CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
Jenna cupped her mug between her palms, enjoying the warmth. The kitchen in Frank’s house held the comforting smell of brewing coffee and the lingering traces of his homemade stew that three people had just eaten for dinner.
“So he just told you where Torres’s body was?” Frank asked, settling back into his chair. His weathered face looked especially lined tonight, the overhead light casting shadows that deepened every crease earned through decades of law enforcement.
Jake nodded. “Without hesitation. Led us right to it—a field about five miles outside of Pinecrest. The body was exactly where he said it would be, covered with a sheet just like the others.”
“Medical examiner confirmed cause of death was the same too,” Jenna added. “Asphyxiation by helium. Quick and painless, just like he intended.”
Frank frowned as he studied them both. “And you say he was cooperative? After trying to run?”
“That’s the strangest part,” Jake said, leaning forward. “Once he knew Sarah Fleming was alive and relatively unharmed, his whole demeanor changed. The panic disappeared. He became almost... helpful.”
“He kept asking about her,” Jenna added. “Wanted to make sure the cut on her forehead wasn’t serious, that she hadn’t suffered any lasting damage from the muscle relaxant or the crash.”
“The man killed three people,” Frank said, his voice tinged with disbelief. “And you’re telling me he was worried about scratches on his fourth intended victim?”
Jenna nodded. “In his mind, he wasn’t a murderer. He kept saying he was sorry that Sarah would have to live with ‘life’s inevitable disappointments’ after achieving such success with her podcast. Said he had hoped to save her from that.”
“He sees himself as merciful,” Jake said. “A preservationist, not a killer.”
Frank’s weathered hands wrapped around his coffee mug, his gray eyes sharp despite the late hour. “What kind of mind can do that? Turn murder into mercy?”
Jenna replied, “We learned more about his background during questioning. He was raised by a single father who was a sculptor. The father was apparently obsessed with his work, neglected Daniel’s basic needs—food, attention, affection.”
“So the boy, in his loneliness, began to make friends with his father’s sculptures,” Jake continued. “He told us they were more reliable than real people. They never changed, never disappointed him.”
“And that twisted into his strange philosophy?” Frank asked.
“Exactly,” Jenna confirmed. “He’d watch someone achieve something significant—Alcox completing his masterpiece, Powell making her big sale, Torres getting featured in that fitness magazine—and decide that was their peak moment. Everything after would only be diminishment in his mind.”
“So he preserved them,” Frank murmured. “In his own way.”
A silence fell over the kitchen. Frank rose to refill their mugs, the coffee pot scraping against the burner as he lifted it.
“Well,” he said finally, setting the refreshed mugs before them, “you two did good work. You caught him, and you saved Sarah Fleming. How’s Morgan taking all this? Can’t imagine he’s thrilled about being wrong about Morrison.”
“He’s not,” Jake agreed with a wry smile.
“And what about how you found Greenwich in the first place?” Frank’s gaze shifted to Jenna. “Another one of your dreams?”
“That’s right. Alcox came to me. Or rather, a mannequin version of him did. Told me he was the killer’s first victim and mentioned the philosophy that led us to Greenwich.”
“And Morgan doesn’t know anything about that part?”
“No,” Jake answered. “Colonel Spelling is dealing with Morgan. He’s good at offering plausible explanations without outright lying.”
Frank’s eyebrows shot up. “Spelling knows?”
Jenna met his questioning gaze. “He figured it out himself. Said he’d suspected since the Harvesters case when we found those girls in the abandoned mine. Called me out on it at Alcox’s cabin.”
“And how does he feel about it?” Frank asked, leaning forward.
“Good,” Jenna replied. “Actually... enthusiastic. Said he’s always been interested in paranormal abilities as a tool in law enforcement.”
Frank chuckled, the sound warm in the quiet kitchen. “So that makes four of us now who know your secret—me, Jake, you, and Colonel Spelling.” He nodded slowly. “That’s good. That’s as it should be.”
“You think so?” Jenna asked, surprised.
“A gift like yours shouldn’t be carried alone,” Frank said simply. “Too heavy a burden. And Spelling’s a good man to have in your corner—connected, respected. If anyone ever starts asking uncomfortable questions about your methods, he can run interference.”
Jenna felt a tension ease that she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying. Frank had been the first person she’d ever told about her dreams, and his acceptance had been her anchor for years now.
“It’s late,” Jake said, stifling a yawn. “And we’ve had a hell of a day.”
They rose from the table together, Jenna’s limbs heavy with exhaustion. Frank saw them to the door, his hand resting briefly on Jenna’s shoulder—a gesture of pride and affection that spoke more than words could.
The night air was cool against Jenna’s face as she and Jake walked to her cruiser. Stars speckled the dark sky above, indifferent to the day’s drama.
“I’ll drop you at your place,” she said as they slid into the vehicle.
The drive to Jake’s house passed in comfortable silence, both too tired for conversation. When she pulled up to the curb, Jake hesitated before opening the door.
“Jenna...” he began, then seemed to think better of it. “Never mind. It can wait. Get some rest.”
As Jenna watched him walk to his front door, she wanted to call him back.
After the hospital, after nearly losing him, something had definitely changed between them.
But part of her mind whispered that partners weren’t supposed to feel this way.
Friends who worked together like they did shouldn’t complicate things with.
.. whatever this was. She put the car in drive before he reached his door, not wanting to see if he would turn to say anything else.
Jenna drove home, where her house greeted her with dark windows and silent rooms. She moved through her evening routine on autopilot—keys on the hook, gun in the safe, badge on the dresser.
She told herself that what she needed now was sleep, deep and dreamless.
But one big question still haunted her mind, as it had for twenty years.
Where was Piper?
***
Jenna stood on a hilltop, the world below her rendered in twilight hues that didn’t match any natural light she’d ever seen.
The air felt charged, like the moment before a summer storm.
In the distance, nestled between gently rolling hills, stood a small farmhouse with white walls that gleamed in the strange light.
Its red roof stood out against the surrounding greenery, and beside it was a weathered gray barn.
In the fields surrounding the buildings, tiny figures moved, tending to rows of crops. Though they were too distant to make out clearly, their movements suggested the rhythmic labor of people connected to the land.
The realization struck Jenna like a physical blow. This was the farm she had glimpsed before, the one Patricia Gaines had shown her in previous dreams, the one she’d been driving all over the place to find. The connection to Piper that had eluded her for so long.
“I’m dreaming,” she said aloud. The moment the words left her lips, the world around her sharpened, details crystallizing as her consciousness asserted control. The lucidity brought a rush of clarity, and with it, purpose.
She stared at the farmhouse, committing every detail to memory—the slight tilt of the chimney, the pattern of windows, the way the dirt path wound from the main road through a gap in the wooden fence. If only she knew where to look for this place in the waking world.
“I wish I knew where to find it,” she murmured.
“You can find it,” a familiar voice replied.
Jenna turned to find Patricia Gaines standing beside her, her form more solid than in previous encounters.
Jenna recognized her hollowed cheeks and her penetrating stare.
Her dark hair lifted slightly in a breeze Jenna couldn’t feel, and her eyes held the knowing look of someone who walked between worlds.
“Patricia,” Jenna acknowledged. “You brought me here again.”
“You needed to see it once more,” Patricia replied. “Before you go there yourself.”
Jenna gestured toward the farm below. “What is this place? Who are those people?”
Patricia’s expression softened. “It’s a farm for the lost and found,” she said, her voice carrying a hint of reverence.
“People who’ve fallen through the cracks.
People who need to disappear for a while.
People who are searching for something they’ve lost—or running from something that won’t let them go. ”
“And Piper?” Jenna asked, her heart racing. “Is my sister there?”
Patricia opened her mouth to answer, but her form had already begun to fade at the edges, dissolving like mist. “The lost and found,” she repeated, her voice growing distant. “Remember those words.”
“Patricia, wait!” Jenna called, reaching out to grasp what was already intangible. “Please, I need more—”
But the dream was collapsing around her, the farmhouse blurring like a watercolor painting left in the rain. The hill beneath her feet began to flatten, the sky folding in upon itself.
“No,” she protested, “not yet—”
Light assaulted her closed eyelids—morning sun streaming through her bedroom window where she’d forgotten to close the blinds the night before. Jenna sat up with a gasp. The dream clung to her, more vivid than usual, refusing to fade into the background noise of consciousness.
“The lost and found,” she whispered.
She hurried to her desk and woke her laptop. The screen blinked to life and she typed “farm” and “lost and found” into the search bar.
The results populated immediately—thousands of links to lost and found services at farms, agricultural festivals with lost and found booths, farms that had been lost and found again through historical preservation efforts. Too broad, too unfocused.
Jenna narrowed her search, adding “Missouri” to the terms. The results refreshed, fewer now but still too many to be useful. She scrolled through several pages, scanning for anything that might match what she’d seen in her dream.
On the fourth page, a link caught her eye: “The Lost and Found Collective—A Haven for Wayward Souls in Missouri’s Heartland.”
Her pulse quickened as she clicked the link. A simple website loaded, its appearance intentionally rustic—a header image showed a farmhouse with white clapboard walls and a red roof. Beside it stood a weathered gray barn.
“That’s it,” Jenna breathed, leaning closer to the screen.
She scrolled down, devouring the information.
The Lost and Found Collective described itself as “a communal living experiment and working farm for those who have lost their way in life.” Founded fifteen years ago by a former social worker named Eliot Lansing, it offered sanctuary to people needing to rebuild their lives away from whatever they were leaving behind.
Photos showed the farm from various angles—aerial views confirming its location nestled between rolling hills, just as in her dream.
Images of people working the fields, sharing meals at long wooden tables, gathered around bonfires under star-filled skies.
Faces blurred or turned away from the camera, privacy clearly a priority.
The “About Us” page explained their philosophy: “Some come to heal from trauma, others to escape situations they can no longer endure. We ask few questions about the past. Here, it’s about building a future, day by day, through honest work and simple living.”
At the bottom of the page, an address: 4738 Wildwood Road, Haversham County, Missouri.
Jenna’s hands trembled as she wrote down the address.
Haversham County bordered Genesius to the north—perhaps a two-hour drive from Trentville.
She checked the time—just past seven in the morning.
If she left soon, she could be there well before noon.
The possibility that Piper might be there, might have been there all these years, sent a surge of adrenaline through her veins.
Jenna headed to the shower. The hot water washed away the last cobwebs of sleep as she mentally prepared for what lay ahead.
She couldn’t be certain her sister was there, couldn’t allow herself to hope too fiercely after twenty years of disappointment.
But this was the strongest lead she’d ever had.
As she toweled off and dressed in practical clothes—jeans, a light sweater, boots sturdy enough for farm terrain—Jenna felt an unfamiliar sensation. It took her a moment to recognize it: hope, fragile but persistent.
She would need to call Jake, let him know where she was going. But that call could wait until she was on the road.