CHAPTER SIX
A few minutes later, Jenna turned onto Sycamore Lane, the street where she’d grown up.
In spite of the name, it was ancient oaks that lined the road, their gnarled branches reaching toward one another, creating a canopy that dappled the evening light.
Her mother still lived alone in the house that had once held their whole family—Jenna, both parents, and Piper.
Old habits died hard; whenever she drove down this familiar street, she still half-expected to find her mother slumped in an armchair, glass in hand, lost in the fog of alcohol and grief as she had so many times in the past. When her cruiser pulled into the driveway, Jenna sat for a moment, studying the front yard.
The garden beds bloomed with late summer flowers, purple coneflowers nodding in the light breeze.
The lawn had been mowed recently, the edges neatly trimmed.
She wondered when she would stop being surprised at all that …
As recently as the spring of this year, this same yard had been neglected, overgrown, a wilderness of knee-high grass and choking weeds—a reflection of her mother’s inner state. The garden had been dead, save for the most stubborn and hardy perennials fighting through the tangle.
“It shouldn’t have to be a victory that your mother’s garden looks nice,” Jenna muttered to herself as she gathered her things. But it was. Sobriety was a daily choice, and Jenna had learned the hard way not to take her mother’s for granted.
She made her way up the concrete path, noting how the cracks had been recently filled with some kind of patching compound. The concrete steps had been swept clean of the oak leaves that inevitably gathered there. Small changes, significant effort.
Soon after she knocked, the door swung open. Margaret Graves stood in the threshold, her face lighting up at the sight of her daughter. “Jenna Marie,” she said, “what a lovely surprise.” The name slipped easily from her lips—only her mother and Frank used her middle name with such casual affection.
Jenna stepped forward into her mother’s embrace, inhaling the scent of lavender soap and herbal shampoo. No alcohol. No unwashed clothes. The knot in her stomach loosened just slightly.
“You look good, Mom,” she said, and meant it. Margaret’s hair was neatly styled, and she wore a sage green blouse that brought out the color in her eyes—just like the green eyes Jenna saw in the mirror each morning.
“Come in, come in,” Margaret urged, stepping aside. “I just made fresh iced tea. The real kind, brewed with the sun on the back porch, not that instant stuff.”
The interior of the house was as improved as the exterior.
Gone were the stacks of old newspapers and unwashed dishes that had occupied every surface for years.
The living room furniture had been recently rearranged to create a more open feeling, and a vase of freshly cut zinnias sat on the coffee table.
They settled in the kitchen at the round oak table that had survived decades of family meals, homework sessions, and heated arguments. Margaret poured two glasses of tea from a pitcher beaded with condensation, then sat across from her daughter.
“What brings you by?” she asked, passing a glass to Jenna. “Not that I’m not delighted to see you, but I know that look. You’ve got something on your mind.”
Jenna took a sip of tea, the sweetness and hint of mint refreshing after the long day. “I’m working a case,” she said. “A strange one.”
Mom sighed and shook her head. “Things have been strange in Trentville lately. I wonder what this town’s coming to.”
Jenna hesitated, unsure how much to share.
“A woman has gone missing,” she said. “Marjory Powell.”
Margaret’s hand, reaching for her tea glass, froze mid-motion. “Marjory? Harry’s wife?”
“You know them?”
“Not well, but better lately,” Margaret said, frowning with concern. “They’ve been attending First Baptist for years. I started going there a few months ago.” She took a sip of her tea, her eyes troubled. “What happened to Marjory?”
Jenna gave her a skimpy outline of the case—Marjory’s missed appointment, Harry finding the mannequin in their kitchen dressed just as Marjory would dress.
She left out the more disturbing details—the intimate accuracy of the mannequin’s features, the clothes that matched what Marjory had been wearing that very day, her concerns about what might have happened to the real Marjory.
“Dear God,” Margaret whispered when Jenna finished.
“That poor man. And poor Marjory, wherever she is.” She wrapped her hands around her glass, seeking its coolness.
“I just saw her Sunday at the potluck dinner. She brought her famous seven-layer salad and told me she was hoping to just about pay off their mortgage with her latest commission.”
“You’re going to church regularly now?” Jenna couldn’t keep the surprise from her voice.
A small smile touched Margaret’s lips. “Every Sunday for the past four months. Zeke suggested it. Said it might help with the loneliness.” She reached across the table to touch Jenna’s hand.
“I know, I know. After your father died, I swore I’d never set foot in a church again.
But it’s been good for me—the community, the structure, the chance to think about something bigger than my own problems.”
“I’m glad,” Jenna said, and meant it. “It seems to be helping.”
"Church is just part of it," Margaret continued, her face animated in a way Jenna hadn't seen in years.
"I've joined the gardening club—we meet every other Thursday in the community center.
Last month, we did a flower arrangement workshop.
I was terrible at it, but Clara Wilson—you remember her, she taught third grade when you girls were little—she's got quite the knack for it. "
Jenna leaned back in her chair, letting her mother’s words wash over her. There was something miraculous about watching Margaret Graves come back to life after so many years shrouded in grief and addiction.
“It’s good that you’re becoming active again,” Jenna observed, a warmth spreading through her chest at her mother’s enthusiasm.
“And then there’s the book club,” Margaret continued.
“We just finished discussing that thriller everyone’s been talking about—the one with the unreliable narrator who might have killed her husband.
A bit dark for my taste, but Barbara Hollingsworth was absolutely convinced she had figured out the twist before anyone else. ”
“Sounds like you’ve really been busy,” Jenna observed.
“Oh, and I’ve started volunteering at the library on Monday afternoons.
Just shelving books and helping with the children’s reading hour.
Those little ones are such a delight.” Margaret’s smile widened.
“There’s this one little boy, can’t be more than four, who insists on reading the same dinosaur book every single week.
He’s memorized it, of course, but he pretends to read. It’s the sweetest thing.”
As her mother continued to detail her new social circle and activities, Jenna found herself marveling at the transformation.
It wasn’t just that Margaret looked better physically—though she certainly did, with healthy color in her cheeks and clear eyes.
It was the energy that animated her, the genuine interest she was taking in others, the forward momentum of her life.
“And how’s AA going?” Jenna asked during a natural pause. That question still felt fragile between them, even after months of sobriety.
“Good. Really good.” Margaret took another sip of tea.
“Still going to meetings three times a week. It helps to hear other people’s stories, to know I’m not alone in this struggle.
” She hesitated, a slight flush rising to her cheeks.
“You remember, we talked about it at the time, that I developed some... feelings for Zeke last month.”
Jenna nodded, keeping her expression neutral.
She remembered how Mom had briefly stopped going to AA on account of her feelings for her sponsor, Zeke Canfield.
At the time, Jenna had feared that Margaret’s unwillingness to talk to him about it would have tragic consequences for her new-found sobriety.
“But we’ve ironed that out,” Margaret continued.
“He said it happens sometimes in recovery. The vulnerability, the gratitude—it can get confused with romantic attraction. Zeke was very kind about it, very professional. We talked it through, and now we’re back to being friends.
” She smiled ruefully. “Good friends. He’s been a godsend, Jenna. Not just with the drinking.”
“What do you mean?” Jenna asked, noting a shift in her mother’s demeanor.
Margaret’s eyes dropped to her hands, now folded on the table. “He’s helped me see things more clearly. About a lot of things.” She took a deep breath. “About Piper, for one.”
Jenna felt her muscles tense at the mention of her twin’s name. “What do you mean?” she asked.
"I've been holding on too tight," Margaret said softly.
"Clinging to the hope that she's out there somewhere, alive and well.
That someday she'll just walk through that door.
" She gestured toward the kitchen entrance, her eyes briefly filling with tears before she blinked them away.
"But the truth is, it's been twenty years.
And as Zeke helped me see, the most likely explanation is the simplest one.
" She took a deep breath, then continued quite firmly, "Piper is gone, Jenna. Truly gone."
A chill ran through Jenna despite the warm evening. “Mom—”
“No, please let me finish,” Margaret interrupted gently.
“I needed to accept this. To stop living in a state of suspended grief. To acknowledge that holding onto this hope has been destroying me, bit by bit.” She reached for Jenna’s hand again.
“And I’ve been worried that it’s destructive for you too. ”
Jenna withdrew her hand, unable to meet her mother’s concerned gaze.
“You’re still looking for her, aren’t you?” Margaret asked, her voice gentle but insistent. “Still chasing every possible lead, no matter how unlikely?”
Jenna thought of the farm near Irvington, the scarecrow at the crossroads, Patricia Gaines’s words in her dream: Find the scarecrow at the crossroads. Evidence that would sound like madness to her mother’s newly rational ears.
"I just think," Margaret continued when Jenna didn't respond, "that it might be time for you to consider letting go, too. To accept what's most likely true and find a way to live with it. The way I'm trying to do."
The irony of it twisted in Jenna’s chest—her mother, finally sober and clear-eyed, choosing now to give up hope. Just when Jenna’s dreams had begun offering what felt like real clues that might finally lead to answers.
But how could she explain? She had never told her mother about the dead who visited her in dreams, never tried to explain what it meant that Piper had never come to Jenna in a lucid dream, which would only happen if Piper were dead.
So Mom would have no idea what Jenna was talking about if she tried to describe the hints she’d been getting through her dreams of Piper’s possible whereabouts, which was why she stopped at a certain crossroads and visited that farm near Irvington earlier today.
Her mother would think she’d lost her mind, that grief had finally broken her grip on reality.
"I know it's not easy," Margaret said, misinterpreting Jenna's silence as the simple resistance that she, herself, had long felt.
"I still have moments when I'm sure she's alive out there.
But then I remind myself that wishes aren't reality.
And hanging onto this—this obsession—it's kept us both from moving forward. "
Jenna finally looked up, meeting her mother’s eyes. “And you’re moving forward now?”
“I’m trying,” Margaret replied with a small, sad smile. “One day at a time, as they say in AA. Some days are harder than others, but I’m trying.”
The silence between them stretched, filled with all the things Jenna couldn't say.
Her mind pulled in opposite directions—toward the farm that had almost—but not quite—matched her dream vision, and toward her mother's new-found peace that she didn't want to shatter.
The scarecrow at the crossroads seemed to beckon her forward while her mother's clear eyes pulled her back.
What if Jenna was wrong? What if this search was just another form of the same denial that had nearly destroyed her mother?
But what if she was right, and stopped now?
“Jenna?” Her mother’s voice pulled her back to the present. Margaret was studying her face with the careful attention that had always made Jenna feel transparent as glass. “Have you found out something about Piper that you haven’t told me?”