Page 35 of In Her Path

Jenna shook her head with frustration. She knew Jake was right.

“What are we going to do?” she asked. “We’ve got to do something, Jake. We can’t just wait. We need to find out what happened to her—right now. We can’t waste time.”

She could almost hear the wheels clicking in Jake’s head. “We should go there ourselves right now, try to find out what happened,” he said.

“And then? Jake, if I’m right, we’ll still have a lot of explaining to do. People are already suspicious of my methods—especially Claire Simmons. She’ll have a fit over something like this.”

“Well … we’ll have to play it by ear. Look, we don’t have any good options. It’s the best we can do.”

“Okay, then,” Jenna said.

“I’m on my way to pick you up.”

Jenna ended the call and stood in the center of her bedroom, the image of Diane Holt’s mutilated face still burned into her mind.

*

As Jake navigated the empty streets of Trentville, Jenna sat in the passenger seat, leaning against the cold window glass, her breath leaving faint clouds on its surface. She watched the familiar storefronts and houses slide past, dark and silent in the pre-dawn. Her dream of Diane—blood pouring from her mouth, tongue gone—had been too vivid, too specific to dismiss. And it matched Curtis Paige’s murder exactly.

Her father’s words kept echoing in her mind: “Answers will come very soon.” She hoped so, because right now there seemed to be only questions—and not just about the murders, but also about how she could use her gift to catch whoever was doing this.

A thin line of pale light had appeared on the eastern horizon, the first hint of dawn. Jenna watched it grow, still wondering what this morning would bring.

“Turn here,” she said, pointing to Maple Street. “Her house is at the end of the block.”

Jake turned the car onto a tree-lined street of older homes, most still dark at this early hour. A few blocks down, he slowed, then pulled to a stop in front of a two-story colonial with a wide front porch—the house Jenna had seen in her dream. The house was almost completely dark, but a dim glow was visible through the front window’s curtains.

“That’s it?” Jake asked, cutting the engine.

“That’s the Holt place. I don’t see any sign of activity, inside or out.”

They sat for a moment in silence, the car’s interior growing colder as the heater shut off. Finally, Jenna reached for the door handle. “Let’s go.”

The morning air bit at her face as she stepped out of the car, carrying the sharp promise of winter ahead. She zipped her jacket higher and glanced at Jake, who had come around to join her. They made their way quietly up the flagstone path then split up to take a quick look around the outside of the house.

“Nothing,” Jake whispered as they met again at the front porch. Jenna’s heart sank. They were probably too late to catch sight of the killer she was so certain had murdered the councilwoman who lived here.

“Could they still be inside?” she wondered aloud.

They both mounted the three front porch steps, where a wooden swing hung motionless at one end. Jake turned his flashlight on the front, where the brass knocker had a dull, aged patina. Jenna knocked firmly, three times. The sound seemed to echo in the pre-dawn quiet.

They waited. Jenna counted silently—one, two, three—her breath coming faster as the seconds stretched. No sound came from within the house. She knocked again, harder this time.

She knocked a third time, the sound sharp in the cold air.

A brighter light flicked on somewhere inside, then the front porch light caught them in its glow. Jenna felt Jake tense beside her. Footsteps sounded, slow and shuffling, approaching the door.

The lock clicked. The door swung open.

Gerald Holt stood in the doorway, wearing striped pajamas and a faded blue robe. His thin hair stuck up at odd angles, and his face had the ashen, slack quality of someone still half-asleep—or half-conscious. His eyes, behind wire-rimmed glasses, moved from Jenna to Jake and back again without seeming to recognize either of them.

“Mr. Holt?” Jenna stepped forward. “I’m Sheriff Graves. We met at the city council meeting last month.”

He blinked slowly, his gaze unfocused. “Sheriff?” The word came out slurred.

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry to bother you so early, but … where is your wife?”

Something changed in his expression, as if he were being swept away in a tidal wave of confusion. His mouth worked silently for a moment, as if he was struggling to form words.