Page 54 of In Her Wake
Without waiting for the coffee to finish, she returned to her bedroom and woke her laptop.The screen’s blue light painted her face in electronic pallor as she typed “Dean Alcox” into the search bar.
Results populated immediately—his bibliography, critical reviews, aWikipediapage.She clicked on the official website for his publisher, Silver Acre Books.There, prominently displayed, was a page dedicated to their most acclaimed author.The featured an image at the top showed Alcox standing on the porch of a cabin—the exact cabin from her dream, down to the axe embedded in a stump near the front door.
She scrolled down, scanning the text, which said that the cabin was in Black Briar Woods, near Pinecrest.Phrases jumped out at her: “reclusive author,” “known for psychological depth,” “uncompromising exploration of human darkness.”But it was the interview excerpt that stopped her cold.
“This whole publicity circus,” Alcox was quoted as saying, “it’s precisely what I’ve spent my career avoiding.Let my books speak for themselves.I hope to God this is the last time I ever have to sit for photographs or answer inane questions about my ‘process.’“
The interviewer had pressed him about his latest work,The Devil’s Ledger,asking if it represented a new direction for his writing.
“It’s not a new direction,” Alcox had replied.“It’s the final destination.The Devil’s Ledgerisn’t just my magnum opus—it’s my swan song to the literary world.Once it’s in print, I’m cutting myself off completely.No telephone, no internet, no human contact except the occasional trip into town for supplies.I’ve said all I have to say to humanity.”
Jenna’s eyes widened as she reread the interview.There were lots of photos on the page, showing Alcox in and around his cabin—standing by a woodpile, seated at an ancient typewriter by a window, glaring at the camera from his front porch.The photographer had captured multiple angles of both Alcox and his living space, documenting the author’s world in high-resolution detail.
It was enough.These photos could be used as reference material for someone creating a mannequin.
The coffeemaker sputtered its completion in the kitchen, but Jenna barely registered the sound.The mannequin in her dream had said, "He told me I was his first.".
Dean Alcox had been the killer's first victim before Marjory Powell, before Kevin Torres.
And his isolation—the very lifestyle he’d been so proud of cultivating—had created the perfect opportunity.A man who deliberately cut himself off from human contact could be dead for a long time before anyone noticed his absence.
Jenna quickly opened a new tab and searched for recent news about Dean Alcox.Nothing.No reports of a missing author, no concerned statements from his publisher, no wellness checks by local authorities.The world hadn’t yet realized he was gone.
She grabbed her phone from the nightstand and dialed Jake’s number, not caring about the early hour.He answered on the third ring, his voice thick with sleep.
“Jenna?What’s wrong?”
“I know who the first victim was,” she said without preamble.“Dean Alcox.”
“Who?”
“Dean Alcox, the author.Lives—lived—in a cabin near Black Briar Woods.I think he was the killer’s first victim.”
She heard rustling as Jake presumably sat up in bed.“Hold on.The author?How do you know this?Was it one of your dreams?”
Jenna hesitated.Despite the time they’d spent working together, despite Jake knowing about her dreams, she still felt that moment of vulnerability whenever she had to admit to a new visitation.
“Yes,” she said finally.“A lucid dream.Like with Marjory.But this time it was Alcox—or rather, a mannequin who seemed to be him.He told me he was the killer’s first victim.He mentioned a philosophy of some kind, told me to remember euthanasia and happiness.”
“That would be an odd philosophy,” Jake muttered.
“Jake, I just checked online.There are multiple high-quality photos of Alcox and his cabin on his publisher’s website.Just like with Marjory and Torres—professional photos taken shortly before they disappeared.”
Jake was fully awake now.“Another victim who’d had photographs published due to recent success.Does it say who took the pictures?”
“No, but they’re definitely professional,” Jenna replied.“That fits the pattern.And Alcox had deliberately isolated himself.He bragged in an interview about cutting off contact with the outside world.The perfect first victim—someone whose absence wouldn’t be immediately noticed.”
“We need to check this out,” Jake said.“And we need to tell Spelling.”
Jenna nodded even though Jake couldn’t see her.“I’ll call him now.”
“What about the forensic sculptor?Morrison?”
“This doesn’t change anything.Morrison might have the skills, but I’m still not convinced he’s our guy.This gives another location to investigate—another potential crime scene.”
“What about Chief Morgan?Should we tell him too?”
“Tell him what?That I got information from a lucid dream?”
