CHAPTER TWENTY
“Remember—euthanasia, and happiness,” Jenna whispered, testing the words on her tongue as if their taste might reveal their meaning. She flicked on the lamp, squinting against the sudden brightness.
The notepad she’d scribbled on lay open on her nightstand, the words barely legible in her haste. She picked it up, studying her own handwriting as if it belonged to someone else. “Mannequin—typewriter—euthanasia and happiness.”
What did it mean? And where had they met before?
Jenna padded across the room and began to pace. The wooden floor creaked beneath her weight, a familiar sound in the stillness of early morning. Five steps one way, turn, five steps back. Her mind raced, trying to assemble the puzzle pieces of her dream.
The cabin in the woods. The mannequin at the typewriter. The voice like gravel.
“I thought I was finished with this kind of thing for good,” the mannequin had said. “Thought I could settle down to a solitary life out here in the woods.”
A writer, then. Someone who had retreated from the world. Someone she had met, however briefly. Jenna’s steps quickened as she tried to summon the memory from the depths of her mind.
She halted mid-stride, a flash of recognition stopping her in her tracks.
Five years ago. The old bookstore on Pine Street that had closed down last summer. A signing event she’d attended on a rare day off, drawn by the dark, psychological thrillers that helped her unwind, paradoxically enough.
The book had been... what was it called? Something seasonal. She crossed to her bookshelf, scanning the spines until she reached a dark green cover with gold lettering.
Bloodroot Season, by Dean Alcox.
She pulled the book from the shelf, opening it to the title page where a scrawled signature lurked in the corner. The inscription read simply: “To Sheriff Graves—the darkness always yields to those who walk into it willingly. – D. Alcox.”
She remembered him now—tall, with unruly gray hair and eyes that seemed to look through rather than at people.
He’d been gruff, uncomfortable with the attention, answering questions with terse, barely polite responses.
When she’d mentioned her profession, however, he’d paused, studying her with sudden interest before penning that oddly personal inscription.
“I met you once, Sheriff Graves,” the mannequin had said. “Just once.”
Dean Alcox was the mannequin in her dream. Dean Alcox, whose latest book she’d seen advertised but hadn’t yet purchased.
She needed coffee for this.
Jenna moved to the kitchen, her thoughts racing ahead of her steps. She filled the reservoir of her ancient coffeemaker, measured grounds, and hit the brew button. The machine gurgled to life, promising caffeine in exchange for patience.
Without waiting for the coffee to finish, she returned to her bedroom and woke her laptop. The screen’s blue light painted her face in electronic pallor as she typed “Dean Alcox” into the search bar.
Results populated immediately—his bibliography, critical reviews, a Wikipedia page.
She clicked on the official website for his publisher, Silver Acre Books.
There, prominently displayed, was a page dedicated to their most acclaimed author.
The featured an image at the top showed Alcox standing on the porch of a cabin—the exact cabin from her dream, down to the axe embedded in a stump near the front door.
She scrolled down, scanning the text, which said that the cabin was in Black Briar Woods, near Pinecrest. Phrases jumped out at her: “reclusive author,” “known for psychological depth,” “uncompromising exploration of human darkness.” But it was the interview excerpt that stopped her cold.
“This whole publicity circus,” Alcox was quoted as saying, “it’s precisely what I’ve spent my career avoiding. Let my books speak for themselves. I hope to God this is the last time I ever have to sit for photographs or answer inane questions about my ‘process.’“
The interviewer had pressed him about his latest work, The Devil’s Ledger, asking if it represented a new direction for his writing.
“It’s not a new direction,” Alcox had replied.
“It’s the final destination. The Devil’s Ledger isn’t just my magnum opus—it’s my swan song to the literary world.
Once it’s in print, I’m cutting myself off completely.
No telephone, no internet, no human contact except the occasional trip into town for supplies.
I’ve said all I have to say to humanity. ”
Jenna’s eyes widened as she reread the interview.
There were lots of photos on the page, showing Alcox in and around his cabin—standing by a woodpile, seated at an ancient typewriter by a window, glaring at the camera from his front porch.
The photographer had captured multiple angles of both Alcox and his living space, documenting the author’s world in high-resolution detail.
It was enough. These photos could be used as reference material for someone creating a mannequin.
The coffeemaker sputtered its completion in the kitchen, but Jenna barely registered the sound. The mannequin in her dream had said, "He told me I was his first.".
Dean Alcox had been the killer's first victim before Marjory Powell, before Kevin Torres.
And his isolation—the very lifestyle he’d been so proud of cultivating—had created the perfect opportunity. A man who deliberately cut himself off from human contact could be dead for a long time before anyone noticed his absence.
Jenna quickly opened a new tab and searched for recent news about Dean Alcox. Nothing. No reports of a missing author, no concerned statements from his publisher, no wellness checks by local authorities. The world hadn’t yet realized he was gone.
She grabbed her phone from the nightstand and dialed Jake’s number, not caring about the early hour. He answered on the third ring, his voice thick with sleep.
“Jenna? What’s wrong?”
“I know who the first victim was,” she said without preamble. “Dean Alcox.”
“Who?”
“Dean Alcox, the author. Lives—lived—in a cabin near Black Briar Woods. I think he was the killer’s first victim.”
She heard rustling as Jake presumably sat up in bed. “Hold on. The author? How do you know this? Was it one of your dreams?”
Jenna hesitated. Despite the time they’d spent working together, despite Jake knowing about her dreams, she still felt that moment of vulnerability whenever she had to admit to a new visitation.
“Yes,” she said finally. “A lucid dream. Like with Marjory. But this time it was Alcox—or rather, a mannequin who seemed to be him. He told me he was the killer’s first victim. He mentioned a philosophy of some kind, told me to remember euthanasia and happiness.”
“That would be an odd philosophy,” Jake muttered.
“Jake, I just checked online. There are multiple high-quality photos of Alcox and his cabin on his publisher’s website. Just like with Marjory and Torres—professional photos taken shortly before they disappeared.”
Jake was fully awake now. “Another victim who’d had photographs published due to recent success. Does it say who took the pictures?”
“No, but they’re definitely professional,” Jenna replied. “That fits the pattern. And Alcox had deliberately isolated himself. He bragged in an interview about cutting off contact with the outside world. The perfect first victim—someone whose absence wouldn’t be immediately noticed.”
“We need to check this out,” Jake said. “And we need to tell Spelling.”
Jenna nodded even though Jake couldn’t see her. “I’ll call him now.”
“What about the forensic sculptor? Morrison?”
“This doesn’t change anything. Morrison might have the skills, but I’m still not convinced he’s our guy. This gives another location to investigate—another potential crime scene.”
“What about Chief Morgan? Should we tell him too?”
“Tell him what? That I got information from a lucid dream?”
“Good point,” Jake agreed. “Call Spelling. I’ll be ready to go whenever you need me.”
Jenna ended the call and immediately dialed Colonel Spelling’s number. Despite the hour, he answered promptly, as if he’d been awake.
“Sheriff Graves,” he greeted her, his deep voice clear and alert. “You’ve got something?”
Direct and to the point, as always. Jenna appreciated that about him.
“I have reason to believe that Dean Alcox, the author, was the killer’s first victim,” she said, deliberately vague about her source.
“He lives—lived—in an isolated cabin near Black Briar Woods. He’d recently been the subject of a feature on his publisher’s website, with multiple photographs.
It was all about how he’d completed his magnum opus.
And he was known for cutting himself off from society. ”
A brief pause on the line. “That tracks with our emerging profile,” Spelling said finally. “Professional photographs, recent public recognition, someone at the peak of their career. And you say he lived in isolation?”
“Complete isolation,” Jenna confirmed. “According to an interview, he intended to disconnect from all human contact except for occasional trips into town for supplies.”
“Which means no one would report him missing,” Spelling concluded. “How did you come by this information, Sheriff?”
Here it was—the question she’d been anticipating. But to her surprise, Spelling didn’t press when she answered simply, “I made a connection based on some research.”
Instead, he said, “I know where Alcox’s cabin is. I’ve read his books—even drove by the place once out of curiosity after I learned he lived in our jurisdiction. It’s off County Road 42, about two miles down an unmarked dirt road.”
“We should check it out,” Jenna said. “If Alcox is dead and has been replaced by a mannequin—”
“Then we’ll have confirmed your theory and established a clear pattern,” Spelling finished for her. “I agree. We should move on this immediately.”
They arranged to meet at the junction of County Road 42 and Highway 17, an isolated spot that would serve as their rendezvous point. Despite the early hour—not yet 4:30 a.m.—they agreed to set out at once. They needed to learn whatever they could before the killer went after his next victim.
After ending the call with Spelling, Jenna dialed Jake again. He answered immediately.
“What did Spelling say?” he asked without greeting.
“He knows the location. We’re meeting at the junction of County Road 42 and Highway 17,” she replied, already moving toward her closet to get dressed. “I’ll pick you up in twenty minutes.”
“I’ll be ready,” Jake promised. “Jenna—we’ve got to be careful. If your dream is right, we’re dealing with someone who has a whole belief system built around what he’s doing. Those are often the most dangerous kinds of killers.”
“I know,” she said softly, remembering the mannequin’s warning: “He’s just playing with dolls, Sheriff Graves.”
“See you soon,” Jake said.
“See you soon,” Jenna echoed, ending the call.
She stood in the center of her bedroom, the first gray light of dawn beginning to seep through her window blinds. Another day, another grim journey into the darkest corners of human nature.
Jenna set down her phone and turned toward her closet. Daylight was coming, but now it was time to face the dark.