Page 11 of In Her Dreams (Jenna Graves #7)

The conversation with Jenna still echoed in Jake’s mind as he navigated his patrol car through the familiar streets of Trentville.

Two deaths by extreme terror in as many days wasn’t something his police academy training had prepared him for.

Neither was the strange tightness in his chest whenever he thought about that impulsive moment last week when he’d kissed Jenna’s cheek.

He adjusted the air conditioning, the cool blast doing little to clear his head.

Earlier today, he’d interviewed Anita Palmer’s roommate without learning anything new.

Alice Bowen had mentioned that Anita had seen a local therapist for sleep issues and nightmares—a Dr. Walsh, she’d said.

That was now on his list of leads that still had to be checked.

His visit to Richard Winters’ home to reinterview Rusty Galvin had also left him with more questions than answers, and her reaction still weighed on him.

“You’re telling me someone else died the same way?” Rusty had asked, her voice cracking. She’d been sorting through her father’s mail at the kitchen table, creating neat stacks that seemed designed to give her some small measure of control.

Jake had shifted his weight, uncomfortable with how little he could reveal. “We’re looking into similarities, yes.”

“This isn’t just coincidence, is it?” Rusty’s eyes had locked onto his. “I told Jenna yesterday something felt wrong about Dad’s death.”

“We don’t have enough information yet to make that determination,” he’d replied, falling back on official language that felt hollow even to his own ears.

Rusty had slammed her palm against the table, disturbing her careful piles. “Cut the crap, Deputy Hawkins. This is my father we’re talking about.”

He’d softened then, remembering that Rusty wasn’t just any witness or family member. She had been Jenna’s friend since childhood.

“I promise you, Rusty, we’re taking this seriously,” he’d said. “But right now, we have two deaths that look natural on paper. Cardiac arrest. We can’t declare a homicide without substantial evidence.”

“But you think it’s murder,” she’d said. Not a question.

He hadn’t confirmed or denied it. Instead, he’d probed for any connections between the two victims. He’d asked if her father had been treated by a therapist, but she simply hadn’t known.

And now Jake’s brain was spinning. He’d made a list of things still to be checked, but he didn’t know what was essential and what would be a waste of time.

Now, stopping at a red light, he rubbed his eyes.

Neither death fit any conventional definition of murder.

No physical evidence of foul play, no obvious suspects or motives.

Just two unrelated people who might have died of fright.

His Kansas City colleagues would have laughed him out of the squad room for even suggesting that.

But Trentville wasn’t Kansas City. The rules were different here. Or rather, there were more rules at play than he’d ever considered before moving to this town.

The light turned green, and Jake accelerated toward Riverbend Trust Bank. His radio crackled with routine chatter, the normalcy of it almost jarring against the backdrop of his thoughts.

Two years ago, he would have dismissed the idea of deaths by supernatural terror as ridiculous.

But that was before he’d witnessed things that defied rational explanation.

Before working in Genesius County had slowly but surely eroded his certainty about what was and wasn’t possible.

Before, Jenna had trusted him enough to tell him about her dreams.

Jenna. His thoughts circled back to her as they inevitably did these days.

The kiss had been nothing really. Just a brief touch of his lips against her cheek as they’d parted after closing a case.

Not even a real kiss—the kind of friendly gesture that shouldn’t have left him replaying the moment for days afterward.

But it had crossed a line in their carefully maintained professional relationship, and he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Had she stiffened slightly at the contact? Or was that his imagination? He couldn’t be sure. They hadn’t discussed it, and he’d been careful not to repeat the gesture, worried he’d overstepped.

Jake turned into the bank parking lot, forcing himself to focus on the case at hand. He could overthink his feelings for Jenna later. Right now, he had a job to do.

The flag outside Riverbend Trust Bank hung at half-staff, stirring listlessly in the early evening breeze. Jake parked and stared at it for a moment, thinking about how Richard Winters had been such a fixture in this community that his death warranted this public display of mourning.

Inside, the bank had the hushed atmosphere of a place touched by loss.

Though the work continued—tellers helping customers, phones ringing softly—there was a subdued quality to it all.

Jake’s eyes were drawn to a display near the entrance: a framed portrait of Richard Winters on an easel, surrounded by a modest arrangement of white flowers.

Beside it, a leather-bound book lay open on a small table with a pen attached by a silken cord.

Jake approached and glanced at the pages. Dozens of signatures filled the condolence book, many accompanied by short messages. “A true gentleman.” “You helped my family through hard times.” “Trentville won’t be the same without you.”

He recognized names as he skimmed the entries—business owners, teachers, even the mayor. Richard had touched many lives during his decades at the bank.

A teller noticed him standing there and approached with a polite smile. Her name tag read “Margaret.”

“Can I help you, Deputy Hawkins?” she asked, recognition crossing her face.

“I’d like to speak with Bruce Autrey if he’s available,” Jake said, keeping his voice appropriately low for the setting.

“Of course. His office is just down that hallway, last door on the right. I believe he’s in.”

Jake thanked her and made his way past the teller windows and through a door marked “Private.” The carpeted hallway muffled his footsteps as he approached Bruce Autrey’s office. The door was ajar, but Jake knocked anyway.

Bruce looked up from his computer, recognition and a flicker of wariness crossing his face. He was a stocky man in his early sixties with thinning gray hair and wire-rimmed glasses that gave him a scholarly appearance.

“Deputy Hawkins,” he said, rising to shake Jake’s hand. “Please, come in.”

Jake closed the door behind him and took the offered seat across from Bruce’s desk. The office was modest but nicely furnished, with framed certificates on the walls and a small collection of fishing trophies on a shelf.

“First, I want to offer my condolences,” Jake began. “I understand you and Richard were close.”

Bruce nodded, removing his glasses and cleaning them with a handkerchief—a gesture that seemed more about gathering his thoughts than actual necessity.

“Forty years of friendship,” he said quietly. “Started as colleagues, became like brothers. His wife Betty used to joke that she married both of us.” A small, sad smile crossed his face at the memory.

“That’s a long time,” Jake said. “I imagine you knew him pretty well.”

“Better than most,” Bruce agreed, replacing his glasses. “Which is why I’m wondering about this visit. Is this... official business?”

Jake maintained a neutral expression, choosing his words carefully. “I’m following up on a few details about Mr. Winters’ death. Rusty Galvin suggested you might be able to provide some insight into his state of mind over the past few months.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed slightly. “This sounds more serious than a routine follow-up. Is there something concerning about Richard’s death?”

“We’re just being thorough,” Jake said, evading the direct question. “I understand Mr. Winters had been struggling with some issues since his wife’s passing?”

Bruce studied him for a moment, clearly sensing there was more to Jake’s inquiry than was being stated. But professionalism won out over curiosity.

“After Betty died, Richard... changed. Understandable, of course. Thirty-five years of marriage, and then suddenly alone.” Bruce leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting to a framed photo on his desk—likely him and Richard in happier times.

“Rusty mentioned claustrophobia?” Jake prompted.

Bruce nodded. “Started small. He’d take the stairs instead of the elevator. Avoided the supply closet. Then it got worse. He couldn’t drive his car anymore—felt trapped. Started walking to work every day, rain or shine. We were all worried about him.”

“That must have been difficult to witness,” Jake said, genuine sympathy in his voice.

“It was. And the insomnia made everything worse. He’d come to work exhausted, deep circles under his eyes. Said whenever he managed to fall asleep, he’d have these vivid nightmares that would jolt him awake. It was like watching my friend disappear bit by bit.”

Insomnia and nightmares—those details connected to what Anita Palmer’s roommate had said a little while ago.

“But I understand there was an improvement recently?”

Bruce’s expression brightened slightly. “Yes, about two months ago. It was remarkable, actually. Like someone had flipped a switch. Suddenly he was sleeping through the night, taking the elevator, even driving again. We were all so relieved.”

“Did he ever mention what caused the change?” Jake asked, trying to keep his tone casual despite his growing interest.

Bruce hesitated. “He was strangely tight-lipped about it. Which was unusual—Richard and I didn’t keep much from each other. But whenever I asked, he’d just say he’d ‘found a solution’ and change the subject.”

“No details at all?”

“Well,” Bruce said, rubbing his chin, “he did mention seeing a specialist for his sleep issues. Dr. Walsh, I believe. Has an office over on Maple Street. I got the impression whatever treatment they were doing was working, but Richard was almost... secretive about it.”

Jake felt a jolt at mention of the same therapist who had been treating Anita Palmer, but kept his expression neutral. “Dr. Walsh. I’ll make a note of that. Anything else unusual you noticed recently? Any visitors or changes to his routine?”

Bruce thought for a moment. “Nothing specific comes to mind. He seemed happy, relieved. Started talking about traveling again, maybe visiting his brother in Arizona. Which makes his death all the more shocking. Just when he’d gotten his life back...”

Jake nodded sympathetically. “One last question—did Richard ever mention someone named Anita Palmer to you?”

Bruce’s brow furrowed. “Anita Palmer? No, doesn’t ring a bell. Should it?”

“Just covering all bases,” Jake said, standing. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Autrey. You’ve been very helpful.”

Bruce stood as well, extending his hand. “Deputy, you haven’t actually said why you’re asking all these questions. This wasn’t just a heart attack, was it?”

Jake shook his hand firmly. “We’re still gathering information. If there’s anything else you remember that might be relevant, please don’t hesitate to call the station.”

He left Bruce looking troubled and unsatisfied with the non-answer. As he passed the memorial on his way out, Jake paused to sign the condolence book, writing a simple “The community has lost one of its finest. -Deputy Jake Hawkins.”

As he walked to his patrol car, Jake pulled out his phone and called Jenna. She answered on the second ring. “Jake? What’ve you got?”

Something in his chest loosened at the sound of her voice. “I might have found a connection. Anita Palmer was seeing a therapist, and so was Richard Winters. His name is Dr. Walsh.”

A beat of silence. “Dr. Anthony Walsh? The sleep specialist?”

“I guess. According to Bruce Autrey, Winters was seeing Walsh for insomnia and having nightmares before his death.”

“Insomnia and having nightmares. Just like what Alice said about Anita,” Jenna said, her voice tight with focus. “Where are you now?”

“Just leaving the bank. Heading back to the station.”

“I’m about twenty minutes out. Meet me there, and we’ll pay Dr. Walsh a visit.”

“Roger that,” Jake said, then hesitated. “Jenna... this case is—”

“I know,” she cut in. “We’ll figure it out. See you soon.”

Driving back toward the station, Jake found himself accepting possibilities that would have seemed absurd to the Kansas City cop he’d once been. People dying of supernatural terror. Dreams that connected the living and the dead. A Sheriff with an uncanny ability to see beyond the veil.

Life in Trentville had changed him. Or maybe it had just opened his eyes to what had been there all along, hidden beneath the surface of the world he thought he understood.

And then there was Jenna—complicated, brilliant, haunted Jenna. The woman who’d become not just his boss but his partner in the truest sense. The line he’d crossed with that impulsive kiss was one he couldn’t uncross, nor did he want to.

But where did they go from here? How could he confess to her that somewhere between crime scenes and late-night stakeouts, he’d fallen for her? How could he convey that this wasn’t just a fleeting crush? That she had awakened something profound and unfamiliar within him?

Jake pulled into the station parking lot and cut the engine. For now, those questions would have to wait. They had a case to solve and the name of a doctor who needed to answer some questions.