Page 41 of In Her Path

Jenna recognized the executive assistant’s voice—calm, professional, with the faintest trace of a Missouri drawl.

“Meredith, this is Sheriff Graves. I need to speak with the Mayor right away.”

There was a brief pause. “I’m sorry, Sheriff, but she isn’t in yet.”

Jenna frowned. “That’s unusual, isn’t it? She’s normally the first one in the building.”

“Yes, it is,” Meredith agreed. “It worried me. I tried calling her personal phone, but I only got voice mail. Is something wrong, Sheriff?”

Jenna chose her words carefully. “I just need to clear up some things about yesterday’s public meeting. Nothing urgent. Please have her call me when she arrives.”

“I’ll let her know as soon as I see her.”

“Thank you, Meredith.” Jenna ended the call and pocketed her phone.

Jake was watching her, his expression concerned. “No luck?”

“She’s not at the office.”

Jenna moved to the window, looking out at the quiet yard. The Holt house sat at the end of a cul-de-sac, surrounded by similar two-story colonials with well-tended lawns.

“I need to think,” she muttered. “This case is—”

She broke off, unable to find the right word. Complicated? Political? Dangerous? All of the above?

“You’re overwhelmed,” Jake said quietly.

Jake had worked with her long enough to read her moods with unsettling accuracy.

“It’s okay to admit it,” he continued. “Two murders, a potential suspect who happens to be the most powerful person in the county, and a grieving husband who’s too medicated to know what happened. That would be too much for anyone.”

“It doesn’t matter if I’m overwhelmed,” Jenna said, turning back to face him. “We still have a job to do.”

“It matters to me,” Jake replied, his voice soft. “And it should matter to you. You’re not a machine, Jenna. You’re allowed to need help.”

The words were laden with meaning beyond the immediate situation.

“I do need help,” she admitted, the words coming easier than she’d expected. “But not just with the case.”

Understanding dawned in Jake’s eyes. “Maybe you should call Frank for advice.”

The same thought had just crossed Jenna’s mind. She stepped out onto the front porch, pulling her phone from her pocket. The morning air was crisp with the first bite of autumn, carrying the scent of wood smoke from a neighbor’s chimney. She found Frank’s number in her contacts and hit call.

He answered on the third ring, his voice gravelly with sleep. “Jenna Marie? It’s not even 8:30. This better be good.”

“It’s not,” she said without preamble. “Diane Holt is dead. Murdered in her home last night while her husband slept. Same MO as Curtis Paige—ice pick to the base of the skull, tongue removed.”

There was a moment of stunned silence. “Diane Holt?” Frank finally said. “The councilwoman?”

“That’s the one.”

“And it’s connected to Paige? …”

“It’s exactly the same MO.” She took a deep breath. “And there’s more. We have security footage from the back door of her house. Someone in the Mayor’s clothes—the exact outfit Claire was wearing at the council meeting—entered the house at 3:09 and left at 3:20 in the morning.”

“Around the time of Holt’s murder?”

“We think so.”