Page 13 of In Her Path

“About the darkness?”

“Exactly. She believed it was something old, tied to the land itself. She said it slept most of the time, but when it woke, it fed on fear. People would die in unusual ways, often related to their deepest terrors.”

Piper felt a chill despite the warmth of the car. “Like what’s happening now? With all the murders that have been happening here lately?”

“It sure seems like it,” Frank admitted. “The timing fits. It’s a dark time for this town.”

Piper digested this, thinking of the dark presence she’d sensed hovering at the edges of her consciousness for weeks before she’d fled Trentville all those years ago. Had it been this same darkness Esther Doyle had warned about?

“Did she say how to stop it?” she asked.

Frank’s expression turned thoughtful. “She said it would take good people, united. If they stood together, they could end it. For good.”

“Good people,” Piper repeated. “That’s pretty vague.”

“It is,” Frank agreed. “But I’ve wondered, especially lately, if she might have meant you and Jenna. Twins, and both of you able to see what others can’t.”

Piper felt a flush of embarrassment. “I’m not exactly hero material these days, Frank. I can’t even access my abilities anymore.”

“Maybe that’s just temporary,” Frank said. “I wouldn’t count yourself out yet.”

They’d reached the hospital, a low, modern building set back from the road. Frank turned into the parking lot, finding a space near the entrance.

They got out of the car and walked toward the building. The automatic doors slid open with a soft hiss, revealing the bright, sterile interior of Trentville Memorial. Piper steeled herself for the conversation ahead. She needed to talk to Dr. White about her medications—about whether there was a way to maintain her stability without sacrificing the one thing that made her valuable to Jenna’s investigation.

Because if Frank was right—if the darkness was rising again—she couldn’t afford to be sidelined. Not when her sister might need her most.

CHAPTER FIVE

Jenna steered her patrol car through the streets of Trentville while Jake sat quietly in the passenger seat. The conversation they’d had in her office—the open question of where their relationship was going—still nudged at her mind and she was sure it was at the top of his thoughts, too. But they had both agreed to focus on the murder investigation first.

“So,” Jake said, breaking the comfortable silence, “you’ve known Agnes Freelander since you were a kid?”

“She and my mom were friendly for a while. Agnes covered a lot of community events when my mom was involved with the women’s auxiliary, church fundraising, that kind of thing. She’s a remarkable woman. The Weekly News isn’t just a newspaper to her—it’s a legacy.”

She turned onto Oak Avenue, a street lined with small businesses—an auto repair shop, a diner, a pharmacy that had been in the same family for three generations. Trentville in microcosm: ordinary on the surface, with decades of history and connections underneath. Agnes Freelander had documented all of it, week after week, year after year.

The Weekly News building came into view—a one-story structure of faded red brick. The sign out front, once illuminated with neon, now relied on the natural light to identify the business. The parking lot contained just three cars, one of them Agnes’s decades-old sedan.

Jenna pulled into a space near the entrance and cut the engine. As they got out of the car, Jake adjusted his jacket. “You think she’ll already know about Paige?”

“Agnes Freelander knew about Curtis Paige’s death by the time his body was cold. Trust me on that.”

The reception area of the Trentville Weekly News felt more like a museum than a functioning business. A chipped wooden counter separated visitors from the small group of desks, each occupied by a reporter either typing furiously or speaking into a phone. Jenna had been here dozens of times over the years, sometimes as Sheriff Graves with questions about a case, sometimes as Jenna with personal inquiries about town records, but the space always gave her the same impression: a place clinging to relevance in a world that had moved on.

The receptionist—a woman in her fifties with tired eyes and a permanent crease between her brows—looked up from her computer.

Before Jenna could even reply, a door at the back of the room swung open. Agnes Freelander stood in the doorway as if she’d been expecting them, her silver-streaked auburn hair cut in a practical style, reading glasses perched on her head. She wore a cardigan over a simple blouse, the uniform of someone who had long ago stopped trying to impress anyone.

“Jenna,” she said. “Deputy Hawkins.” She gestured toward her office. “Come in. We can talk in private.”

They made their way through the newsroom, past worn desks and ancient computers. Reporters glanced up as they passed, their curiosity evident before they returned to their screens. Agnes’s office stood behind a glass partition, blinds half-drawn for privacy. Inside, the space reflected three decades of journalism—awards hung on walls covered with yellowed clippings and bookshelves sagged under stacks of reference materials.

“Coffee?” Agnes offered, pointing to a coffee maker on a small table in the corner.

“Please,” Jenna said. Jake shook his head.

Agnes gestured to two chairs that were free of papers, so Jenna and Jake sat down. She poured two mugs, giving one to Jenna before settling into the chair behind her desk. She took a sip, her eyes assessing them over the rim of her mug.