CHAPTER ELEVEN
Jenna’s eyes burned from fatigue, but she kept them fixed on the road ahead, because looking back only deepened the ache.
Three hours of interviews in Clarksboro had yielded nothing but dead ends, along with sympathetic glances from Colonel Spelling and Chief Esterhaus.
It was well into the afternoon now. A whole day was slipping away without finding Piper.
“We’ll keep looking,” Spelling had assured her as they’d parted ways. “The trail doesn’t just end with her last lawn job. People don’t vanish that easily.”
But Jenna knew better. People did vanish. Her sister had vanished twenty years ago, and now she’d vanished again.
The three residents Piper had done yard work for had offered consistent descriptions when Jenna told them she was looking for her sister: a quiet woman, a hard worker, kept to herself, never mentioned where she was staying or where she might go next.
She'd said her name was Emma Kirby. One elderly woman had given Emma a bag of homemade cookies as a thank-you, and she'd seemed genuinely touched by the gesture.
“Hitchhiking makes no sense,” Spelling had said as they’d stood in the Clarksboro police station’s parking lot. “That would make her too visible. Every gas station, every diner—someone would remember her.”
Esterhaus, the Clarksboro police chief, had added, “Maybe she caught a freight train. We still get a fair number passing through. Easy enough to hop on without being noticed.”
They’d promised to check with the rail companies, to review security footage from the small freight yard on the edge of town. But the words had rung hollow to Jenna. Too many maybes. Too many possibilities stretching away in all directions.
Before she’d driven out of Clarksboro, she’d called Frank to check up on Mom and give them an update. Frank assured her that Mom was doing as well as could be expected.
Jenna eased her foot off the accelerator as she approached the “Welcome to Trentville” sign. The familiar sight usually brought a sense of comfort after a long day. Not today. Today, it only reminded her that she was here and Piper was not.
She navigated through town, passing storefronts with their afternoon displays—hardware store, bakery, antique shop.
Normal life continued while her own remained suspended in uncertainty and worry.
A few pedestrians glanced at her sheriff's vehicle, some raising hands in greeting.
She returned the gestures mechanically, her mind still in Clarksboro, still searching.
The station’s parking lot was half-full when she pulled in.
She cut the engine and sat in silence for a moment, gathering the fragments of herself.
She needed to compartmentalize, to set aside Piper and focus on Donna Marsh now.
Lives depended on her ability to shift between personal grief and professional duty.
The front desk sat empty as Jenna entered, but Hugh Clancy’s voice drifted from the break room.
She could hear him talking on the phone, his tone light and casual—probably personal, then.
She didn’t interrupt, just raised a hand in acknowledgment when he spotted her and headed straight for her office.
Jake was waiting for her, leaning against her desk with his arms crossed. The sight of him—steady, dependable Jake—loosened something tight in her chest.
“Any luck?” he asked, though her expression had already given him the answer.
Jenna shook her head and sank into her chair. “Three households. All confirmed she worked for them. All said she was quiet, efficient, never mentioned where she was going.” She rubbed her temples. “It’s like she was deliberately careful not to attract attention.”
“Maybe she was scared of something,” Jake suggested. He pulled up a chair and sat across from her. “Someone running from their past gets good at disappearing.”
“How’d things go here?” she asked, eager to shift the focus.
Jake’s expression brightened slightly. “Well, neither the mayor nor Calloway could legally stop me from interviewing Calloway House residents, though they sure tried. Nolan Greer practically shadowed me through the whole building, and that private detective, Bickel, kept trying to listen in on my conversations.”
“And?”
“Nothing directly pertaining to Donna Marsh. But there was something kind of strange. A couple of residents claim to have seen a ghost wandering the hallways during the last couple of weeks.”
“A ghost?” Jenna asked with a start.
“Yeah. They all thought it was the ghost of the guy who built the mansion, Pete Shannon—the ghost that people have been talking about for ages. Had a mustache, dressed in old-fashioned clothes.”
“Jake, do you think—?”
“Jenna, let’s not jump to conclusions. You know that people have been saying for years that Pete’s ghost still haunts the place. And one thing I know for sure after spending some time in Calloway House—it really works on your imagination. People can start seeing things that aren’t really there.”
“But I dream about dead people,” Jenna said. “And those people are real. Ghosts are real in ways that most people never recognize.”
“But do those ghosts actually reach out and touch people?”
“No,” Jenna admitted. As far as she knew, the phantoms in her dreams were purely non-physical. And if, as they now supposed, Donna had been murdered and then posed to make it look like an accident—well, a ghost surely hadn’t done all that.
Jake continued, “All the residents complained about maintenance issues. Flickering lights, unexplained drafts, doors that wouldn’t stay shut.
” He leaned forward. “Nothing you wouldn’t expect in an old house.
But something else occurred to me. Remember those anonymous letters Mayor Simmons mentioned? ”
“The ones criticizing the Calloway House project.”
“Exactly. Three letters in the past two months, all signed ‘A Concerned Citizen.’ Seemed odd to me. In a town this size, why wouldn’t someone put their name to their opinions?”
“Unless they had something to hide,” Jenna finished the thought.
“Right.” Jake stopped pacing. “It’s a long shot, but I called Agnes Freelander at the paper, asked if they could identify the source of those letters. She said she’d check with her staff and get back to me.”
Jenna felt a small spark of interest, the first she’d felt since leaving Clarksboro. “You think the letter writer might be connected to Donna’s death?”
“Maybe, maybe not. Like I said, it’s a long shot. But someone with a grudge against Calloway House who’s also trying to stay anonymous? That raises questions.”
Jake’s instincts had proven right before. “Good thinking.”
“Thanks, boss.” His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, and Jenna felt that familiar, unwelcome flutter in her stomach. She pushed it aside. Now wasn’t the time.
A knock at the open door drew their attention. Deputy Clancy stood there, his expression apologetic.
“Sheriff, there’s a reporter here to see you. Ethan Pierce from the Gateway Herald. Says it’s important.”
Jenna bit back a groan. “Send him in, Hugh.”
Jake gave her a sympathetic look as Clancy disappeared to fetch Pierce. “Want me to stick around?”
“Please,” she said, not bothering to hide her relief.
Ethan Pierce strode into the office moments later, confidence personified.
His tailored jacket and precisely knotted tie stood out in the small-town sheriff’s office.
Everything about him was calculated—the casual-but-not-too-casual posture, the friendly-but-professional smile, the notebook held just so in his left hand.
“Sheriff Graves,” he greeted her. “Deputy Hawkins. Thanks for seeing me on short notice.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Pierce?” Jenna replied sharply.
Ethan’s smile didn’t falter. “I understand you initially treated Donna Marsh’s death at Calloway House as a potential crime scene, only to be... shall we say, discouraged by Mayor Simmons and Mr. Calloway. Care to comment?”
Jenna kept her face carefully neutral. “I’m not sure where you got your information, Mr. Pierce, but as I’m sure you know, we don’t discuss ongoing investigations.”
“So, it is an investigation?” He pounced on the word.
“We investigate all deaths where the cause isn’t immediately apparent,” Jenna said evenly. “Standard procedure.”
“Even when powerful local figures prefer you didn’t?”
Jake shifted his weight, a subtle warning to Pierce. “The sheriff’s department follows the evidence, not pressure.”
“Of course, of course.” Pierce made a show of jotting something in his notebook. “But surely you can understand the public’s interest. A mysterious death in a supposedly haunted mansion, now owned by the descendant of a man who was once run out of town? It practically writes itself.”
“And that’s exactly why I’m not giving you fuel for sensationalism,” Jenna said firmly. “Donna Marsh deserves better than to have her death turned into tabloid fodder.”
Pierce’s expression sobered. “Fair point. But may I remind you that violent crime in Genesius County has increased since you became sheriff? The public has legitimate concerns about safety, especially when your methods are... unconventional.”
The insinuation stung. Pierce never failed to bring up her “methods” whenever they met, and also the mysterious rise in homicides in Trentville. Jenna kept her voice steady. “If by ‘unconventional’ you mean ‘thorough,’ then yes, my methods might differ from some of my predecessors.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of your uncanny ability to solve cases with minimal evidence.” Pierce leaned in slightly. “Almost as if you have access to information others don’t.”
Jake took a step closer to Jenna’s desk. “The sheriff’s record speaks for itself.”
“Indeed, it does,” Pierce agreed, then turned back to Jenna. “There’s been an awful lot of death and mayhem during the last few months. Even if you won’t discuss Donna Marsh’s death, would you care to comment on rumors that some kind of supernatural evil is rising in Trentville?”
Jenna felt heat rise in her face. “You don’t believe in any of that, Pierce. You’re just looking for a headline.”
“You seem very certain of what I believe, Sheriff.”
“You’ve made your skepticism clear in past articles.”
“Perhaps.” A half-smile played at the corner of his mouth. “Or perhaps you’ve badly misjudged my motives.”
“Enlighten me, then,” Jenna challenged.
“I’m simply trying to keep the public informed.” Pierce closed his notebook with a decisive snap. “When strange deaths occur, when respected law enforcement officials employ methods others find... mysterious, people talk. My job is to find the truth behind those conversations.”
“Your job is to report facts, not stoke fears.”
“Sometimes the facts are frightening.” Pierce stood. “Thank you for your time, Sheriff.”
He handed Jenna his business card and added, “Call me if you change your mind about talking to me. I’m staying in town overnight. I hear Boyd Calloway is holding a meeting tomorrow morning, and I want to be there for it.”
“Where will you be staying?” Jenna asked.
“The Twilight Inn, I guess,” Pierce said with a shrug. “That’s where I usually stay when I’m in town. Have a pleasant afternoon, Sheriff. Deputy.”
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
“That went well,” Jake deadpanned.
“About as well as could be expected.”
“You can’t let him push your buttons,” Jake said.
“He’s good at it,” Jenna admitted. “Especially when he brings up the recent rise in homicides in Trentville. I sure don’t know how to explain it. And I …” She hesitated. “I can never help wondering if it has something to do with me. That’s what a lot of people in town think.”
“Jenna—”
Jake’s attempt at reassurance was broken by the chirp of his phone. He glanced at the screen. “It’s Agnes.” He answered, putting it on speaker. “Agnes, thanks for getting back to me. You’re on speaker with the sheriff.”
“Hello, Jenna,” Agnes Freelander’s voice crackled through the line. “Jake asked about those anonymous letters we’ve been running, and I’ve got some information for you.”
Jake caught Jenna’s eye. “Go ahead.”
“My staff traced the emails they came from. They were sent through a public library computer, but the account they came from belongs to a Nolan Greer. Does that name mean anything to you?”
Jenna felt as if the floor had tilted beneath her feet. “Are you absolutely certain?”
“Positive. We have three separate emails, all from the same account.”
Jake’s expression mirrored Jenna’s shock.
“Thanks, Agnes. We owe you one.” Jake ended the call and stared at Jenna. “Well, that’s a twist.”
“Nolan Greer. The superintendent of Calloway House. The man who’d have access to every inch of that building, who’d know how to create maintenance issues, who’d have keys to every unit—including Donna’s.”
“The man who was most upset about us investigating,” Jake added. “The one hovering during interviews. But why would he want to turn people against Calloway House?”
Jake leaned forward, his eyes intense. “Jenna, I think we’d better pay Nolan Greer another visit.”