Page 33 of In Her Sights

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” he asked, his tone revealing a sense of betrayal. His features reflected a quiet hurt, the kind that came from unexpected exclusion. “Is there some reason you didn’t trust me with this?”

Jenna met his gaze, her green eyes reflecting the pale light. “I was worried,” she confessed. “Worried you’d see me differently. That it might change things between us.”

“Wouldn’t that be my call to make?” Jake pressed, his shoulders tense.

“Perhaps,” Jenna conceded, feeling the weight of her decision. “But Jake, you have to understand—I couldn’t risk losing your trust. Not when we’ve come so far together.”

Jake looked down at his empty pie plate. “Yeah, I get it,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “It’s just… surprising, is all. And I … well, I still don’t know what to think.”

He set his fork down with a click, pushing the plate away. “I guess you were right to worry,” he said, his voice carrying an edge of something Jenna couldn’t quite define. It was disappointment, maybe, or the echo of a trust strained almost to breaking. “I just… I don’t know where this leaves us. As a team. As friends.”

Her heart sank. The hurt in his words was unmistakable, and it mirrored the ache in her own chest. She had hoped for understanding, for acceptance, but she hadn’t been naive enough to expect it. “I can’t blame you for how you feel,” she said quietly. They finished their coffee in silence, the warmth from the mugs doing nothing to thaw the chill that had settled over them.

The diner’s clock ticked on, marking time that seemed to stretch and warp around them, until Jake finally broke the quiet.“What’s our next step with our current case, then?” His question was practical and grounding, pulling them back to the reality they were tangled in.

“We still have a lot of unanswered questions,” she replied. “A lot of ordinary investigation to do.”

Jake nodded slowly as if that alone lent some solidity to the shaken ground beneath their partnership. It was a small comfort to Jenna, a reminder that even when personal understanding faltered, the resolve to seek justice remained unbroken.

They rose from the booth, leaving behind his empty plate and her nibbled-at pie, the remnants of a conversation that would linger long after the flavors had faded. With the bill paid, Jenna led the way out of Hank’s Derby into the cool night air of Trentville. A huge truck rumbled away from the gas pumps, then everything was silent around them.

Back in the Twilight Inn parking lot, Jenna’s fingers fumbled with the keys before she could unlock the car and get it started. Jake settled into the passenger seat, sitting there stiffly. The drive was silent, except for the soft murmur of the car gliding over asphalt. Jenna’s mind churned. A partnership once grounded in unspoken understanding now teetered on the brink of uncertainty, and she thought she could feel the distance between them growing.

As she navigated the quiet streets of Trentville toward headquarters, where Jake’s car was still parked, a sense of trepidation settled over her. She knew that revealing her secret—a truth she had held close for years—had altered something fundamental. It wasn’t just the look of skepticism that had flickered across Jake’s face or the heavy silence that followed; it was the knowledge that she had unveiled a part of herself that couldn’t be unseen or forgotten.

Each turn brought them closer to headquarters, and with it, the end of their journey for the night. Finally, breaking thesilence like a crack through ice, Jake spoke. “Jenna, has Piper ever come to you in a dream?” His voice was hesitant, almost fearful of the answer.

Jenna felt her heart skip a beat. She swallowed hard before responding, her voice soft. “No,” she admitted. “And that’s one reason why I still hold out hope that she’s alive.”

“Because if she was… gone, you’d know,” Jake finished for her, his tone now more understanding, yet filled with a profound sadness. Jenna nodded, eyes never leaving the road, yet seeing so much more than the path ahead. In the silence that followed, Jenna could almost hear the echo of her sister’s laughter, a sound that had once filled their shared childhood room. She clung to the belief that the absence of Piper in her dreams meant something—that her twin was still alive somewhere.

Jenna glanced sideways at Jake, trying to gauge his feelings. She needed him, not just as her deputy, but as the steadfast friend who had always been by her side.

Jake got out of the car with a grim smile and only brief words. “Goodnight, Jenna.” She sat there watching him go to his car and drive away.

Something vital had changed tonight. Jenna had revealed her soul’s hidden corners to someone she trusted, yet now she had to wait to discover the consequences.

Although Jake hadn’t said so, she knew he still didn’t quite believe her. Maybe he thought she was out of her mind—a thought which sometimes occurred even to her. Would Jake ever look at her the same way? Could he accept this part of her, or would it forever be a barrier between them?

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Consciousness crept back to Sarah Thompson, slipping into her awareness only to reveal the bleak darkness that still surrounded her. Her eyelids fluttered open, yet there was nothing to see—no comforting light or familiar shape—just that oppressive blackness that had swallowed every hope she might have harbored. She shifted on the hard, cold ground, the concrete beneath her offering no solace to her aching body. Grogginess clung to her mind, and with it, a pang of hunger gnawed at her insides. But the worst thing was that overwhelming thirst; her tongue felt like sandpaper, her throat a barren ravine begging for the mercy of water.

As she lay there, trying to piece together the fragments of memory, the silence of her prison was abruptly shattered. Panic seized her at the nightmarish repetition—a door creaking open, then footsteps descending stairs, silence, then the sense of something moving toward her. Sarah wanted to scream, to demand answers, but the dryness of her mouth smothered the impulse. She lay still, the prey pretending death in the face of a predator.

Then again the stark beam of the penlight and the clink of ceramic on concrete. In the harsh circle of light, a new plate materialized, holding the same meager offering as before: a slice of bread and a piece of cheese. The new plate sat near the untouched one from earlier, that bread now hard, the cheese dried and curling at the edges. Then the penlight flicked off, abandoning Sarah to the consuming shadows once more.

Her body craved sustenance, but the desert in her mouth made swallowing merely a dream. Sarah’s hunger was a primitive ache that paled in comparison to the arid burn in herthroat. A single bite would turn to ash without moisture to aid it down her constricting throat.

“Please,” she rasped, the word barely escaping her lips, “water.”

Her plea dissolved into the void, unanswered. She strained against her restraints, the clank of metal echoing in a cruel imitation of her fruitless efforts. In the silence that followed, Sarah realized the true nature of her plight—not just a struggle for freedom, but a primal fight for the most basic elements of life. This mockery of care, this semblance of feeding, was a psychological barb from someone who knew the body’s needs and relished in their denial.

The light snapped off as abruptly as it had come, plunging Sarah back into darkness. The absence of the penlight was almost a physical blow, the sudden return to blindness disorientating. She heard the figure’s footsteps, heavy and deliberate on the wooden stairs, each step creaking under their weight. The sound receded, growing fainter until it disappeared entirely with the soft thud of an unseen door closing upstairs.

Sarah inhaled slowly, trying to steady her racing heart. She closed her eyes, though it made no difference in the darkness, and pictured the clear, cool water of a stream she used to visit on hikes through Whispering Pines Forest.

Her mind wandered to the classroom where she taught, the eager faces of students. Sarah wondered if they asked about her, if they missed the lessons she brought to life with stories from her childhood on the farm. Those thoughts brought a fresh wave of fear—how long would it be before someone found her? Would they find her at all?

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