CHAPTER TEN
Cody Rostow's pickup jolted over the uneven pastureland, headlights cutting weak paths through the pre-dawn darkness.
The familiar stench of manure and wet grass filled his nostrils as he rolled down the window, letting the sharp chill of early morning slap him fully awake.
Every day for twenty-seven years, he'd risen at four-thirty to check on his cattle before the sun broke the horizon.
This morning was no different—steering wheel cold beneath his calloused palms, thermos of coffee wedged between his thighs, eyes scanning the dark shapes of his livelihood dotting the hillsides.
He took a sip of coffee, wincing as it burned the roof of his mouth.
The truck’s headlights swept across a cluster of black Angus near the eastern fence line.
Cody counted silently, lips moving as he tallied.
Sixteen. All accounted for in that section.
He made a tick mark on the notepad he kept mounted to his dashboard.
Last week, he'd lost a calf to coyotes. The week before, one of his pregnant heifers had developed an infection.
The margins in cattle farming were too thin for losses like that, especially with the drought driving up feed prices.
Every morning, he half-expected to find another problem waiting for him.
Cody steered the truck toward the lower pasture, the one that bordered Trentville Creek.
The gully that ran through his property was bone-dry most of the year, but the recent rain had left shallow pools reflecting the gradually lightening sky.
He counted another twenty-three head near the watering trough, making another mark on his pad.
Something white caught his eye in the gully below the ridge. A flash of brightness against the dull browns and greens of his land.
“What the hell?” he muttered, squinting through the dusty windshield.
Probably just trash blown in from the highway. Wouldn’t be the first time someone’s garbage had found its way onto his property. Fast food wrappers, plastic bags, even a deflated kiddie pool once. People treated the countryside like their personal dumping ground.
Cody considered ignoring it. He still had the north forty to check, and the sun was beginning its slow ascent, a faint pink tinge appearing on the eastern horizon. Whatever it was could wait.
But something about the shape bothered him. Too uniform, too deliberate-looking to be trash scattered by the wind.
“Damn it all,” he grumbled, turning the wheel sharply and directing the truck down the rough path toward the gully. The suspension protested as he navigated over rocks and through patches of scrub brush.
He parked about twenty yards from the white object, the truck’s engine ticking as he cut the ignition. The early morning was quiet, as usual—just the occasional lowing of distant cattle and the whisper of wind through dry grass.
Cody heaved himself out of the driver’s seat, boots landing with a dull thud on the hard-packed earth.
The cold air bit through his flannel shirt, and he wished he’d thought to grab his jacket from the back seat.
Too late now. Whatever that white thing was, he wanted to check it and get on with his rounds.
As he approached the gully, the white shape resolved itself into what looked like a clean, white sheet spread over something solid beneath it. Something that was disturbingly human-sized.
Cody’s steps slowed, the hairs on the back of his neck rising. Maybe he should call the sheriff first. But what if it was just someone’s laundry that bounced off a truck? He’d feel like a fool calling out law enforcement for that.
The soil grew softer as he neared the gully, his boots sinking slightly with each step. The sheet-draped thing lay in the shallow depression, partially sheltered by the eroded bank. Now that he was closer, the outline was unmistakable—it was a human form, lying flat on its back.
“Hello?” he called, knowing it was useless, but needing to break the oppressive silence. “Anybody there?”
Nothing but the whistle of wind answered him.
Cody approached until he stood directly over the sheet. No movement. No sign of breathing.
His mouth went dry. He should back away, return to his truck, call the sheriff right now. But some terrible compulsion drew him forward instead, the same instinct that made people slow down to look at highway accidents.
He crouched beside the sheet, noticing how carefully it had been arranged. Not thrown or dropped haphazardly, but laid with precision, corners stretched out smoothly. The morning dew had dampened the fabric, making it cling to the form beneath.
Cody's hand shook as he reached for the edge of the sheet, where it covered what had to be the head. He hesitated, knowing that crossing this threshold would change something irrevocable in his quiet life.
“Get it over with,” he whispered to himself.
He drew the sheet back slowly, revealing first hair—auburn, neatly arranged—and then a woman’s face.
Her eyes were closed, lips slightly parted, skin pale with the unmistakable stillness of death.
She looked peaceful, as if sleeping, but the unnatural pallor and absolute stillness told a different story.
Cody fell backward, scrambling away on his hands and heels like a crab.
His breath came in short, sharp gasps as he took in the horrifying reality before him.
The sheet had slipped further when he jerked away, revealing more of the body.
The woman had been laid out naked, yet there was something almost reverent about her positioning—arms crossed over her chest, legs straight, hair fanned out beneath her head as if arranged for a portrait.
His mind registered these details even as his body reacted with instinctive revulsion. He’d seen dead things before—animals mostly, occasionally humans in funeral homes—but never like this. Never on his land, never so unexpectedly, never with this awful sense of trespass and violation.
Cody’s trembling hand found his phone in his pocket.
He backed farther away, unable to tear his eyes from the dead woman’s face as he fumbled with the device.
His thumb pressed the emergency button, and he raised the phone to his ear, the dispatcher’s voice sounding tinny and far away when she answered.
“This is Cody Rostow,” he said, his voice strained and unfamiliar to his own ears. “There’s a body on my property. A woman. She’s—” He swallowed hard. “She’s dead.”
***
Jenna’s cruiser cut through the quiet streets of early morning Trentville, her mind still tangled in images from her dream. Marjory Powell’s face on a mannequin body, begging to return to her human form, revealing that she “wasn’t the first and wouldn’t be the last.”
Jenna had given up on sleep after that, showering and dressing although it was still dark outside, forcing down half a piece of toast before heading out to pick up Jake. By that time, Colonel Spelling had already called, confirming his team was at the Powell residence awaiting their arrival.
The digital clock on her dashboard read 5:17 a.m. when she pulled up in front of Jake’s modest ranch house. He emerged before she could text him, looking surprisingly alert for the early hour. His sandy hair was neatly combed, uniform pressed—ready for whatever that day might bring.
“Morning,” he said as he slid into the passenger seat. “Spelling’s already there?”
“Since four-thirty.” Jenna pulled away from the curb. “Called me while I was making coffee. Said he brought four of his best evidence techs and wants us there ASAP.”
Jake studied her profile in the pale glow of the dashboard lights. “You look like you didn’t sleep much.”
“I didn’t.” She hesitated. Despite having told Jake about her lucid dreams, she still felt vulnerable discussing them. “I had a dream about Marjory Powell last night.”
Jake went still beside her. “A dream-dream or a...”
“A visitation,” Jenna confirmed reluctantly. “She came to me, Jake. Marjory is dead.”
She recounted the details as they drove through town—the gray emptiness, the sheet-covered body, Marjory’s face on a mannequin begging to return to her true form. The words spilled out of her, a relief to share her experience.
“She kept saying ‘he put me in the wrong place,’“ Jenna finished. “And then—this is what’s been eating at me since I woke up—she said she wasn’t the first, and wouldn’t be the last.”
Jake was quiet for a long moment, processing. “So we’re looking at a serial killer. Someone who’s done this before and plans to do it again.”
“That’s how I interpreted it.” Jenna slowed for a red light, though the streets were deserted at this hour. “But what do we do with this information, Jake? I can’t exactly put ‘dream visitation from the victim’ in my report.”
“Same thing we always do,” he replied. “We use what you learn to guide the investigation without revealing the source. It’s worked before.”
The light turned green, and Jenna accelerated. "It's different this time. Usually, I get information about a crime that's already known—details about a murder we're already investigating. This time I'm telling you Marjory is dead when we have no body, no crime scene, just a mannequin in a kitchen."
“And a missing woman who hasn’t contacted her husband or workplace,” Jake reminded her. “That’s enough to justify a thorough investigation, even without your dream.”
Jenna nodded, grateful for his pragmatism.
After his initial shock when she’d confided in him back in June, Jake had adjusted to her ability with remarkable ease.
Unlike Frank, who’d had a lifetime to come to terms with such things through his grandmother, Jake had accepted Jenna’s gift without the benefit of prior experience.
It was one of many reasons she’d found herself drawn to him, despite the complications of their working relationship.
“There’s Spelling’s car,” Jake pointed out as they approached the Powell residence.