Page 2 of In Her Path

Decision made, Curtis pushed back from the table and stood. The portraits of former mayors that lined the east wall seemed to watch him with painted eyes, their expressions—benign in full light—now somehow accusatory.

Curtis shivered. The temperature had dropped suddenly, a draft of cold air sweeping through the chamber. He turned, scanning for the source. The windows were all closed. The main door remained shut.

But there—the small service door at the back of the chamber, the one that led to the storage closet and then to the rear stairwell. It stood slightly ajar.

Curtis was certain he’d closed it. He always did—a habit formed years ago after finding a sleeping vagrant curled among the spare chairs one winter morning. He’d had the locks changed after that, had made sure the cleaning staff understood that the door was to remain locked at all times.

He took a step toward it, then stopped. The draft was coming from there, a current of cold air that raised goosebumps on his arms beneath his shirt sleeves.

Curtis’s hand moved instinctively to his phone, then stopped. Call who? The sheriff? To report a draft and an open door? He’d be the laughingstock of the department by morning. Better to check it himself, then call maintenance if there was actually a problem.

He crossed to the door in three quick strides, hand outstretched to push it closed. Then he heard it—a whisper behind him, so soft he might have imagined it. The rustle of clothing, perhaps, or the barely audible exhalation of breath.

Curtis froze, then slowly turned.

The council chamber lay exactly as he’d left it—desk covered in papers, briefcase open beside his chair, coat draped over the back. Nothing had changed.

Except.

The leather-bound ledger lay open on the desk, pages splayed. Curtis was certain he’d closed it before standing. The numbers inside were damning enough without being left exposed for anyone to see.

And there was something else—a pen, one of the cheap ballpoints the city purchased in bulk, rolling slowly across the desk’s surface. It reached the edge, teetered for a moment, then fell to the floor with a soft click.

Curtis took a step toward the desk, then another. He was being ridiculous. The pen had probably been balanced on the edge of the ledger, dislodged when he stood. The book had fallen open on its own. These things happened.

But even as he formed the thought, Curtis knew it was wrong. The ledger had been closed. The pen had been in the holder beside the phone. He was meticulous about such things—had to be, with so much at stake.

He was three steps from the desk when the whisper came again—directly behind him this time. Not his imagination. Not the building settling.

Curtis spun, too late. Something struck him from behind, a precise blow at the base of his skull. Pain exploded through his head, white-hot and blinding. His knees buckled. He tried to cry out, but his voice caught in his throat, emerging as nothing more than a choked gasp.

Hands caught him as he fell, easing him to the floor with unexpected gentleness. Curtis’s vision darkened at the edges, consciousness slipping away. The last thing he registered was a breath, warm against his ear—steady, controlled, almost intimate in its closeness.

Then nothing.

The council chamber returned to silence. The pen that had fallen to the floor rolled a final half-inch before coming to rest against the leg of Curtis Paige’s chair.

CHAPTER ONE

Jenna Graves stood still in the darkness, a cold draft raising goosebumps along her arms. Before her, Councilman Curtis Paige emerged from the shadows—his face ashen, eyes wide with desperation. He stepped forward, hands outstretched as if reaching for help, but his feet made no sound against the floor.

“Mr. Paige, what’s wrong?” Jenna said, her voice echoing strangely in the space. She knew this wasn’t real—couldn’t be real—and yet the dream carried the kind of truth that all her lucid dreams did. And the spirits who visited her in her dreams always needed her help.

Curtis opened his mouth, his jaw working frantically. No sound emerged. His face contorted, frustration flashing across his features as he tried again, mouth opening and closing in silent appeal. His throat strained, tendons in his neck standing out like cords beneath his skin. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

“Councilman?” Jenna stepped closer, reaching out toward him.

He grabbed her wrist. His eyes locked with hers—terrified, pleading—and he tried once more to speak. His lips formed the shapes of words Jenna couldn’t hear, couldn’t understand. His free hand moved to his neck as if feeling for something missing.

“What are you trying to tell me?” Jenna asked, leaning in.

The darkness around them seemed to pulse, growing thicker. Curtis’s eyes widened further, and he released her wrist to point frantically toward something behind her. When she turned to look, shadows rushed in, swallowing the room, swallowing Curtis—

Jenna jolted awake, heart hammering, sheets twisted around her legs. The red digits on her alarm clock read 5:17. Three minutes before it would blare.

She pushed herself upright, setting the dream’s chill aside and turning off the alarm. Curtis Paige had never visited her dreams before. She’d known the man by reputation for years—the town councilman with the loud voice and questionable ethics—but they’d never been close. The fact that he’d sought her out in sleep meant only one thing: he was dead, and most likely his death wasn’t from natural causes.

Jenna swung her legs over the side of the bed, planting her feet firmly on the cold hardwood floor. Reality. She needed reality now.