Page 7 of In Her Path

Jenna and Jake moved to join her. Jenna kept her expression neutral despite the knot forming in her stomach.

“I’ve completed my initial examination,” Melissa Stark told them, keeping her voice low enough that only Jenna and Jake could hear. “Time of death is consistent with the cleaning staff’s account that it happened during the night. But there’s more.” She paused, her gloved hand hovering near the edge of the sheet. “You need to see this for yourself …”

Dr. Stark carefully turned back the lower portion of the cloth covering Paige’s face. Jenna leaned over, her breath catching as she saw what lay beneath.

The lower half of Paige’s face was intact but wrong—his jaw slack, his lips parted slightly, but where his tongue should have been, there was only a dark, ragged hollow. The edges of the wound were clean, as though whatever had been used to remove it had been both sharp and wielded with precision. There was surprisingly little blood visible—just a dark stain that had seeped into the collar of his shirt and a few spatters on the ledger’s open pages.

Jenna went still, the image from her dream flashing with sudden, terrible clarity: Paige’s mouth working silently, forming words no one could hear. Not because he was trying to speak quietly or because she was too far away to hear him—but because he had no voice, no way to shape the sounds into meaning.

“No defensive wounds,” Dr. Stark continued, her voice clinical but not unkind. “He was either restrained or taken by surprise. And the tongue—” She hesitated, a rare moment of uncertainty from a woman known for her directness. “It was removed post-mortem. Which means whoever did this wanted to make a statement.”

Or wanted to make sure that statement couldn’t be made, Jenna thought, her mind racing. Someone had killed Curtis Paige and then taken his voice—literally taken it, as though the words he might have spoken were as dangerous as whatever had ended his life.

This wasn’t just murder—it was a message, written in blood and silence across the council table where Trentville’s business was conducted. A message for someone, though who and why remained shrouded in the same darkness that had swallowed this victim’s final hours.

And his spirit had tried to tell her about it in her lucid dream.

CHAPTER THREE

“What is the actual cause of death?” Jenna asked Melissa. “I mean, considering that the tongue was removed postmortem.”

The coroner pointed to the base of the man’s skull.

“Cause of death is this puncture wound,” Dr. Stark said, her voice clinical. “A sharp, narrow implement struck the foramen magnum—the opening at the base of the skull—with considerable force and precision. It penetrated the brainstem, causing death very quickly.”

Jake leaned forward, looking closely, “What kind of weapon are we talking about?”

Dr. Stark straightened, took off her glasses, and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Something with a small, very sharp point. An ice pick would be my first guess, or perhaps a specialty tool.” She slipped her glasses back on.

Jenna exchanged a glance with Jake. “Not a crime of passion, then.”

“No,” Dr. Stark agreed. “And that brings me back to the removal of the tongue,” She gestured to Curtis Paige’s face, where his mouth hung slack and empty. “It was cut out with a considerable care, there’s nothing sloppy about it. The edges of the wound are neat, with minimal tearing.”

“With what? Scissors?”

“A very sharp, narrow blade.”

Jenna stared at Curtis Paige’s body. The removal of the tongue must be some kind of a message. You talked too much. You said the wrong things. Or perhaps a warning to others. The symbolism wasn’t subtle.

“Do we have a more specific time of death?” Jake asked.

“I’d estimate between midnight and 2:00 a.m. Rigor is fully established, but there’s minimal skin discoloration.” Dr. Stark glanced at the body. “It looks like he was standing right here when he was struck, then fell to the floor.”

The council chamber door swung open forcefully. Officer Maria Delgado rushed in, her voice raised in warning.

“Sheriff, I’m sorry, I tried to keep her outside—she insisted—”

But before Delgado could finish, Evelyn Paige pushed past her—a middle-aged woman in a silky gray jacket, hair loosely twisted back, lips pressed white, and her eyes moving fast and frightened around the room.

Jenna remembered Jake saying he’d sent Maria to inform Paige’s wife of his death. It was clear she’d come straight from home with Maria, refusing to be left behind.

“Mrs. Paige, I’m so sorry,” Jenna began, moving forward. “You really shouldn’t be here …:

Evelyn didn’t seem to hear Jennas words as her gaze fell on her husband’s body. A strangled sound escaped her throat—not quite a scream, but something raw and primal. Her knees buckled, and she would have collapsed if not for Delgado’s steadying hand at her elbow.

“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no.”

Jake stepped forward, his voice low and gentle. “Mrs. Paige, perhaps we should step outside—“