Page 16 of In Her Sights

“Yes,” she acknowledged with a subdued nod, “that’s at least part of what I wanted to discuss with you. She disappeared while hiking in Whispering Pines.”

“So, tell me,” he asked, folding his napkin onto his lap, “how are you planning to tackle this one?”

Jenna reached for the salt, sprinkling it over her eggs before responding. “I’ve got my deputy working on it with the Forest Service, searching the woods. They’ll also be canvassing the area, checking with any possible witnesses.” She met Frank’s gaze squarely. “But there’s a feeling I can’t shake, Frank. It’s like static in the air just before a storm hits.”

“Instincts, huh?” Frank speared a piece of toast with his fork, a soft smile playing on his lips. “You’ve always had a knack for reading the undercurrents.”

“More than instincts this time,” Jenna confessed, pausing to take a sip of coffee. The heat of the liquid did little to warm the chill of uncertainty within her.

“It still feels strange,” Jenna began calmly despite the odd sensation that twisted in her gut, “to be able to talk toyou about… my dreams.” She met Frank’s gaze, seeking the reassurance that only he could provide when it came to this part of her life.

Frank chuckled, a low rumble that filled the small kitchen. “Jenna, after all these years in the Ozarks,” he said, his eyes crinkling with good humor, “I’ve come to expect the unexpected. There are more things in heaven and earth than can be found in most folks’ philosophies.”

Her lips curved into a brief smile, grateful for his acceptance. It was a rare thing to find someone she could trust not to dismiss her experiences as fanciful nightmares or stress-induced illusions.

“Last night, I—” She hesitated, then took a deep breath, steadying herself. “I met someone in one of those lucid dreams.”

Jenna took a deep breath and continued. She described the scene as best she could recall, the vivid imagery playing back in her mind like a film reel.

“I found myself outside Hank’s Derby. I saw a man standing alone. He had a buzz cut and a red beard, rough-looking, like someone who’s been on the road awhile.” Jenna paused, her eyes losing some of their usual brightness as she delved into the memory. “He was carrying a duffel bag and had a case with a fishing rod propped up beside him. He looked… weary, but determined, like he had somewhere important to go but didn’t quite know how to get there.”

Frank listened intently, his face giving away nothing of his thoughts.

“Interesting,” was all he said at first, but Jenna could see gears turning behind his calm exterior. Frank prodded gently, leaning forward in his seat, elbows on the table. “Tell me, Jenna, did the man say anything to you?”

“Actually, yes,” Jenna finally replied, her voice barely heard as she traced the rim of her coffee mug with a finger, her gazelost in the steam swirling upward. “But what struck me most about him was a tattoo on the back of his hand.”

“Don’t tell me,” Frank interrupted her gently, a knowing look in his eyes. He began to describe the inked image with an uncanny precision. “Wings—no, angel wings, spread wide across his skin. Starting right at the base of his thumb, the feathers detailed enough to seem almost…alive.”

Jenna stared at Frank, her eyes reflecting a mix of shock and affirmation. “Yes, that’s exactly what the tattoo looked like.” She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

She leaned forward, closing the distance between them. “The man… he mentioned you, Frank. Said maybe ‘Sheriff Frank’ could help me with my problem.” Her words hung in the air, mingling with the scent of freshly scrambled eggs and coffee.

Frank nodded slowly, his expression unreadable for a moment before the corners of his mouth turned up in a small, knowing smile. “I think he might be right,” he said, his voice carrying a weight that belied his casual demeanor. “I just might be able to help. At least I hope so.”

The air was full of a sense of something unfolding that neither of them fully understood. Jenna watched as Frank’s hands, always so sure while flipping omelets or cuffing a suspect, now hesitated in the air, as if the past were something tangible he could grasp—if only he reached out in the right direction.

Jenna felt her pulse quicken, not with fear but with the thrill of the unknown. Here in the comfort of Frank’s kitchen, surrounded by the remnants of a life well-lived, she again found herself on the cusp of something vast and uncharted. The possibility that the answers she sought might lie within reach sent a surge of determination through her veins.

Frank leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his gaze traveling back in time to a place Jenna could not follow. The lines on his forehead seemed deeper now, as if they were groovesmapped out by the weight of memories. His eyes, normally a clear gray, were clouded with thought. Jenna knew that look; it was the same one he wore whenever he turned over a case in his mind, connecting invisible dots.

“Frank, please tell me,” Jenna prompted gently, her voice breaking through the quiet of the room. He blinked, returning from wherever his thoughts had taken him, and fixed his gaze on her once more.

“Sorry, Jenna,” he said, his voice a little distant. “It’s just that… well, there’s a lot to unpack here.”

“Anything at all that you can tell me could help,” she insisted, leaning forward, her green eyes pleading for answers.

“Jenna,” Frank said, his voice carrying a solemn note that commanded her full attention. “The man in your dream—the one with the tattoo…” He paused, and Jenna felt the gravity of what he was about to tell her.

CHAPTER NINE

As Jenna watched, Frank’s eyes assumed a faraway look. She knew it was the gaze he wore whenever he dredged up details from the depths of his memory—a memory that seldom failed him. Frank’s keen powers of observation were legendary in Genesius County. His nearly photographic memory had served as an invaluable asset during his time as sheriff—a trait Jenna admired and wished she could master for herself.

“Mark Reeves was his name,” Frank said, breaking the silence that had settled over the kitchen. “Came to the sheriff’s office asking about a good place to fish. I remember him clear as day.”

“Because of the tattoo?” Jenna asked.

“Partly,” Frank admitted, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. “It was quite distinctive. Not every day you see wings like that etched into someone’s skin around these parts. But there was something else about him—a sort of earnest curiosity. He was interested in the town, its stories.”

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