Page 19 of In Her Sights

CHAPTER TEN

Steeling herself, Jenna answered her phone. “Sheriff Graves.”

“Jenna, I need you in my office. Now.” The mayor’s voice was terse, the command clipped and final.

“Is there something specific…” Jenna began, but the line went dead before she could finish.

She exhaled slowly, sure that she already knew what this was about. Sarah Thompson’s disappearance had thrust Trentville into an unwelcome spotlight, and the mayor was not one to tolerate disruptions to her carefully curated image of small-town tranquility. And now, the mayor was ready to blame Jenna for any damage to their charming image.

Of course, as sheriff, Jenna had been elected to office just as the mayor had, and she could ignore the mayor’s summons. She could still stand her ground and refuse the mayor’s orders—after all, she still had almost two years left in office. But Jenna knew that a power struggle would only make her job harder in the long run.

As she navigated the familiar streets of Trentville, her mind replayed the conversation with Frank Doyle. He had identified the man in her lucid dream as an aspiring writer who had drifted into their small town a decade earlier and then seemed to vanish. Was it really possible that this long-gone stranger had returned to give her some key to Sarah Thompson’s disappearance?

“Focus,” Jenna muttered to herself, willing her thoughts away from questions about the supernatural. But the logical part of her—the sheriff trained in facts and evidence—refused to ignore the potential relevance of her dream. She needed to get to the library to draw on Emily Carson’s extensive researchabilities. After that, Jenna probably needed to join her deputy in the continuing search through Whispering Pines Forest.

“Jake,” she murmured to herself, envisioning his sandy hair and the earnest look that came into his eyes whenever he said he trusted her methods. She’d never disclosed her gift to anyone she worked with, not even Jake. He’d accepted that she had unusual intuitions, but this was something else entirely. How could she explain that her leads came from dreams where the dead sought her out? What might admitting the truth do to the delicate balance between them? Would he see her as the same competent sheriff, or would he begin to doubt her sanity?

The urgency pressing on her conscience made her consider the risk. If her gift could help find Sarah Thompson, then perhaps it was time to tell him.

“Focus on Sarah, not on your fears,” Jenna reminded herself as she pulled into a parking space outside City Hall.

The stern facade of the granite building reflected none of the warmth typically found within the town’s borders. When she left her cruiser and pushed open the heavy door to City Hall, the coolness of the air-conditioned interior brushed against her skin. She didn’t pause to admire the well-polished floors or the historical photographs lining the walls. Instead, each displayed slice of Trentville’s past seemed to scrutinize her as she passed, silently questioning her motives. Jenna’s shoes clicked a steady rhythm as she passed the reception desk with only a cursory nod to the clerk, who was buried in paperwork.

The corridor led straight to the mayor’s office, where the door stood ominously ajar, an unspoken invitation to enter. Pushing it open, Jenna was greeted by the scent of wood polish and the sight of dark mahogany furniture that looked older than the town itself. Heavy drapes were pulled back to let in the morning sun, which lit up an array of plaques and certificates lining the walls. The room was meticulouslyorganized—a reflection of Claire Simmons’s need for order and control. Even the fresh flowers on the mayor’s oversized desk were symmetrically arranged.

Mayor Simmons sat behind a fortress of documents and city seals. Her tailored suit was pressed to perfection, her posture rigid as she leafed through paperwork. She didn’t look up immediately, allowing the silence to swell uncomfortably before acknowledging Jenna’s presence with a curt gesture toward the chair opposite her.

“Sit,” she commanded, finally locking her gaze on Jenna. The mayor’s eyes were sharp, like those of a raptor, missing nothing.

Jenna remained standing, preferring the equal footing it afforded her. “What seems to be the problem, Mayor?” she asked. “I don’t have much time,”

Mayor Simmons slid a copy of theTrentville Gazetteacross the desk. “Look at this,” she said tersely, tapping her fingernail against two headlines.

Jenna leaned over and looked at the newspaper, her eyes scanning the printed words. One headline was quaintly charming: “Cyril the Parrot: A Feathery Tale of Escape and Return.” It was a simple story that painted Trentville as a place where the most dramatic event could be the temporary loss of a talkative bird.

The other headline cut straight to the grim reality that dogged Jenna’s thoughts: “Statewide Alert: Schoolteacher Sarah Thompson Missing in Whispering Pines.” The accompanying article detailed how the Missouri Highway Patrol had joined the search and outlined the growing concern for the young woman’s safety.

Mayor Simmons’s lips pressed into a thin line as she tapped the newspaper with manicured nails, her gaze never leaving Jenna. “This,” she said, pointing to the story about Cyril, “thisis what people like to read with their morning coffee. It’s wholesome, it’s endearing. It’s Trentville.”

She paused as if for emphasis.

“However,” Mayor Simmons continued, her voice taking on an edge, “this media circus over Sarah Thompson is causing unnecessary distress. It’s unseemly for our town. It paints us in a bad light. I take it that it was your idea to bring the Highway Patrol into the equation.”

“Of course it was,” Jenna replied. “Mayor Simmons, my priority is the safety and well-being of our community. If there’s even the slightest chance that Sarah is in danger—”

“Of course,” Simmons said with a hard smile. “But we can’t have Trentville known as the town of disappearances and wild goose chases, now, can we?”

Jenna felt a familiar surge of frustration. While Cyril the parrot had been safely returned to his perch, Sarah’s empty car in Whispering Pines told a different and direr story—one that couldn’t be ignored for the sake of appearances.

Mayor Simmons leaned back in her chair. She steepled her fingers and regarded Jenna with a look that suggested she was about to impart wisdom of great import. “I know a few things about Sarah Thompson,” she began, her tone taking on the cadence of practiced diplomacy. “She left her childhood home in Gildner and hasn’t looked back. The girl is estranged from her parents, Jenna. It’s entirely possible that she simply succumbed to another bout of wanderlust.”

“I have to disagree, Mayor,” Jenna replied. “Sarah’s car was found abandoned in Whispering Pines Forest. That doesn’t suggest wanderlust; it suggests abduction, foul play perhaps.”

Simmons’s mouth thinned into a straight line, a clear indicator that Jenna’s point was not well received. The mayor’s eyes remained fixed on Jenna’s face, searching for a weakness, a sign of capitulation that would not come.

“Look, Jenna,” she said, “Sarah Thompson is a grown woman. It’s entirely plausible that she left her car to start anew—away from the expectations, away from her old life in Gildner.”

Jenna noted the mayor’s attempt at rationalization—the way she grasped at straws to explain away the disquieting evidence, to construct a narrative that would sit well with the townsfolk and media.

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