CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
The fields that stretched out before Jenna were a patchwork of greens and browns. Two hours on the road had given her time to think and to temper her expectations. Dreams, even lucid ones, were rarely as straightforward as they seemed.
She had called Jake after she got underway, giving him a brief explanation of where she was going and why. He’d offered to come with her, but she’d declined. This journey felt deeply personal, something she needed to face alone.
“Still,” he’d said before hanging up, “let me know how things work out. I’ll be thinking about you.”
The memory of his concern warmed her now as she navigated a particularly sharp bend in the road.
Ahead, the landscape opened up, revealing a crossroads marked by a single blinking yellow light suspended above the intersection.
But it wasn’t the light that caused Jenna to ease her foot off the accelerator.
A scarecrow stood at the corner of the field to her right.
Jenna pulled over, gravel crunching beneath her tires as she brought the car to a stop on the shoulder. She sat for a moment, staring at the scarecrow through her windshield. Surely this must be the one that Patricia had told her about in a dream.
She checked the directions one more time. According to the website, the Lost and Found Collective was half a mile down the road to the left of the intersection. With a deep breath, she pulled back onto the road and made the turn.
The entrance appeared exactly where it should be—a simple gravel drive marked by a hand-painted wooden sign that read “The Lost and Found Collective” in faded blue letters.
An arrow pointed up the drive toward buildings visible in the distance: a white farmhouse with a red roof, and beside it, a weathered gray barn slightly to one side.
Jenna turned into the drive. The car bounced over ruts in the gravel, dust billowing behind her.
She parked in a small area near the barn where several other vehicles were stationed—an old pickup truck, a couple of modest sedans, a van with peeling paint.
Taking a deep breath, Jenna stepped out of her car.
Up close, the farmhouse looked like her dream vision, but older.
The white paint was peeling in places, the red roof had faded to a rusty hue.
Just outside the open barn doors, a young man was repairing a tractor, his hands blackened with grease.
He looked up as Jenna approached, wiping his palms on a rag tucked into his back pocket.
“Can I help you?” he asked, his tone simply curious.
“I’m Sheriff Jenna Graves from Genesius County. I’m looking for information about someone who might have stayed here.”
The young man’s expression shifted slightly. “I’ve only been here eight months,” he said, shrugging. “But you could ask around. Most folks are out in the fields right now.”
“Thanks,” Jenna replied.
She made her way toward the nearest field, where three young women were clearing away the debris of old plants.
As Jenna approached, she took in their appearances—all in their early twenties, dressed in practical work clothes smudged with dirt.
One had vibrant blue hair peeking out from beneath a bandana, another sported intricate tattoos that wound up both arms, the third wore thick-framed glasses that kept sliding down her nose.
“Excuse me,” Jenna called as she neared them.
“Hi there,” the one with blue hair said. “You looking for someone?”
“I might be,” Jenna replied. She pulled a photograph from her pocket—one of the last taken of Piper before she disappeared, age sixteen with long chestnut hair.
It was an old photograph, the edges worn from years of handling.
“Have any of you seen this girl? She would be in her mid-thirties now, but she might have come through here years ago.”
The three young women gathered around, studying the photo with genuine interest. Their heads shook almost in unison.
“Sorry,” said the one with the tattoos. “Never seen her before.”
“How long have you been here?” Jenna asked.
“Two years for me,” said Blue Hair.
“A year and a half,” Tattoos added.
“Just since January,” said Glasses, pushing them up again.
Jenna nodded, trying to hide her disappointment. “Is there anyone who’s been here longer? Ten years or more, maybe?”
The three exchanged glances, then Blue Hair spoke up. “Only Eliot. He started this place. Everyone else stays a while, then moves on.”
“Eliot Lansing?” Jenna asked, remembering the name from the website.
“That’s him,” Tattoos confirmed. “He’ll be in the farmhouse this time of day. He’s got arthritis, so he handles the paperwork and scheduling while we do the physical stuff.”
“Great. Thank you,” Jenna said, already turning toward the farmhouse.
“No problem,” Blue Hair called after her.
The walk to the farmhouse gave Jenna time to process what she’d learned so far. No one here was old enough to be Piper or even remember her. The hope that had carried her all this way began to falter.
The farmhouse’s front porch creaked beneath her boots as she climbed the steps to the door. A wind chime made of twisted metal and colored glass tinkled softly in the breeze. Jenna knocked, the sound hollow against the old wood.
Footsteps approached, and the door swung open to reveal a man in his sixties with a salt-and-pepper beard and kind eyes that crinkled at the corners. His left hand gripped the doorframe in a way that suggested he was using it for support.
“How can I help you?” he asked, his voice a gentle rumble.
“Mr. Lansing?” Jenna inquired. When he nodded, she continued, “I’m Sheriff Jenna Graves from Genesius County. I was hoping I could ask you some questions about a person who might have stayed here at some point.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly at her title, but he smiled warmly. “Of course, Sheriff. Come in, please.”
He stepped back, allowing her entry into a spacious living room that had been converted for communal use.
Mismatched sofas and chairs were arranged in a circle around a large, low table covered with books, sketch pads, and mugs of half-finished tea.
The walls were lined with bookshelves, and large windows let in streams of sunlight that warmed the worn wooden floors.
“Have a seat,” Eliot offered, gesturing to one of the sofas. “Can I get you some tea?”
“No, thank you,” Jenna replied, perching on the edge of the sofa. “I won’t take much of your time.”
Eliot lowered himself into a rocking chair with a barely disguised wince. “Time is something we’ve got plenty of around here, Sheriff. It’s why most people come to us—to find time to heal, to think, to figure out what’s next.”
Jenna nodded, then reached into her pocket and pulled out the photograph once more. “I’m looking for this person,” she said, handing it to Eliot. “Her name is Piper Graves. She was a teenager in this photo, but she’d be in her mid-thirties now.”
Eliot took the photograph and studied it. His gaze flickered between the image and Jenna’s face, recognition dawning in his expression.
“I know this face,” he said slowly. “Though I didn’t know her as Piper Graves.”
“You—you recognize her?”
“I do,” Eliot confirmed, still looking between Jenna and the photo. “And I see her resemblance to you. The eyes especially—same shape, same intensity.” He handed the photograph back to Jenna. “She called herself Emma Kirby when she came here. It was about ten years ago.”
“Emma Kirby,” Jenna repeated, trying the name on her tongue. It felt foreign, wrong—a name that belonged to a stranger, not to the twin she’d shared a childhood with.
“Yes,” Eliot continued. “She arrived here looking for a place to stay. Most young people who come here are running from something or searching for something—sometimes both. Emma... she was definitely running. Wouldn’t tell anyone anything about herself, kept to herself mostly.”
“How long did she stay?” Jenna asked.
“She only stayed about a week. Then one morning, she was just... gone. No goodbyes, no note. Her few belongings vanished with her.”
“Just a week?” Jenna echoed.
“Yes. Most young people stay a year or two, find their footing, then move on to whatever’s next. Some stay longer, a handful have been here five years or more. But I’ve rarely had someone leave so abruptly.”
“Did she say anything about where she might go next? Any names, places?”
Eliot thought for a moment, his weathered face creasing with the effort. “No, nothing specific. She kept to herself, as I said. Worked hard in the fields during the day, stayed in her room most evenings. The few times she joined the communal dinners, she barely spoke.”
“Did she seem... afraid?” Jenna pressed. “Like she might be hiding from someone?”
“Not exactly afraid. More... vigilant. She always positioned herself with her back to a wall, always seemed to be watching the entrances and exits. It was subtle, but I noticed. In my younger days, I worked as a counselor with at-risk youth—you develop an eye for that kind of behavior.”
Jenna nodded, recognizing the description of someone who felt hunted. “Is there anyone else here who might remember her? Anyone from ten years ago still around?”
Eliot shook his head regretfully. “I’m afraid not. I’m the only constant here.”
“Did she leave anything behind? A note, a drawing, anything at all?”
“Nothing that I recall,” Eliot replied. “She traveled light—just a backpack. Took everything with her when she left.”
Jenna sat back. After twenty years of searching, she’d learned that Piper had been alive just ten years ago. But now the trail had gone cold again.
“Sheriff,” Eliot said gently. “This person is a relative? Someone who means a great deal to you?”
“My twin sister,” she admitted. “She disappeared twenty years ago, when we were sixteen. I’ve been looking for her ever since.”
Understanding dawned in Eliot’s eyes. “I’m sorry I can’t tell you more,” he said. “If it helps at all, she seemed... troubled, but not unwell. Wherever she went after here, I believe she had a plan.”
It was small comfort, but Jenna appreciated the attempt. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Lansing.”
He walked her to the door, his gait stiff but dignified. On the porch, he paused, looking out over the fields where his young charges continued their work. “If I may ask, Sheriff—how did you find us? How did you know to look here for your sister?”
“Let’s just say I followed a very strong hunch.”
Eliot only nodded. “Well, if you ever need a place to rest, to think, our door is always open.”
“Thank you,” Jenna said, truly meaning it.
As she walked back to her car, Jenna felt the familiar frustration. Twenty years of searching, and all she had was a false name and the knowledge that Piper had spent one week at this farm a decade ago before vanishing again.
Emma Kirby. Why had Piper felt the need to use an alias? . What else had she changed about herself these last twenty years? And where had she gone after leaving the farm? Most importantly, what—or who—had she been running from?