Page 5 of In Her Prayers

Jake leaned back in his chair, considering her question.His gaze remained thoughtful as he replied, “If it really is Patricia’s spirit, she’ll likely appear in your dreams again.Maybe next time, she’ll be able to communicate more clearly.And maybe we will have something to act on.”

Jenna was moved and grateful for how he used the word “we”—meaning that he would support her, no matter what.There was a calmness to his words, the kind that came from years of facing dire and unpredictable situations on city streets before finding refuge in the rhythms of small-town policing.

Jenna nodded, pondering his response.If Patricia Gaines’ spirit was indeed reaching out, then Jenna owed it to her—and to herself—to persist until the truth was unearthed.And with luck, that truth would at least start to emerge in the form of another dream.

The shrill ring of the office phone sliced through the stillness, startling both of them.Jake swiftly reached for the receiver, his expression morphing from concern to mild amusement as he listened to the caller.It was a shift that told Jenna the gravity of their earlier conversation was about to be interrupted by the day-to-day eccentricities of the small town they lived and worked in.

He covered the mouthpiece and looked at Jenna.“Duty calls,” Jake explained, the levity in his tone a brief respite from the gravity of their investigation.“Mrs.Fitzgerald is complaining about the rooster.”

“Again?”Jenna allowed herself a small chuckle, appreciating the absurdity of small-town disputes.

His tone held a note of wry humor, a departure from the spectral world that had been whispering secrets in her sleep.“Right.And this time, Mrs.Fitzgerald is threatening to sue her neighbor about it.”

Jenna leaned back in her chair.She studied his face for a moment, wondering how someone so grounded in the tangible could also accept the ethereal realm that was part of her own reality.

“Alright, let’s go deal with that rooster,” she said, and realized that the laugh that followed felt good.

Jenna made a quick check of her next-door office but found nothing demanding her attention.She and Jake gathered their materials and crossed back through the main workspace, taking a moment to notify the team that they were off on another rooster investigation.Then they stepped through the heavy door of the Sheriff’s Office, out into the morning sun that brightened Trentville’s main street.

Yet, the image of Patricia Gaines still haunted Jenna—those eyes that held a silent plea.She shook off the image and said again, “Let’s go deal with that rooster,” as she slid behind the wheel with Jake getting into the passenger side.The engine hummed to life, a comforting familiarity amidst the unknowns.As they drove away from the Sheriff’s Office, Jenna’s thoughts lingered on the unsolved, the echo of her twin’s absence joining the chorus of voices that called to her.

The patrol car rolled forward, leaving behind the red brick building that housed more than its share of secrets.As they drove, the morning unfolded before them.Houses with picket fences lined the streets, their windows like sleepy eyes slowly opening to the day.Shopkeepers swept sidewalks, and early risers waved in friendly recognition of the sheriff’s vehicle.

Yet, even as Jenna navigated the streets, the tendrils of her previous night’s dream curled inside her mind.Unseen, they wrapped around her consciousness, a reminder of the past that lingered close, whispering of the unsolved and beckoning her toward some story that lay just out of reach.

The image of Patricia Gaines lingered, imprinted on Jenna’s mind like a photographic negative burned by too much light.Those eyes seemed to plead for understanding, for resolution.

Even as they drove to take care of a small-town drama, Jenna knew that her dream would insist on her attention again.And her dreams led her into cases that were often dangerous as well as dark.

Jenna glanced at Jake, his profile set in a mask of professionalism despite the mundane nature of their next task.His presence was a solid reminder of the real world in a small Missouri town like this, where threatening roosters were as much a part of her duty as tracking down leads on long-lost girls.

CHAPTER THREE

Pete Martinez let out a satisfied breath, the final twist of his wrench echoing in the stillness of the parish hall kitchen.His hands, calloused from years of labor, bore the faint scent of metal and sawdust—a testament to the morning’s work.He ran a rough palm across his brow, catching beads of sweat before they could sting his eyes.

As he replaced his tools into his worn leather bag, footsteps approached.Pete glanced up to see Betty Serbin, her presence as familiar in St.Michael’s as the stained-glass windows that filtered sunlight into kaleidoscope patterns on the pews.Her silver hair caught the light, a halo of meticulous curls, and her smile softened the lines etched by seven decades.

“Oh, Pete, I’m so glad I caught you,” she said.

“Good timing,” Pete said, offering a nod of recognition.“Just finished up here.”

“We’ve got a bit of a situation in the Sunday school room.One of the shelves has given up the ghost, I’m afraid.”

“Lead on, Mrs.Serbin.”Pete’s response was automatic, having long since embraced the role of all-around fixer.With his tool bag slung over his shoulder, he followed Betty Serbin through the corridors.Each step took them farther from the heart of the church, towards the rooms where young minds were shaped.The Sunday school room awaited, another problem he was sure he could take care of easily.

The Sunday school room was a vivid change from the austere corridors.Bright Bible story posters competed for attention against the proud display of children’s crayon masterpieces.Morning sunlight played through the tall windows, casting a kaleidoscope of light that seemed to bring life to the still air.

Pale yellow paint brought freshness to one wall, suggesting renewal and hope—a backdrop now marred by a view through an open closet door.He could see that its interior had been plunged into mild disarray.

“It’s this closet here,” she explained, pointing inside where a shelf lay defeated in the clutter.Pete could see new supplies scattered across the floor, the result of Betty’s interrupted efforts at organization.

“I was trying to put away some of the new materials when the whole shelf just came away from the wall,” Betty explained, her voice tinged with disappointment over the mishap.

Pete stepped closer to the closet, eyeing the damage.The wooden shelf, once a steadfast guardian of supplies, now rested awkwardly against the wall.He noted the anchor points where screws had given way—betrayed, perhaps, by age or simply the burden of too much weight.

The culprit was obvious: a metal bracket, once the cornerstone of support for the wooden shelf, now dangled limply from the wall by one lonesome screw.

“Seen this kind of thing before,” Pete muttered.His hands were already envisioning the work ahead: clearing the area, assessing the integrity of the wall, installing a sturdier support system for the shelves.It was a simple enough task, routine for someone who had spent years tending to the various needs of St.Michael’s.He reached out, touching the rough surface where the bracket had torn through the drywall.Bits of plaster and dust crumbled to the floor as he traced the edges of the breach.The wall felt fragile under his touch, like the brittle pages of an ancient book that might turn to powder if handled too roughly.

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