Page 41 of In Her Sights

“Safe?” Jenna spat the word out like a curse, her emerald eyes still scanning the shadows. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because,” Jake said with assurance, “those shots were a warning, not an attack. Whoever’s out there isn’t aiming at us. Not even the first time he fired. He would have hit us then if he’d really intended to. He’s close enough, and we were sitting ducks. He’s just trying to scare us into leaving.”

She looked at her deputy then—really looked, noting the calm set of his shoulders, the steady gaze that met hers. This was the demeanor of a man who had faced down the barrel of various guns more times than he cared to count, whose instincts had been honed in the crucible of urban crime. She was familiar with the variety of weapons used in the farmlands, but had seldom faced any of them turning on her.

“Experience,” he elaborated, almost reading her thoughts. “In Kansas City, it was a tactic—scare off the nosy before they get too close. It’s intimidation, nothing more.”

Jenna allowed herself a fraction of a second to absorb this, to let the logic seep in past the instinctive surge of adrenaline. Yet, despite Jake’s conviction, unease remained lodged in her gut.

“Okay,” she finally conceded. “But if this is someone’s idea of warning shots, I want to know exactly what they’re trying to hide.”

Her breath caught as Jake straightened with a fluid motion that seemed at odds with the tension gripping the air. He stepped out from behind the truck holding the gun aloft—an unexpected offering to an unseen adversary. His voice resonated against the stillness. “We’re not here for trouble. Sheriff Graves and I just want to talk.” He put his weapon down on the ground and backed away from it.

Silence followed; neither gunfire nor words came in reply. Jenna felt an odd sense of dislocation wash over her. Jake turned toward her, a silent command in his eyes. Trust warred with apprehension as she followed his lead, her own gun feeling foreign in her hand as she set it down on the earth.

She couldn’t shake the surreal nature of the moment—their weapons lying inert on the ground as if they were atoning for sins not yet committed. Jenna’s senses remained heightened, her mind taut with the anticipation of what might unfold from this gamble.

The rustle of leaves preceded the appearance of a man whose presence seemed wrought from the very soil of the land. Lucas Brennan emerged, his stance echoing the rugged terrain of Genesius County itself—unyielding and worn. His hair, a blend of silver and brown, hung loosely around his shoulders, streaked by the passage of time. His face was a topography of life lived hard and long, each line and wrinkle etched deeply into his weathered skin.

The shotgun held in his hands bore testament to recent use, but had it been reloaded?

“Who are you, really?” His voice was gravel, each word a stone thrown into the calm pond of their surrender.

Jake replied, “This is Sheriff Graves, and I’m Deputy Hawkins.”

Lucas Brennan’s skepticism was visible, his eyes flicking between Jake and Jenna like a wary animal. “Don’t lie to me,” he challenged. “Frank Doyle’s still sheriff ’round these parts, ain’t he?”

Jenna stepped forward, her shadow falling across the discarded weapons on the ground, signaling a peace offering. “Frank Doyle retired two years ago. I was his deputy, and I’m Sheriff Jenna Graves now,” she explained, her tone matter-of-fact.

The news seemed to take a moment to reach the recesses of the man’s guarded mind, as if he were piecing together a puzzle. Jenna could almost see the wheels turning in his head, the isolation of his life here churning with the paranoia that had clearly been his companion for too long.

“Times change, Mr. Brennan,” Jenna continued, her eyes not leaving his. She knew the importance of maintaining a connection, however frayed, in moments like this.

Lucas’s grip on the shotgun loosened ever so slightly, a subtle shift in the standoff that surrounded them. “Why’re you here?” he grumbled, suspicion still coloring his tone.

“We need to talk about Sarah Thompson,” Jake said. “She’s gone missing.”

Recognition sparked in Lucas’s eyes, and with it, a flash of genuine surprise. “Sarah? What happened to her?”

“Disappeared the day before last,” Jenna said, watching him closely. “But we also want to know more about your wife, Melissa. About what happened five years ago.”

For a fleeting second, Jenna saw the walls around Lucas waver. The mention of his wife, a wound time had failed to close, drew out a vulnerability she hadn’t expected to see.

“Melissa?” His voice broke, roughened by sorrow that seemed to well up from the depths of his being. It was a response that spoke volumes, a crack in the facade of the reclusive man before them. It hinted at a story left untold, buried beneath layers of silence and regret.

“We saw her packed bags just now in your basement,” Jenna said. “We know she didn’t leave you—or at least not the way you said she did.”

Lucas exhaled a weary sound that hung in the damp morning air. He stepped forward, his movements deliberate, and picked up Jake’s gun by the grip, then held it with an outstretched hand. “Here,” he said, his voice devoid of hostility.

Jenna watched as Jake accepted his weapon, the metal glinting briefly in the sunlight. Lucas then nodded toward Jenna’s sidearm, still lying on the ground where she’d set it moments before. She picked it up, the familiar weight settling into her palm like a silent promise of safety. Despite the urge to snap handcuffs around this man’s wrists for the pain he might have caused Melissa—and Sarah—she was aware of Jake’s reluctance to escalate the situation. Trusting his judgment, she holstered her gun, her gaze never leaving Lucas.

“Alright, Lucas,” Jenna began, her voice steady, “let’s talk.”

The farmhouse porch creaked as Lucas led them to a trio of mismatched chairs, remnants of a life once shared. Jenna’s eyes swept over the small homestead, the rows of crops beyond speaking of solitary toil. The humid June breeze carried the scent of earth and growing things, a stark counterpoint to the sounds that had shattered that tranquility.

“Lucas,” Jenna started, her tone even but firm, “you told people Melissa left you. That was five years ago. What really happened to her?”

“That’s… complicated,” Lucas admitted, his gaze distant. “She did pack her bags. Said she couldn’t stand me anymore. But she didn’t leave—not at first, anyway.”

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