Page 50 of In Her Wake
“We won’t keep him long.Just a few questions about potential connections.”
Harry Powell sat in the living room, perched on the edge of a leather recliner as if ready to bolt at any moment.His eyes were red-rimmed and vacant, his work attire from the morning replaced by a faded Ozark State University sweatshirt and jeans.He looked up as they entered, but made no move to stand.
“Mr.Powell,” Jenna began gently, taking a seat on the couch across from him.“I’m very sorry for your loss.I know this is an incredibly difficult time, but we have a few questions that might help us find the person who did this to Marjory.”
Harry nodded mechanically.“Anything.”
Jake remained standing, a respectful distance away, notebook in hand.“Mr.Powell, we’re trying to understand why your wife might have been targeted.We believe her killer may have also been responsible for the disappearance of a man named Kevin Torres from Pinecrest.”
A flicker of confusion crossed Harry’s face.“Torres?I don’t know that name.”
“He’s a personal trainer,” Jenna explained.“Owns Torres Fitness Studio in Pinecrest.Did Marjory ever mention him?Perhaps she worked out there, or knew him socially?”
Harry shook his head slowly."Marjory didn't exercise much.She always said showing houses kept her active enough."His voice cracked slightly on the mention of his wife's profession."And our social circle is mostly other real estate professionals, clients, and neighbors.I've never heard her mention anyone named Torres."
Jenna studied Harry’s face, finding only genuine bewilderment there.“What about the Thurman estate sale?Did she meet any new people through that transaction?”
“The buyers were from Chicago,” Harry said, seeming grateful to focus on concrete details.“Corporate executives looking for a weekend retreat.”
“Marjory was featured in an online real estate magazine recently,” Jenna continued.“Keys and Closing.Do you recall her mentioning the photographer?A Marcus Langley?”
“She was so proud of that article.Showed it to everyone.”A ghost of a smile flickered across his lips before vanishing.“The photographer...yes, she mentioned him.Said he was very professional, made her feel comfortable.”
“Did she maintain any contact with him after the photoshoot?”Jake asked.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Mr.Powell,” she said, leaning forward slightly, “is there anything unusual that happened in the weeks before Marjory’s disappearance?Any strange phone calls, unexpected visitors, someone showing unusual interest in her or her work?”
Harry stared into the middle distance, searching his memory.“Nothing stands out.She was busy—summer is always their busy season.The Thurman sale meant a lot of new interest from potential clients.Her phone was always ringing.”
They asked a few more questions, but nothing yielded any significant insights.As they prepared to leave, Harry suddenly spoke again, his voice hollow.
“The other man—Torres.Is he dead too?”
Jenna hesitated.“We don’t know yet.But we found a mannequin like the one that was left here.”
“Whoever did this...there’s something wrong with them.Not just evil.Something...broken.”
“We’ll find him,” Jenna promised, hoping she could keep her word.
Outside, the evening had deepened, the last traces of daylight fading from the western horizon.Jake waited until they were in the cruiser before speaking.
“Still no clear connection,” he said, frustration evident in his voice.“We should pay Frank a visit.Maybe he can give us some advice.
“That sounds like an idea.”
As Jenna pulled away from the curb, the question that haunted her wasn’t just who the killer would target next, but how they were selecting these particular moments in people’s lives—these perfect, crystallized instants of achievement that someone wanted to preserve in the most twisted way imaginable.
There was something about Frank Doyle’s house that had always felt like sanctuary to Jenna—perhaps because it was the one location where she never had to hide who she was or what she could do.Before she could knock, the door swung open.Frank’s tall frame stood as sturdy as an old oak, silhouetted against the warm light behind him.“Jenna Marie,” he said.“Jake.You both look like you’ve been through the wringer.”
“That obvious?”Jenna asked, stepping into the familiar embrace of his home.
“You’ve got that look—the one you get when the world’s showing you its ugly side.”
“Coffee’s fresh,” Frank said, leading them toward the kitchen.“Though you might want something stronger tonight.”
The kitchen, like the rest of the house, was a testament to simpler times—sturdy wooden cabinets, a table that had hosted countless meals and conversations, copper-bottomed pots hanging from a rack overhead.Frank poured three mugs of coffee from a percolator that had to be at least as old as Jenna.
