Page 44 of In Her Mind

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

“I didn’t realize Hartley lived this far out of town,” Jenna muttered as she drove the cruiser along Freeport Road. She cast a glance at the Stevenses’ home as they passed by. They’d interviewed Amber’s parents there just the day before.

“Seems like he’s kept his distance from the town in more ways than one,” Jake commented from the seat beside her.

“Bill’s place has been in his family for years,” Frank chimed in from the backseat. “Kind of a semi-rural homestead, you know? Never been there myself, though. I don’t think he gets a lot of visitors.”

“Really?” Jenna said, frowning slightly. “He never struck me as the loner type. Always seemed to thrive around people, especially when lecturing.” It was strange to think of the genialhistory professor as a recluse. Jenna had always seen him surrounded by eager students, imparting knowledge with an affable smile.

“Sometimes the image we present in public is just that—an image,” Jake added, turning to face her. “We all have our private selves, I suppose.”

“True enough,” Jenna agreed.

As she continued to drive, houses grew fewer and farther between, each one retreating into its own pocket of privacy below the St. Francois Mountain Range.

“That’s the driveway,” Jake said suddenly, pointing to a name on a mailbox. Jenna guided the cruiser through the turn and saw a large, well-kept house that stood alone, surrounded by expanses of greenery. The paint on the wood siding gleamed fresh, and the windows sparkled under the afternoon sun. An older model sedan was parked in front of it.

“Looks like he might be here,” Jenna remarked. “Jake, Frank, stay sharp. We don’t know what we’re walking into.”

“Frank should stay in the car,” Jake suggested. “We can handle the initial check.”

Jenna glanced at Frank through the rearview mirror, noting the stubborn set of his jaw. “Frank, it would be safer—”

“Like hell, I’m staying put,” Frank shot back. “I didn’t train you just to sideline myself when there’s work to be done, Jenna.”

She sighed, knowing there was no room for argument. They all left the vehicle, and Jenna led the way to the porch, her senses heightened. The wooden porch stairs creaked beneath their collective weight as they approached the door.

Jenna knocked firmly. “Bill Hartley, this is Sheriff Graves. I need to speak with you.”

Silence greeted them. No shuffling from within, no voice raised in query. Just a stillness that seemed to Jenna to hum with tension.

“Try the door,” Frank suggested, his voice low. “He might not have heard.”

Jenna reached out tentatively, her hand closing around the doorknob. She turned it, half-expecting resistance, but the door swung open with ease, unlocked and inviting. Her eyebrows rose in surprise. Leaving a home unsecured was rare, even in a town like Trentville where everyone knew each other’s names—and secrets.

Frank’s chuckle sounded behind her. “You know, Jenna, this is one of those country neighborhoods where folks don’t worry much about locking up. Trust runs deep here.”

She glanced back at him with a raised eyebrow, not quite sharing his amusement. The lax security seemed more a lapse in judgment than a testament to communal faith.

Jenna stepped into the dimly-lit foyer, her hand instinctively reaching for her service weapon as she surveyed the interior. What she saw was just the cozy living room of an old family home. Sunlight filtering through lace curtains cast a warm glow on well-loved furniture. Sepia-toned family portraits in ornate frames lined the walls, and a fireplace was flanked by shelves displaying antique knick-knacks and a collection of weathered books.

They called out again and received no response. When they moved forward, the adjoining dining room and the old country kitchen all seemed the same.

Then Jenna crossed the kitchen and opened an innocuous door that opened to what had once been a huge pantry. She found a light switch on the wall and flicked it on.

In that room, vintage concert posters plastered the walls, their edges yellowed with age, but the vibrant images of punk bands were still defiantly alive. A glass cases housed rows of vinyl records, the names emblazoned on their covers marking the rebellious anthems of a past era.

A leather jacket studded with metal spikes was draped over the back of a chair, and an electric guitar hung next to a faded band flag—Rigor Mortis. It was an altar to a time when anarchy seemed a breath away, preserved in the heart of rural Missouri.

“Bill Hartley certainly wasn’t the man I thought him to be,” Jenna murmured, taking in the incongruity of the history teacher’s secret homage to chaos and discord. “But where is he right now?”

***

Amber’s consciousness crept back through the veil of darkness, a dull throb pulsating behind her temples. She peeled open her eyes, heavy as if weighed down by lead, and the dimly-lit root cellar came into focus. The kerosene lantern flickered, casting shadows against the stone walls, which seemed to sway with an eerie life of their own.

Then a chill ran through her body as she felt a hand on her hair.

“Welcome back, Lisa,” a voice broke the silence, and she turned her head to see the man who had enclosed her there. Bill Hartley was seated on the floor beside her cot, idly toying with a gun he held in one hand.

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