CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Jenna stood frozen. Colonel Spelling’s words delivered so casually amid the stench of death and the soft calls of retreating vultures, stripped away years of careful guardianship over her secret.
She wanted to believe that she hadn’t heard him correctly, but no, the often stony-faced Superintendent of the Highway Patrol had just told her he knew she was a psychic.
Jake stepped closer, as if to physically shield her from Spelling’s observation. “Colonel, I don’t think—”
“It’s not an accusation,” Spelling said, raising a placating hand. “Quite the opposite. I find it... fascinating.”
Jenna found her voice at last, though it emerged rougher than intended. “I follow evidence and instinct, Colonel…”
“Instinct that consistently provides details no conventional investigation could uncover?” He shook his head. “I’ve worked alongside you long enough to recognize unusual patterns, Sheriff Graves.”
The morning breeze shifted, bringing a momentary reprieve from the smell of decomposition. Jenna glanced toward Alcox’s body, then back to Spelling’s expectant face. Denial seemed pointless now, yet years of careful concealment made the truth stick in her throat.
“How long have you known?” she asked instead.
“Suspected since the Harvesters case,” Spelling replied.
“You led us directly to that abandoned mine where they were keeping the girls.
No evidence trail, no witness statements—just your ‘hunch.’“ He made air quotes around the final word.
“Your work on those ‘full moon’ murders last month cinched it for me.”
Jake shifted his weight, clearly uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. “We should get back to the cabin. Forensics will be arriving soon.”
“Of course,” Spelling agreed, but his intense gaze never left Jenna’s face. “We can continue this discussion on the way.”
They began walking back through the woods, retracing their steps toward Alcox’s cabin. The forest felt different to Jenna now—less oppressive, more mundane—as if Spelling’s matter-of-fact acceptance of her ability had somehow normalized the strangeness of the morning.
“To be clear,” Spelling continued as they walked, “I’ve always been interested in cases where psychics have assisted law enforcement. I’ve read everything published on the subject—case studies, academic papers, even the more sensationalist accounts.”
“Most of those are frauds,” Jake muttered, still protective.
"Indeed, they are," Spelling agreed. "Charlatans looking for attention or reward money, or meaning well but self-deluded.
But a handful—perhaps five percent—have elements that can't be explained away so easily.
" He ducked beneath a low-hanging branch.
"Cases where individuals provided specific, verifiable information that they couldn't possibly have known through conventional means. "
Jenna remained silent, still processing the fact that her most closely guarded secret had been exposed—and met not with disbelief or mockery, but with something approaching academic enthusiasm.
“I never dared hope I’d actually work with someone who possessed genuine ability,” Spelling continued. “Yet here we are.” A rare smile softened his usually stern features. “And a sheriff, no less. That’s quite remarkable.”
“It’s not as dramatic as you’re making it sound,” Jenna finally said, stepping carefully over a fallen log. “I can’t read minds or move objects or any of that nonsense.”
“Then what exactly can you do?” Spelling asked, his tone suggesting genuine curiosity rather than skepticism.
Jenna exchanged a glance with Jake, who gave her a small nod of encouragement.
She took a deep breath, suddenly aware that this conversation marked a turning point.
For years, she’d kept her ability hidden from everyone but Frank, and later, reluctantly, Jake.
When she’d finally confided in Jake, it had ultimately brought them closer, rather than chasing him away as she’d feared.
“I sometimes have lucid dreams,” she said finally. “And in those dreams, I’m visited by the dead.”
If Spelling was surprised by her admission, he didn’t show it. “The victims come to you?”
“Not always. Not even usually. I can’t control who visits or when. And when they do come, many of them are confused about where they are and what has happened. But they do share whatever they know, and I can usually get something to follow up on.”
“Like Marjory Powell,” Jake added. “She came to Jenna in a dream before we found her body.”
“And Alcox,” Jenna continued, the path widening as they neared the cabin. “Last night, he appeared to me as a mannequin at a typewriter. He told me he was the killer’s first victim.”
Spelling’s expression grew thoughtful. “I’ve never heard of a psychic who worked specifically through dreams, though many claim to communicate with the deceased.”
Jenna felt a weight lifting from her shoulders with each step. Frank had suggested just yesterday that perhaps she should consider widening the circle of those who knew about her gift. At the time, the idea had worried her. Now, she found herself grateful for Spelling’s unexpected understanding.
He paused, watching a cardinal flit between branches above them. “My interest in this phenomenon isn’t just academic, Sheriff. I believe it could be another tool in our investigative arsenal, properly understood and applied.”
They emerged from the denser woods onto the path leading to Alcox’s cabin. Officer Ford stood on the porch, speaking into his radio, presumably updating headquarters on their discovery. Yellow crime scene tape now surrounded the perimeter, fluttering in the morning breeze.
“Did Alcox tell you anything else in your dream?” Spelling asked as they approached. “Anything that might lead us to his killer?”
Jenna frowned, trying to recall the details that had already begun to fade. “He mentioned something about euthanasia and happiness. Said I should remember those words.”
Spelling frowned. “Euthanasia and happiness? What could that mean?”
“I’m not sure, but—” Jenna stopped abruptly, remembering something else. “He also said his killer was a philosopher. That they had a conversation about philosophy before he was killed.”
“A philosopher who believes in euthanasia and happiness,” Spelling mused. “That’s specific enough to be useful.”
They reached the cabin, where Officer Ford stood at attention, awaiting more instructions. The interior was exactly as they’d left it—the mannequin of Dean Alcox still seated at the typewriter, frozen in its grotesque parody of creativity.
“Officer Ford,” Spelling said, “I need you to retrieve the laptop computer from my vehicle.”
“Yes, sir,” Ford replied, immediately setting off down the path toward where they’d parked.
“Do you think a simple search might yield results?” Jake asked, skepticism evident in his tone.
“It’s worth trying,” Jenna replied. “Those terms together are distinctive enough.”
Ford returned within minutes, the sleek laptop tucked under his arm. Spelling took it from him with a nod of thanks and handed it to Jenna.
“Let’s see what we can find,” he said.
Jenna set the computer on a small table near the cabin’s entrance, careful to avoid disturbing any potential evidence.
The device booted quickly, connecting automatically to the State Highway Patrol’s mobile network.
She opened a browser and typed three words into the search bar: philosopher… euthanasia… happiness.
The results loaded almost instantly. The third link down caught her eye—a local news article from the Ozark Tribune dated four months earlier. The headline read: “Ozark State University Professor Fired Over Controversial ‘Euthanasia of Happiness’ Philosophy.”
“I think we have something,” she said, clicking the link.
Jake and Spelling moved to either side of her, reading over her shoulders as the article filled the screen:
“Ozark State University has terminated the employment of Daniel Greenwich, an adjunct professor who taught in both the Philosophy and Visual Art departments for over a decade. The dismissal comes after multiple student complaints about Greenwich’s promotion of what he termed ‘euthanasia of happiness’ in his Introduction to Philosophy course.
“According to university officials, Greenwich advocated for the controversial position that human life is inherently miserable and people must stop procreating, a philosophy known as antinatalism, which argues it is better never to have been born.
More alarmingly, Greenwich allegedly expanded this philosophy to suggest that people should be euthanized at the moment they achieve their greatest happiness, claiming this prevents the inevitable suffering of decline.
“Multiple students reported that Greenwich encouraged them to ‘take matters into their own hands’ by painlessly ending the lives of people who had reached peak happiness and success.
When confronted by university administration, Greenwich reportedly defended his teachings as ‘mere philosophical exploration.’
“Dr. Helen Winters, Dean of Humanities, stated that Greenwich’s teachings crossed the line from academic discourse into dangerous rhetoric. ‘While we encourage philosophical debate, advocating for actual harm crosses ethical boundaries that cannot be tolerated in an academic setting,’ Winters said.
“Greenwich, who also taught sculpture in the Visual Arts department, has not responded to requests for comment...”
“This is him,” Jenna said, the certainty settling in her bones. “This fits everything we know about the killer’s methodology.”
Jake nodded, his expression grim. "He's preserving people at their peak moments of success. Marjory, after her big real estate sale, Torres, after his fitness magazine feature—"
"And Alcox, after completing what he considered his magnum opus," Spelling finished. "The evidence fits."
“But where is Greenwich now?” Jenna asked.
Spelling gently moved her aside and took control of the laptop. His fingers moved rapidly across the keyboard, accessing databases available only to law enforcement. “Let’s see if we can track his movements after being fired.”
After several minutes of focused searching, Spelling straightened. “Got him. Daniel Greenwich moved from Pinecrest to Trentville three months ago. He’s renting a house at 715 Cedar Lane.”
“Trentville,” Jenna repeated, a shock running through her. “He’s been operating from our own home base.”
“And considering the timeline, he’s accelerating,” Jake added. “Alcox first, then Powell, then Torres—each one coming more quickly after the last.”
Spelling closed the laptop with a decisive click. “He may already have another victim in mind. We need to move now.”
“Agreed,” Jenna said, her mind racing ahead to the confrontation that awaited them. “If Greenwich is following his philosophy, he’ll be targeting successful people at their peak moments. That could be anyone who’s recently achieved something significant.”
“I’ll coordinate with the local authorities en route,” Spelling said, already moving toward the door. “Officer Ford, remain here and secure the scene until forensics and the medical examiner arrive. No one enters except authorized personnel.”
“Yes, sir,” Ford replied, his hand moving instinctively to his sidearm.
Outside, the morning had fully bloomed, sunlight streaming through the trees and burning away the last of the morning mist. The forest that had seemed so ominous in darkness now appeared almost mundane, oblivious to the horrors it concealed.
“I’ll take my vehicle,” Spelling said as they reached the path leading back to the road. “You two follow in yours. We’ll coordinate by radio.”
Jenna nodded, her focus narrowing to the task ahead. The revelation of her abilities to Spelling now seemed almost secondary to the urgency of stopping Greenwich before he claimed another victim.
As they reached their vehicles, Spelling paused, his hand on his car door. “Sheriff Graves,” he said, his voice lowered so only she could hear, “when this is over, I’d like to continue our conversation. Your ability could be invaluable to law enforcement beyond just this case.”
“One crisis at a time, Colonel,” she replied.
He nodded, a hint of a smile touching his lips before his expression returned to its usual professional mask. “To Trentville, then. Let’s end this.”