Page 51 of In Her Wake
“So,” he said, settling into his chair at the head of the table.“Tell me what’s happening.”
She and Jake took turns recounting all that had happened since Jenna had visited Frank yesterday.
“Mannequins with their faces,” Frank finally said when they finished.“In all my years wearing the badge, I never came across anything quite like that.”
“The attention to detail is disturbing,” Jake said.“And it’s like the killer wants to capture them at their perfect moment.”
Frank nodded slowly.“Sounds like someone who can’t accept the natural flow of life—the peaks and valleys, the inevitable decline.Wants to freeze people at their height.”He looked directly at Jenna.“You’re thinking Morrison isn’t your guy.”
“He has the skills,” Jenna acknowledged.“But when we found him, he could barely stand up straight.The planning, the execution of these crimes—it requires someone in complete control.”
“And your photographer?Langley?”
“His alibis sound solid,” Jake replied.“Workshop during Marjory’s estimated time of death, karaoke bar during Torres’s disappearance.”
Frank’s weathered hands turned his coffee mug in slow circles.“You’ll verify, of course.”
“First thing tomorrow,” Jenna confirmed.“But even if his alibis check out, he’s connected to both victims.He might know something he doesn’t realize is important.”
Frank leaned back in his chair, the old wood creaking beneath his weight.“Sometimes answers come when you’re not actively looking for them.When the mind can roam free.”
Jenna knew what he meant.Her dreams.The visitations.Marjory Powell had already reached out once—perhaps she would again, with more information.
“I’m counting on it,” she replied softly.
They talked a while longer, Frank sharing stories from his years as Sheriff—cases that seemed impossible until they weren't, moments of insight that broke investigations wide open.It wasn't just reminiscence; it was his way of reminding them that darkness had touched Trentville before, and the town had survived.That they would solve this case, as they had solved others.
When they finally rose to leave, Frank walked them to the door.He clasped Jake’s shoulder first.“Keep an eye on her,” he said, not bothering to lower his voice.“She pushes herself too hard.”
“Always,” Jake promised.
Frank turned to Jenna, enveloping her in a hug.“Trust yourself, Jenna Marie,” he whispered.“The answers will come.”
The drive back to town passed in comfortable silence.When she pulled up in front of Jake’s house, she told him, “Get some rest.Tomorrow’s going to be another long one.”
Jake paused, his hand on the door handle.“You too.And Jenna—” He hesitated.“If you have any...insights overnight, call me.Doesn’t matter what time.”
She understood what he meant.“I will.”
As Jenna drove toward her own home, the prospect of sleep brought a flutter of anticipation.Would Marjory visit again?Would Kevin Torres make an appearance, confirming what they already suspected about his fate?Or would someone else entirely step from the gray void—their killer's next victim?
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Jenna’s feet sank into earth that felt too soft, too yielding—like walking on moss rather than solid ground.The forest around her stretched in impossible directions, trees bending at angles that defied the laws of nature, their branches reaching toward a sky that couldn’t decide if it was dawn or dusk.Shadows pooled where they shouldn’t, light filtered through canopies that seemed to breathe, and somewhere in the distance, dark shapes wheeled against a bruised sky.
This wasn’t right.This wasn’t real.
“I’m lucid,” she whispered, her voice sounding both familiar and strange to her ears, as if it traveled through water before reaching her.She was dreaming, and knowing it meant she could navigate this realm with intention rather than confusion.The dreamscape sharpened around her in response to her awareness, colors intensifying, details becoming more pronounced.Leaves that had been indistinct blurs moments before now revealed intricate veining, and she could count the rings of fungus climbing the nearest tree trunk.
Above the treetops, the dark shapes she’d noticed earlier resolved into vultures, their bald heads gleaming dully as they circled in a tight formation.Jenna frowned, watching their methodical pattern.Vultures meant death—something or someone lay dead in that direction.The realization wasn’t frightening so much as it was a fact.
She began walking toward where the birds circled, guided by instinct and the strange rules of this place where her very thoughts seemed to bend reality around her.The forest floor undulated beneath her feet, sometimes rising to meet her steps, other times receding so she had to reach farther than should have been necessary.Trees whispered as she passed, their leaves rustling without wind, telling secrets in a language just beyond her comprehension.
A sharp sound cut through the forest’s murmurs—a staccato clatter that reminded her initially of a snare drum, crisp and rhythmic.Jenna paused, trying to pinpoint its source.It came again, more distinct this time, a rapid-fire series of impacts followed by a bell-like ding and then silence before the pattern repeated.
Not a drum.A typewriter.An old manual typewriter with metal keys striking a platen, the carriage return bell marking the end of each line.
Jenna changed direction, moving toward the sound.As she did, the path beneath her feet became more defined, transforming from loose soil and scattered leaves to packed earth worn smooth by use.The trees along this path seemed older, their bark gnarled into faces that watched her with hollow eyes as she passed.Roots broke through the ground in arches, forming natural gateways that she ducked through, each one seeming to transport her deeper into this strange woodland.
