Page 55 of In Her Wake
“Good point,” Jake agreed.“Call Spelling.I’ll be ready to go whenever you need me.”
Jenna ended the call and immediately dialed Colonel Spelling’s number.Despite the hour, he answered promptly, as if he’d been awake.
“Sheriff Graves,” he greeted her, his deep voice clear and alert.“You’ve got something?”
Direct and to the point, as always.Jenna appreciated that about him.
“I have reason to believe that Dean Alcox, the author, was the killer’s first victim,” she said, deliberately vague about her source.“He lives—lived—in an isolated cabin near Black Briar Woods.He’d recently been the subject of a feature on his publisher’s website, with multiple photographs.It was all about how he’d completed his magnum opus.And he was known for cutting himself off from society.”
A brief pause on the line.“That tracks with our emerging profile,” Spelling said finally.“Professional photographs, recent public recognition, someone at the peak of their career.And you say he lived in isolation?”
“Complete isolation,” Jenna confirmed.“According to an interview, he intended to disconnect from all human contact except for occasional trips into town for supplies.”
“Which means no one would report him missing,” Spelling concluded.“How did you come by this information, Sheriff?”
Here it was—the question she’d been anticipating.But to her surprise, Spelling didn’t press when she answered simply, “I made a connection based on some research.”
Instead, he said, “I know where Alcox’s cabin is.I’ve read his books—even drove by the place once out of curiosity after I learned he lived in our jurisdiction.It’s off County Road 42, about two miles down an unmarked dirt road.”
“We should check it out,” Jenna said.“If Alcox is dead and has been replaced by a mannequin—”
“Then we’ll have confirmed your theory and established a clear pattern,” Spelling finished for her.“I agree.We should move on this immediately.”
They arranged to meet at the junction of County Road 42 and Highway 17, an isolated spot that would serve as their rendezvous point.Despite the early hour—not yet 4:30 a.m.—they agreed to set out at once.They needed to learn whatever they could before the killer went after his next victim.
After ending the call with Spelling, Jenna dialed Jake again.He answered immediately.
“What did Spelling say?”he asked without greeting.
“He knows the location.We’re meeting at the junction of County Road 42 and Highway 17,” she replied, already moving toward her closet to get dressed.“I’ll pick you up in twenty minutes.”
“I’ll be ready,” Jake promised.“Jenna—we’ve got to be careful.If your dream is right, we’re dealing with someone who has a whole belief system built around what he’s doing.Those are often the most dangerous kinds of killers.”
“I know,” she said softly, remembering the mannequin’s warning: “He’s just playing with dolls, Sheriff Graves.”
“See you soon,” Jake said.
“See you soon,” Jenna echoed, ending the call.
She stood in the center of her bedroom, the first gray light of dawn beginning to seep through her window blinds.Another day, another grim journey into the darkest corners of human nature.
Jenna set down her phone and turned toward her closet.Daylight was coming, but now it was time to face the dark.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
His fingers moved skillfully across the silicone surface, each stroke deliberate and measured.The face taking shape beneath his hands seemed to emerge from nothingness, feature by feature, as if Sarah Fleming herself were rising through a pool of clear water.On the screen before him, her latest podcast played at low volume, her voice filling the workshop with a strange intimacy as she discussed her recent success.It felt, in these predawn hours, as if she sat across from him, posing patiently as he captured her essence.
“The network deal changed everything,” Sarah was saying on screen, her eyes bright with excitement, hands gesturing with the animated energy that had made her so popular.“Going from independent podcaster to having actual resources behind me?It’s surreal.”
He smiled as he delicately applied another layer of translucent silicone to her right cheekbone, building up the subtle contours that gave her face its distinctive character.He had watched this particular episode seventeen times now.It had aired just after her podcast was acquired by a major network—the moment she’d worked years to achieve.In the soft glow of his work lights, the tools of his craft gleamed on the table beside him: fine-bristled brushes, spatulas of various sizes, pigments mixed to the exact shade of her skin tone.
The workshop surrounding him was immaculate, unlike the cluttered spaces of less disciplined artists.Each implement had its place, each material its designated storage.The walls were lined with sketches and reference photographs—some printed from her social media accounts, others from newspaper articles covering her podcast's viral episode and subsequent success.Most valuable were the professional photographs from her recent award ceremony, where she'd been recognized for "Best Local Podcast."The lighting in those images was just what he needed, showing every plane and angle of her face.
Behind him, the mannequin waited on its stand—naked, faceless, its articulated limbs positioned in a casual, lifelike pose.He’d selected this particular figure for its proportions, which matched Sarah’s petite frame.When the mannequin was put in place, it would be wearing the clothes she was wearing when she died.Dressing the mannequins was always the final act, like preparing a bride for her wedding.
“Now the real work begins,” Sarah continued in the video, unaware that her words carried a double meaning in his workshop.“I’ve got to prove they didn’t make a mistake investing in me.”
“They didn’t,” he whispered to her image, his voice soft in the stillness of the room.“But you’ve reached your peak now.Everything after this would be decline.Disappointment.Failure to live up to expectations.”
