Page 20 of In Her Path

“So, what do you think the voices meant by two kinds of silence—the kind that you choose, and the kind you don’t choose?”

“I don’t know,” Jenna admitted. She slowed the car as they approached Natalie’s street. “But Piper, whatever else you hear, even if it doesn’t make sense, will you tell me?”

“Of course,” Piper said. “I want to help. I’m not just... broken, you know.”

The raw vulnerability in her sister’s voice made Jenna’s chest ache. “You’re not broken,” she said firmly. “You’re finding your way back. And you’re already helping us, Piper. More than you know.”

“I should let you go,” Piper said. “You’re working.”

“We’re almost at our next interview,” Jenna confirmed. “But call me right away if you hear anything else. Okay?”

“I will. Love you, Jen.”

“Love you too.”

The call ended.

"She's getting stronger," Jake said quietly. "Using the voices instead of running from them."

Jenna smiled, feeling something loosen in her chest. "That's what recovery looks like. Two steps forward, one step back, but still moving."

Jenna and Jake fell into silence as she made another turn. The houses here were similar to those they’d passed—small, modest, showing the wear of decades and economic hardship. According to the address Agnes had given them, Natalie Grasso lived near the end of the block.

The house at that address was a one-story bungalow with peeling blue paint and a front yard overtaken by dandelions and crabgrass. A single car—several years old but appearing well-maintained—sat in the driveway. The front windows were covered with blinds, drawn tight against the midday sun.

The wooden porch steps creaked under Jenna’s weight as she climbed them. A pot of withered geraniums stood by the door, the soil cracked from neglect. Through the small window set into the door, Jenna could see a shadow moving—someone approaching, then pausing, perhaps looking through the peephole to identify the visitors.

Jenna knocked firmly. Beside her, Jake’s posture was relaxed but alert—the stance of someone who’d conducted hundreds of interviews and knew that the first thirty seconds often determined how the rest would go.

The door opened a few inches, secured by a chain. A single eye peered out—dark, wary, framed by a stray lock of black hair.

“Sheriff Graves?” a voice said cautiously.

“Ms. Grasso, I’m here with Deputy Jake Hawkins. We’d like to ask you a few questions, if you have a moment.”

The eye narrowed. “About what?”

“It’s about Curtis Paige,” Jenna said, watching for a reaction. “We’re investigating his murder.”

There it was—a flicker of something across the visible portion of Natalie’s face. Surprise? Fear? It was gone too quickly to tell.

The door closed briefly, the chain rattled, and then it swung open to reveal Natalie Grasso. She was smaller than Jenna had expected—petite, with a wiry build that suggested hidden strength. Her dark hair was cut in short style that framed her sharp features—high cheekbones, a pointed chin, and eyes that missed nothing. She wore jeans and a faded band t-shirt, her feet bare on the hardwood floor.

“Come in,” she said, stepping back. “Though I’m not sure what I can tell you about Curtis Paige that would be helpful.”

The interior of the house matched its exterior—modest but with signs of neglect. The living room to the right of the entryway was dominated by a battered sofa covered with a colorful throw. A laptop sat open on the coffee table, surrounded by stacks of newspapers and notebooks. The walls were lined with bookshelves, each one overflowing—not just with books but with file folders, photograph albums, and the assorted detritus of a reporter’s life.

They settled into an awkward arrangement—Jenna and Jake on the sofa, Natalie in a worn armchair opposite them. The space between them felt charged, heavy with unasked questions.

“So,” Natalie said, tucking her feet beneath her. “Curtis Paige. What about him?”

Jenna decided directness was the best approach. “Ms. Grasso, we understand you had a conversation with Warren Oswinkle about a month ago. In the break room at the Weekly News.”

Natalie’s expression didn’t change, but something shifted in her eyes—a calculation, a reassessment. “I talk to a lot of people in the break room,” she said with an awkward smile. “It’s where the coffee is.”

“This was a specific conversation,” Jake said. “About Curtis Paige. About how nothing ever sticks to him. About how, one of these days, he’d really pay.”

“And,” Jenna added, watching Natalie’s face carefully, “about how you’d make him pay. With a brass letter opener.”