Page 39 of In Her Mind

Jake watched Jenna’s expression, her conviction stirring a sense of urgency. He scratched the stubble on his chin, contemplating their next move. “We could ask Colonel Spelling to have his guys dig into it—see if highway patrol can turn up anything statewide on SV and NS.”

“Without knowing when those initials were carved or any context?” Jenna’s voice was skeptical. “It’s a needle in a haystack. We don’t even know if we’re looking for someone still around here or long gone.”

“True,” Jake admitted, feeling the weight of these unsolved mysteries that seemed to be stumping all of them.

The silence that followed was thick with contemplation.

Frank took a final bite of his pie, followed by a swallow of coffee. The he stood up, pushing his chair back with a scrape against the linoleum floor. The lines in his face softened with ahint of paternal concern for Jenna. “You two take a moment. I might have an idea.”

Frank’s smile, though meant to be reassuring, seemed almost incongruous in the tension-filled kitchen. “There’s still something to be said for low-tech investigative techniques,” he mused. Then, with a casualness that belied the gravity of their meeting, he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing slightly as he retreated into the depths of the house.

Jake watched him go, then turned to the job of finishing up his pie. The kitchen, with its sunlit windows and the scents of lingering in the air, felt like a stark departure from the grim discoveries they were facing that morning.

“Jake,” Jenna asked, her voice cutting through the silence, “how are you really holding up with... everything?”

He met her gaze, noting the way her forehead creased, an outward sign of the internal battles she fought daily. “I’m doing okay,” Jake replied, offering her a half-smile. It wasn’t the whole truth, and he was sure Jenna knew it. The truth was more complex, still tangled with the shock of her confidences.

Before they could delve any deeper into personal territory, Frank returned, banishing the momentary solitude. In his hands was a worn Trentville High School yearbook, its cover faded from years of handling. 1984-85, the gold embossed letters read.

“Let’s start looking here,” Frank declared as he settled back into his chair, flipping open the yearbook with a sense of purpose. Jake leaned in, his curiosity piqued. Might this old hardbound volume really hold a key to unlocking the mysteries that haunted Trentville?

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Amber’s eyelids fluttered open, the world around her coming into focus with grim familiarity. As she adjusted to the dim light provided by the kerosene lantern, the comforting images of her last dream began to dissolve—her mother and father sitting at the kitchen table, laughing and passing her slices of homemade peach pie. She sat up on the cot, her heart sinking as cold reality seeped in once more, erasing any warmth that the dream had provided.

She pulled her knees to her chest, trying to hold onto the last vestiges of the dream. It was an unwelcome ritual now, waking from visions of safety to confront the nightmare she was living. Each time, it was a jolt, a cruel reminder that the safety of home was just an illusion conjured by her subconscious.

Rest did not come easy to Amber, nor did it bring much comfort. When sleep overtook her, it was in fits and starts, each dream only a brief escape from her dire circumstances. In one dream, she had been handing tools to her father, Otto, beneath the hood of a car, his proud smile encouraging her every move. In another, she was walking the kennels at Paws and Harmony Rescue, the eager barks and wagging tails greeting her like a chorus of joyous hellos.

Each time she woke, the contrast was stark; instead of the smell of oil and metal or the clean scent of animals, there was only the dank earthiness of her prison and the oppressive silence.

Most poignant were her dreams about Liam—his warm eyes, his laughter, and the plans they’d laid out for their life together. They had talked about a modest home with a red door, a vegetable garden out back, and a swing set for the kids they intended to have. Now, those conversations felt like they belonged to someone else’s life, not hers.

The helplessness of her situation threatened to unravel the images of hope that Amber clung to. All she had left were these fragmented dreams, scraps of a life she feared she might never see again.

Her mind replayed the last visit from the hoarse-voiced man who peered at her through the peephole, insisting on calling her Lisa. Desperation had clawed at her voice as she tried to reason with him, to make him see he had made a mistake. “I’m Amber,” she had said, her pleas falling on deaf ears.

The memory of his words was as chilling as the dampness that seeped through the cellar’s stone walls. “I’ve killed you twice already, and I’d hate to do it again. But tomorrow, Lisa, the choice is yours.” The threat was clear, the implication horrifying. Two other souls must have already died at her captor’s hands, lost to his delusions.

Amber’s muscles tensed as she prepared to lift herself from the cot’s meager comfort. Her ankle, an angry reminder of her failed flight, was still painful. Nevertheless, she rose, her movements calculated and deliberate, each step a negotiation as she limped to the root cellar door.

She pressed her ear against the cold, damp wood, trying to gauge the time. From the distant sounds of life outside, birds chirping, the world moving on without her, she deduced that it must be daylight.

Time had become an elusive concept, but she knew it was probably getting close to noon. Her captor might return at any time now. She braced herself for whatever twisted game hewanted her to play. She figured that she’d been held captive in this bleak place for over thirty hours now, each tick of her internal clock a reminder of the nightmare she could not wake from.

The hope that had once fueled her resolve was now just a flickering flame, threatening to extinguish with each passing moment. There was a certain relief in knowing that her ordeal would soon end, but it was a dark, unwelcome sort of solace, the kind that acknowledged that death might be the final chapter of her story. And in a grim way, it seemed almost like something to look forward to. Death would certainly be preferable to living this nightmare forever.

Yet, as the weight of resignation began to settle upon her, Amber’s thoughts shifted—away from her own terror, toward the faces of those she loved. Her parents, who had always provided a sanctuary of warmth and safety; Liam, whose laughter and dreams were intertwined with her own; her college friends, whose camaraderie had made the halls of Ozark State University echo with joy. And Dr. Sarah Reynolds, with her salt-and-pepper hair and compassionate eyes, who had been more than a mentor at Paws and Harmony Rescue—she was a second mother, her presence a constant reassurance in Amber’s life.

The thought of vanishing without a trace, leaving these precious people mired in anguish and confusion, pierced Amber’s heart more sharply than any fear for herself. They deserved better than an unsolved mystery, a void where she once stood. She couldn’t vanish, leaving them with the even the unlikely possibility that she had willingly disappeared, that she had in any way abandoned them. It was not merely her own survival at stake; it was the peace of those she loved. It was for them that she mustered the remnants of her strength, for them that she clung to the fragile thread of hope still tethering her to life.

With a renewed sense of purpose. She hobbled back to the lantern, its light waning as much as her spirits had waned moments before. Carefully, with hands that refused to tremble, she refilled it with kerosene, adjusting the wick with precision born of necessity. The small flame danced back to life, casting an amber glow upon the room, and for a moment, it seemed to whisper to her of possibilities yet unexplored, of survival against all odds.

The room brightened a little as she twisted the wick’s control. The flame took a deep breath, casting a larger pool of light upon her grim surroundings. As she returned to the cot, the solid earth floor of the cellar seemed to provide an unspoken reassurance that she was still part of the living world. She had to keep that connection alive.

Then Amber forced herself to consume the remnants of the stale food left by her captor, washing it down with a swig of bottled water. Each bite was mechanical, sustenance without pleasure, but for the sake of all who held her dear, she had to endure.

Then, with nothing to do but wait, she sat, the cot creaking under her weight, a sound now familiar in the quiet of her confinement. Every faint creak and rustle she could hear from outside seemed to be a herald of what was to come.

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