The Witness's Fear

Sarah Jenkins’s hands trembled, the teacup rattling against its saucer. The lukewarm liquid sloshed, a dark stain blooming on the worn floral tablecloth. Detective Corbin watched her, his gaze steady, patient. He’d learned that patience was a currency in this town, a silent counterpoint to the frantic whispers and the gnawing unease that permeated its very air. Sarah’s eyes, usually bright with a fierce, maternal light, were now clouded with a fear that had nothing to do with the general dread clinging to Oakhaven. This was a specific, personal terror, one that tightened her throat and made her breath hitch.

“You said you saw someone,” Corbin prompted gently, his voice a low rumble in the quiet of her small, cluttered living room. The scent of lavender and old paper hung heavy, a testament to a life lived and now fractured by an absence. “Near the old asylum grounds.”

Sarah nodded, her gaze fixed on a point somewhere beyond Corbin’s shoulder, as if replaying a scene etched too vividly in her mind. “It was… it was a few days before… before Mark disappeared. I remember now. The night before. I couldn’t sleep, you see. The insomnia, it’s been bad. Ever since.” She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, a shudder passing through her. “I went out onto the porch. Just to breathe. It was late. The moon was… it was veiled. Like it is tonight.”