CHAPTER SEVEN
Jenna stared at her mother across the kitchen table.
How could she possibly answer? Would the truth about her strange lucid dreams shatter this peace her mother had found, threaten her hard-won sobriety?
And yet, wouldn’t a lie be another betrayal in a long history of half-truths Jenna had constructed?
“Jenna?” Her mother pressed again, leaning forward. “Have you found something about Piper that you’re keeping from me?”
In her mind, Jenna saw the scarecrow at the crossroads, the farm that didn’t quite match her dream vision. Those fragments of hope would sound like madness to anyone who didn’t understand what she could do.
“No, Mom,” she said carefully. “I haven’t found anything concrete.”
It wasn’t a lie, not exactly. Concrete evidence was precisely what she lacked.
“But you’re still looking.”
Jenna nodded, watching her mother’s face for signs of the old fragility. But Margaret’s eyes remained clear, steady.
“Maybe you’re right,” Jenna conceded, offering what felt like the kindest truth she could. “Maybe someday I’ll be able to accept that she’s gone. To move forward the way you’re doing.”
Her mother’s hand shot across the table, gripping Jenna’s wrist with surprising strength. “That’s not what I asked you, Jenna Marie. You’re holding something back. I’ve felt it for so many years now.” Her voice dropped. “Ever since Piper disappeared, you’ve been... different. Changed.”
The words struck Jenna like physical blows. She’d always assumed her secret was well-hidden, that her carefully constructed normalcy was convincing.
“Different how?” she asked, trying to keep her tone light.
“You know things.” Margaret’s eyes never left Jenna’s face. “Things you shouldn’t know. I’ve watched you solve cases that seemed impossible. I’ve heard the whispers around town.”
“Mom—”
“People talk, Jenna. This is Trentville. They say you have some kind of second sight. That you know things about the dead that no one could possibly know.” Her mother’s grip tightened.
“And I’ve wondered, all these years—is that why you’re so certain Piper is still alive? Because you would know if she weren’t?”
The question struck at the heart of everything—the reason Jenna had never stopped searching, the knowledge she carried that her twin sister had to be alive somewhere.
“You shouldn’t believe everything you hear,” Jenna said, gently extracting her wrist from her mother’s grasp. “People in small towns love their stories.”
“Don’t do that.” Margaret’s voice hardened. “Don’t dismiss me like I’m just some gossip at the church potluck. I’m your mother. I know when you’re hiding something.”
Jenna felt trapped. How could she explain without sounding insane? My dead father visits me in my dreams. I speak with murder victims who tell me things only they could know. But I’ve never seen Piper, which means she must still be alive.
“Mom, I’m a trained investigator,” Jenna said, falling back on the explanation she’d given countless times. “I notice things, connect patterns.”
“That’s not all, and we both know it.” Margaret’s voice remained steady, but her hands twisted nervously around each other.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Jenna finally managed.
“The truth,” her mother said simply. “After all these years of lies and half-truths and things we don’t talk about—just the truth. I’m stronger than you think, Jenna. I always have been.”
Jenna looked at her mother—really looked at her. The woman who had crawled out of the dark pit of alcoholism and grief. Who had rebuilt her life piece by piece. Who was sitting here now, clear-eyed and resolute. Maybe she was stronger than Jenna had given her credit for.
But before Jenna could decide how much to reveal, Margaret sighed deeply, her shoulders slumping slightly. “I’m sorry. It’s been a long day. I’m probably talking nonsense.”
The words didn’t match the certainty in her eyes, but Jenna seized the opening anyway. “It’s getting late,” she agreed, rising from her chair. “And I should get going.”
Margaret stood as well, “Of course. Duty calls.”
Jenna moved around the table and embraced her mother. “I’ll come by again soon,” she promised, pressing a kiss to Margaret’s cheek.
“I’ll be here,” her mother replied.
As Jenna walked to her car, she felt oddly unsteady. Her mother’s questions had disturbed something deep within her—not just the secret of her abilities, but the certainty she’d maintained about Piper for twenty years.
Jenna slid behind the wheel of her cruiser but didn’t start the engine immediately.
Instead, she sat in the gathering darkness, trying to process what had just happened.
Her mother knew—or at least suspected—far more than Jenna had realized.
And that changed everything. The careful compartmentalization of her life suddenly seemed impossible to maintain.
She needed to talk to someone who understood. Someone who wouldn’t think she was crazy.
Without conscious decision, Jenna found herself driving toward Frank Doyle’s house on the outskirts of town.
Frank had been sheriff before her, had trained her, had become a father figure after her own father’s death five years ago.
And Frank was one of only two people who knew about her abilities—her lucid dreaming, her conversations with the dead.
His modest brick ranch house appeared ahead, warm light spilling from the windows. As always, when she arrived unannounced, Frank seemed to be expecting her. The front door opened before she'd even cut the engine, his tall figure silhouetted in the doorway.
“Evening, Sheriff,” he called as she approached. “Thought I might be seeing you tonight.”
Jenna smiled despite herself. “Your second sight acting up again, Frank?”
“Just good intuition,” he replied, holding the door wider. “And the knowledge that strange cases always bring you to my doorstep.”
She followed him into the house, the familiar scent of pipe tobacco and old books wrapping around her. Frank’s home was a reflection of the man himself—unpretentious, comfortable, filled with mementos of a life well-lived.
“Tea?” he asked, already moving toward the kitchen.
“Please.”
Frank’s kitchen was warm and inviting, the wooden table in its center bearing the scars and stories of generations. Jenna sank into her usual chair as Frank filled the kettle and set it on the stove.
“Chamomile, I think,” he said, reaching for the tin on the shelf. “You look like you could use something soothing.”
Jenna watched him move about the kitchen—this man who had been more constant in her life than her own father in many ways. Frank’s weathered face carried the lines of a lifetime of service to Trentville, but his eyes remained sharp, missing nothing.
“I went to see Mom tonight,” she said as he set two mugs on the table.
Frank nodded, waiting for her to continue.
“She asked me straight out if I knew something about Piper that I wasn’t telling her. And then she started talking about how I’ve been different since Piper disappeared. Said people in town think I have some kind of second sight.”
The kettle whistled, and Frank turned to attend to it. “What did you tell her?” he asked, his back to Jenna as he poured hot water over the tea bags.
“Nothing, really. I deflected. But Frank—” She paused as he turned and set a steaming mug before her. “I think things are coming to a head with Mom. I can’t keep the truth from her much longer. About me, about what I can do. About why I believe Piper is still alive.”
Frank settled into the chair across from her, blowing gently on his tea. “Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing,” he said after a moment. “The truth has a way of finding daylight, even when we try to keep it buried.”
“But how do I tell her? How do I explain it when I barely understand it myself?” Jenna cupped her hands around the warm mug. “And how will she take it? She’s just getting stable, Frank. What if this sends her spiraling again?”
“Your mother’s stronger than you think,” Frank observed. “She’s had to be.”
“That’s almost exactly what she said tonight.”
Frank smiled, the lines around his eyes deepening. “Smart woman, your mother.”
They sat in companionable silence for a moment.
“Remind me,” Frank said finally, “how many people actually know about your gift?”
“Just you and Jake. And maybe Colonel Spelling suspects something. But I’m sure he doesn’t suspect anything supernatural.”
“Maybe it’s time to widen that circle,” Frank suggested gently. “Starting with Margaret.”
“The thought terrifies me,” Jenna admitted. “I’ve spent so long hiding it, protecting her from it. I don’t know why the idea of telling her now scares me so much.”
“Fear of rejection, maybe,” Frank said. “Or fear that she won’t believe you. Or that she will, and it will change how she sees you.”
Jenna nodded, thinking of Frank’s grandmother, whom he’d mentioned had possessed abilities similar to her own. “Your grandmother—the one who had the sight—how did she handle it? How did people respond to her?”
Frank’s eyes grew distant with memory. “It was a different time, Jenna. People around here were less skeptical about such things back then. They respected what she could do, even if they didn’t understand it.
” He smiled faintly. “In fact, so many people came to rely on her insights that she found it difficult to deal with at times. Folks knocking on her door at all hours, asking her to help find lost items, contact dead relatives, predict the future.”
“That sounds exhausting,” Jenna murmured.
“It was,” Frank agreed. “But she saw it as a responsibility, a calling. She used to say that gifts aren’t given to us for our benefit alone, but for the benefit of others.”
The words settled heavily in Jenna’s chest. She’d always viewed her ability as a burden, something to hide or explain away. The idea of it as a gift, a responsibility—that was harder to reconcile.
Frank took a sip of his tea, then set the mug down deliberately. “Speaking of relationships,” he said, his tone lighter, “how are things going with Jake these days?”
Jenna felt warmth creep into her cheeks. She’d almost forgotten that Frank had seen the attraction between her and her deputy long before either she or Jake had acknowledged it.
“We... talked about it. When he was in the hospital last week,” she admitted. “We both know there’s something there. Something that goes beyond just working together.”
“That sounds like progress,” Frank said with a satisfied nod.
“But it’s complicated, Frank. He’s my deputy. The department has always had rules about fraternization.”
“Rules are important,” Frank agreed. “But so is happiness, Jenna. Don’t let fear keep you from that, too.”
She nodded, grateful for his understanding. Then she told him about the case—Marjory Powell’s disappearance—and showed him the photos of the mannequin left in her place, dressed in the same clothes the missing woman had worn to work that day.
“Sounds weird,” Frank said. “Do you have any suspects?”
“Rebecca Ashcroft, maybe,” Jenna said. “We won’t be able to talk to her until tomorrow.”
Frank clucked his tongue. “Rebecca Ashcroft. I wouldn’t put anything past her. But what’s this you say about a mannequin?”
“I’ve never seen anything like it, Frank,” she concluded. “The level of detail, the planning involved. It’s disturbing.”
“That mannequin really is something special,” he agreed. “It must have been custom made.”
“That’s what Liza said when she looked at it,” Jenna confirmed. “She’s certain it was museum-quality craftsmanship. Not something you could just pick up at a department store.”
Frank’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Liza Sewell? Your old friend from high school?”
"Yes, I called her to consult since she's an artist, a sculptor. She has expertise in materials, techniques." Jenna took another sip of tea. "Why do you ask?"
“It’s just that I saw her earlier today,” Frank said casually. “This morning, in fact. I was coming out of Hank’s Derby after having breakfast there, and she was getting into her car in the parking lot at the Twilight Inn.”
Jenna felt a jolt of surprise. “Liza was at the Twilight Inn? Today?”
Frank nodded. “I was surprised myself. She doesn’t come around Trentville much these days. I called out to her, waved, but she ducked her head. I thought maybe she was trying to avoid me.”
Jenna considered the earlier phone conversation. When she’d called Liza for help with the mannequin, Liza had told her she was working on a sculpture in her studio, that she could be at the crime scene in forty-five minutes. She had sounded as if she were in Gildner at the time.
But if she had been in Trentville all along, why hadn’t she just said so?
“Are you sure it was her?” Jenna asked, though she already knew the answer.
“Positive,” Frank confirmed. “I’d know that wild hair anywhere. And that beat-up Prius of hers with all the bumper stickers.”
Jenna’s mind raced through possibilities. Why would Liza lie about where she was?
And then she remembered what Liza had said about Marjory: “We used to be closer, until we had a falling out recently.”
Jenna stood abruptly. “I need to go, Frank. I need to pay Liza a visit.”
Frank rose as well, concern evident in his eyes. “Be careful, Jenna. Whatever’s going on—”
“I will,” she promised, squeezing his arm. “Thank you for the tea. And the talk.”
Minutes later, Jenna was back in her cruiser, headed toward the highway that would take her to Gildner.
As the lights of Trentville receded in her rearview mirror, questions about her prankster friend multiplied in her mind.
Why had Liza lied about being in town? What was she doing at the Twilight Inn?
And what did any of it have to do with Marjory Powell’s disappearance or with the mannequin left in the Powells’ kitchen?