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| Faith Creek Mysteries |
Episode 1 | Ghosts Have Decided to Talk
The smooth notes of the jazz trio drifted through Dove's Lounge, wrapping around Jonah James like an old friend. From his corner booth, he watched the pianist lose himself in the melody while the saxophone carried the tune across the room. Candlelight shimmered against polished glasses, and quiet laughter blended with the music. For the first time in weeks, Faith Creek felt a hundred miles away.
Jonah lifted his glass of whiskey and took a slow sip. The burn settled warmly in his chest. It wasn't often he allowed himself an evening without case files spread across his desk or someone's problems waiting on the other end of the phone.
Across from him, Clarice Dale studied him over the rim of her wineglass.
"You've been stirring that drink for five minutes."
Jonah glanced down. She was right. The ice had nearly melted.
"I paid good money for this whiskey," he said. "Figured I ought to keep it company."
Clarice laughed. "You're impossible."
"So I've been told."
"Usually by me."
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Clarice leaned back in the booth. "You're working."
"No."
"Jonah..."
"I'm having dinner."
She folded her arms.
"You checked every exit when we walked in. You've looked at your phone six times. And you've barely heard a word I've said."
He looked sheepish.
"I heard every word."
"Oh?" she challenged.
"You said the courthouse coffee tastes like burnt motor oil."
"It does."
"And Mrs. Hensley still files documents alphabetically by first name instead of last."
Clarice tried not to smile.
"And?"
"You bought new shoes."
She blinked.
"How'd you know?"
"You've crossed your legs three times tonight."
She shook her head. "Retired sheriff."
"Former sheriff."
"Same difference."
Jonah's smile faded.
"Not really."
Silence settled between them, softened by the jazz.
Clarice reached across the table and gently tapped his hand.
"You've been asking questions again."
It wasn't really a question.
Jonah looked away.
Fifteen years had passed since Lena Wyatt disappeared.
Fifteen years since he'd stood before television cameras promising her parents he wouldn't stop looking.
He had.
Officially.
Retirement had taken his badge.
But it hadn't taken the case.
Some nights he'd unlock the filing cabinet at James Investigations, spread the Wyatt file across his desk, and convince himself there had to be one detail everyone had missed.
Recently, doors that had been closed for fifteen years had begun opening—just enough to keep him asking.
"Just tying up loose ends," he said quietly.
Clarice gave him a look that said she didn't believe him.
"Lena Wyatt isn't a loose end."
Before Jonah could answer, his phone vibrated against the polished table.
Unknown Caller.
He ignored it.
The vibration stopped.
"You gonna answer that?" Clarice asked.
"Probably somebody trying to sell me an extended warranty."
She chuckled.
A moment later, the phone buzzed again.
The same number.
Clarice raised one eyebrow.
"If it's someone with information, you're going to regret ignoring it."
Jonah sighed and answered.
"James."
A rough male voice whispered through the speaker.
"You don't know me, Mr. James."
"No, I don't."
"But I know what you've been asking."
Jonah sat straighter.
"Go on."
"I know who killed Lena Wyatt.”
Jonah's grip tightened around the phone.
His gaze swept the room on instinct, searching faces, exits, anything out of place.
"What do you know?"
"Not over the phone."
The man paused.
"Stanton Park. Thirty minutes."
The line went dead.
Clarice watched him quietly.
"Jonah..."
He was already reaching for his wallet.
"I've got to go."
She looked disappointed, but not surprised.
"Why so mysterious?"
"Ghosts have decided to talk."
He laid cash beside the untouched whiskey.
"I owe you dinner."
Clarice smiled sadly.
"You've been saying that for three years."
Jonah hesitated.
"I'll make it up to you."
"I know you will."
He wasn't sure whether she believed it.
Thirty minutes later, Stanton Park stood empty beneath a cloudy Arkansas sky.
The playground sat abandoned, one swing twisting slowly on a single chain. Wind rattled through the oak trees, carrying the smell of damp earth and cut grass. The old pavilion stood at the edge of the walking trail, its roof casting a long shadow beneath the flickering lights.
A lone figure waited there.
Hood up.
Hands buried inside a sweatshirt pocket.
Jonah slowed.
"You called?"
No answer.
"You said you knew what happened to Lena Wyatt."
The hooded figure nodded.
"Who killed her?"
Silence.
Jonah took one cautious step forward.
“What do you know?”
The figure slowly raised one hand.
The gunshot echoed through the empty park.
Pain tore through Jonah's chest.
He staggered backward, slumped into the wet grass, and watched the hooded figure disappear into the trees as darkness swallowed the trail.
KEEP READING…
🔙 Next Episode 2: A World Away
Hundreds of miles away in New York, attorney Tessa James has no idea that one phone call is about to change everything.
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