In Her Wake (Jenna Graves Suspense #9)

PROLOGUE

Harry Powell turned his key in the lock, pushing open the front door of his home. At this hour, he should have still been overseeing the production line at Ozark Glassworks. In his mind, he could still hear the plant manager's apologetic tone, "Hours getting cut again, Harry. Nothing personal."

Two hours before the end of his shift, they’d told him to clock out, head home.

Third time this month. Ozark Glassworks was dying.

The conveyor belts would soon stop, the furnaces would cool, and the bottles they’d been making since before Harry was born would come from somewhere across an ocean, made by hands paid a fraction of what he would be.

Harry expected to find an empty house. His wife would be out showing properties until dinner, still hours away.

He loosened his tie and hung his jacket on the hook by the door.

He wasn’t worried about money, not yet. Marjory had sold the old Thurman estate last week, the commission alone enough to bring them close to paying off their mortgage.

He’d watched her from across the room at the celebration dinner her agency had thrown, glass of champagne in hand, laughing with that full-throated sound that had first caught his attention twenty-six years ago.

Her colleagues had toasted her, called her a miracle worker for finding buyers for a property that had languished on the market for over two years.

The thought of Marjory as their primary breadwinner prickled uncomfortably under his skin.

Not that he’d admit it—not to Marjory, not to his poker buddies, not even fully to himself.

But his father had worked the same production line for forty-two years, coming home with glass dust in the creases of his hands and the satisfaction of a man who provided.

What would Harry become if Ozark Glassworks finally shuttered its doors?

His stomach growled, and he headed toward the kitchen.

Although they had planned to go out for their own celebratory dinner tonight, maybe meantime he'd have some of that leftover meatloaf, or perhaps the potato salad Marjory had made on Sunday.

He pushed open the swinging door, then froze in his steps.

His wife sat at their kitchen table, a white mug cupped between her hands, steam no longer rising from what must have been coffee.

She wore her navy blue blazer—her power suit, she called it—with a cream blouse underneath.

Her auburn hair fell in waves just past her shoulders, exactly as it had that morning when she’d kissed him goodbye.

But she didn’t turn. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

“Marjory?” Harry’s voice came out thin, uncertain.

No response. No movement. Not even a twitch.

He took a step forward, then another.

“This isn’t funny,” he said, the words scraping his suddenly dry throat. “Whatever this is, it’s not funny.”

Three more steps, and he stood close enough to see what his mind had refused to process at first glance.

It wasn’t Marjory. It couldn’t be Marjory.

The thing at his kitchen table wore her clothes, her makeup, even had her hair styled the same way—but it wasn’t her.

The eyes, though colored the same hazel as his wife’s, stared unseeing at the center of the table.

The hands had jointed fingers, but weren’t nearly as realistic as the face.

They were positioned with unnatural stillness around the mug.

A mannequin. A life-sized, eerily detailed mannequin of his wife. He wanted to touch it, to confirm that what he was seeing was real, but something held him back—a primal instinct warning him not to make contact with this thing.

Harry’s laugh came out as a strangled bark. “What the hell?” He turned in a full circle, half-expecting to find Marjory hiding in a corner, camera in hand, ready to record his reaction for some prank show or social media stunt. “Marjory? Is this your idea of a joke?”

The house answered with silence.

“Hello?” he called louder, moving back into the hallway, checking the living room, the study. “Anyone here? Marjory?”

He returned to the kitchen, unable to keep his eyes off the mannequin. It was perfect—horrifyingly perfect. The small mole just below Marjory’s right ear. The slight asymmetry of her smile. Details no commercial mannequin would have.

Custom-made, then. But why? And by whom?

Marjory wasn’t the type for elaborate pranks. She was straightforward, practical—the kind of woman who considered spontaneity to be scheduling a dinner reservation only three days in advance instead of her usual week.

“Marjory?” he called again, his voice edged with the first real tendrils of fear.

Harry pulled his phone from his pocket, tapping her name in his contacts. Her phone rang three times, then went to voicemail. The sound of her recorded voice—”Hi, this is Marjory Powell with Genesius County Properties. Leave a message, and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”

He ended the call without leaving a message and moved to the window.

Outside, the September afternoon stretched long and golden.

The driveway was empty aside from his own sedan.

Marjory’s silver Lexus—the one she’d bought herself after closing the deal on the Westbrook development—was still nowhere to be seen.

“This isn’t happening,” Harry muttered. “This isn’t real.”

But it was real. The mannequin still sat there, an obscene parody of domestic tranquility, while Harry’s mind raced through possibilities, each more disturbing than the last.

Marjory had clients who were eccentric, sure. Wealthy retirees looking for vacation properties, young professionals buying their first homes. But nobody would do something like this. Nobody would create such a perfect replica and stage it in their home.

Harry fumbled with his phone, suddenly clumsy as he scrolled to find the number he wanted. A woman’s cheerful voice answered.

“Genesius County Properties, how can I help you?”

“Carol, this is Harry Powell,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “Marjory’s husband. Is she there?”

A pause, then: “No, I’m sorry, Mr. Powell. Marjory had showings scheduled all afternoon. She left around noon and hasn’t been back.”

“Do you know where she is right now? Which property?”

Another pause, longer this time. “Let me check her calendar.” He heard the click of computer keys. “She had the Henderson place at one, then the Blackwell cottage at three. Is everything alright?”

No, everything was not alright. There was a mannequin wearing his wife’s clothes sitting at his kitchen table, and his wife wasn’t answering her phone.

“I’m not sure,” Harry said carefully. “She’s not answering her cell. Could you try reaching her? Have her call me as soon as possible?”

“Of course, Mr. Powell. I’ll try her right away.”

Harry thanked her and ended the call. He looked back at the mannequin, half-expecting it to have moved, to have shifted position or turned its head toward him. But it remained exactly as before, frozen in its imitation of life.

After a few minutes, a sharp ring startled him, and he nearly dropped the phone. "Hello?"

“Mr. Powell?” Carol’s voice was hesitant, careful. “I tried Marjory’s phone. She’s not answering.”

A heaviness settled in his chest. “Thank you, Carol. Please, if you hear from her, tell her to call home.”

He hung up and leaned against the counter, the cool surface biting into his back as he tried to think.

He needed to do something, but what? Call the police?

And say what? My wife isn’t home, and someone left a mannequin that looks like her in our kitchen?

They’d laugh him off the line. Or worse, they’d think he was having some kind of breakdown.

But he couldn’t just stand here waiting. He couldn’t leave that thing sitting at his kitchen table.

Harry moved to the front door, stepping outside to see if any neighbors were around. The Wilsons’ house across the street was quiet, their car gone. The Johnsons next door were both at work until evening. No witnesses, no one who might have seen anything unusual.

Back inside, he pulled out his phone again and tried Marjory’s number. Straight to voicemail this time, not even a ring. The battery might be dead. Or someone might have turned it off.

The house felt different now, the familiar spaces tainted by the presence of that thing in the kitchen. Harry moved cautiously through each room, checking closets, looking behind doors, half-expecting to find more mannequins, or some other horror lurking in the corners of his home.

Nothing seemed disturbed. Nothing missing. Just the mannequin, sitting there like an accusation.

He returned to the kitchen doorway, studying it from a distance. Who would do this? How had they gotten into the house? The doors had been locked when he arrived home, no windows broken, no signs of forced entry.

Someone with a key? The list was short. Marjory’s mother had one, but she lived in Florida now. Their daughter, Kayla, but she was away at college in Chicago. The housekeeper who came every other Thursday—today wasn’t her day.

Or maybe it was someone Marjory knew. Someone she had let in. Someone who had...

Harry couldn’t complete the thought. The possibilities branched out before him, each darker than the last. He stared at the mannequin for a long moment, then made his decision.

He moved to the counter, keeping his distance from the table, and picked up his phone again.

Marjory might be in danger. He needed help. Professional help.

His thumb hovered over the keypad. Nine-one-one. Three simple digits.

But what would he say when they answered?