frustration evident in her voice as she wrapped her hand tighter around the steaming mug before her, “I can’t tell anyone else about this third body.Not without revealing my...ability.”She paused, her gaze flitting between Jake and Frank, the only two confidants privy to her secret.“You and Jake are the only ones I can talk to about this.”

Jake sat straighter, feeling the responsibility settle on his shoulders—a silent vow to protect Jenna and her extraordinary gift.In the confines of Frank’s modest kitchen, they formed an unlikely trio: the weary sheriff with her psychic abilities, the mentor whose belief defied logic, and he, himself—the deputy caught between professional duty and personal loyalty.

“The woman in the choir robe...I don’t think I know anything about her,” Frank said, his voice trailing into the silence.He hesitated, his eyes losing focus as he gazed past the walls of the kitchen, seeing something far beyond the sunlit room.With a visible effort, he swallowed hard, moisture pooling in the corners of his eyes—eyes that had witnessed decades of Trentville’s sorrows.

“But the others...”His voice cracked like dry leaves underfoot, betraying an inner turmoil that he fought to keep at bay.“I’m afraid I might know exactly who they were.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Jenna leaned forward, elbows on Frank’s worn kitchen table, as the former Sheriff began to peel back another layer of Trentville’s past.

Frank’s voice was a low rumble: “You weren’t born yet, but this town used to come alive for a few days every summer.Every June, for three days straight, Trentville bustled in a way you wouldn’t believe.The Cat and Fiddle Folk Festival wasn’t just an event; it was the beating heart of this town.Craftsmen, musicians, and storytellers from all over the county would come to show off their work.”

A smile playing on his lips as he lost himself to the memory, then he continued.“There were antiques, quilting bees, and all sorts of old-timey stuff.Kids ran around with ribbons in their hair, and music...music was everywhere, and outdoor square dancing.I was a teenager back then, and it was by far the most exciting part of my year.”

Jenna could almost hear the echoes of laughter and song, the stomp of dancing feet.She’d heard all about the Cat and Fiddle Folk Festival.It had been held for decades until sometime in the 70s, and nothing had replaced it.The Trentville she knew was a place more silent than celebratory, holding its breath as if waiting for something—or someone—to return.

“There was one performer, though,” Frank said, “whose presence was as expected as the sunrise—Ezra Shore.He called himself a minstrel, and people came from miles around just to hear him play.Ezra had this way about him, made you feel like he was singing directly to you.”Frank’s hands mimicked playing an autoharp, and his gaze grew distant, as if he could see Ezra standing right there in front of them.

As Frank described Ezra Shore – the disheveled hair that defied gravity and convention, the patchwork garments that told stories of countless towns, and the autoharp that seemed an extension of his being – Jenna’s dream interwove with reality.She had no doubt that the man from her visions, a spectral presence strumming sorrowful chords, had once actually played in the streets of Trentville.

Frank paused, fixing his gaze on some distant point before continuing.“After ‘72, nobody saw him again.Just...gone, like smoke in the wind.But since that was the last year the festival was even held, nobody thought much of it,” he admitted.“Ezra was always rambling, never staying put for long.When he wasn’t traveling by bus, he was traveling by freight car as a railroad hobo—a real Woody Guthrie type of character.I don’t suppose he properly lived anywhere in particular, just in motel rooms wherever he went.Nobody was really surprised not to hear from him anymore.”

Jenna understood this logic; a transient soul rarely sends ripples through the water when they drift away.Yet, her dreams often carried fragments of truth, and her vision of Ezra in the church, those lingering notes of his music, suggested that he had left the land of the living many years ago.

“Chances are,” Frank muttered, reaching the same conclusion, “Ezra might’ve met his fate right here in town.”

As if feeling the need to shift away from that grim subject, Frank cleared his throat.His tone was notably softer when spoke again.

“And then there was Caroline Weber.She was a sight to behold, especially when she took the stage at the Centaur’s Den.”He smiled faintly, lost for a moment in memories only he could see.“By day, she’d serve you coffee with a smile at Hank’s Derby, but by night, she was the siren of song, captivating everyone who heard her.”

Jenna drew in every detail as Frank painted the image of Caroline: her transformation from the practical apron to the shimmer of stage lights, her voice weaving through smoky air and over clinking glasses.

“I’d go there most Friday nights,” he continued quietly, as if speaking to the ghosts of memory rather than his present company.“Caroline had this way of...she just drew you in, you know?Her voice could thaw the coldest heart.”

Frank squinted thoughtfully.He sighed, his expression clouding over.

“But then,” he said, “she left—or so they said.Her boyfriend, Zach Freelander, was frantic when she went missing.He plastered flyers on every lamppost and storefront window, even took to knocking on doors asking if anyone had seen Caroline.Most folks figured they’d had another tiff, you know?That Caroline had taken off to cool down.Actually, it was pretty well known that she planned to go to Chicago to pursue a singing career.Folks figured that was where she went.And since she didn’t have any living family here, nobody else gave her disappearance much thought.”

“Except Zach,” Jenna prompted softly.“But was he ever suspected?"

“He was checked out, but his story seemed straight.”Frank affirmed.“He was convinced something terrible had happened to her.Tried to get the Sheriff to dig deeper, but...”

“When was this?”Jake asked.

“Around 1990, I believe.I was deputy sheriff then, younger than you are now.I tried to convince Sheriff Pulliam—we just called him Duke—to look deeper.Once or twice...half-heartedly.”

Frank’s next words came haltingly.“I remember Duke dismissing Zach’s concern...saying Caroline would turn up when she got tired of the big city lights.”

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