Page 12 of In Her Dreams (Jenna Graves #7)

After Jenna parked her cruiser at the police station, she rested her forehead against the steering wheel for just a moment, allowing herself the brief luxury of exhaustion.

The deaths of Richard Winters and Anita Palmer throbbed in her mind, their similarities too precise to be coincidental, their personal differences too jarring to make sense of.

And then there were those dreamcatchers—so alike in their construction, in their presence at both scenes, in their suggestion of something unnatural.

She thought again of the unattractive patterns in the webs, the rough decorations.

The one with beaks was an obvious menace to a woman terrified of birds.

The one with teeth posed a more ambiguous threat, but it would undoubtedly be a nightmare for someone with claustrophobia to be trapped with something like that.

She straightened, forcing her shoulders back. The doctor Jake had mentioned was the first connection they’d turned up between the two victims, and they would check it out right away. There was just one more call she wanted to make first.

Jenna fished her phone from her pocket and dialed Trentville Memorial Hospital. Three transfers later, she finally reached someone in the ICU.

“This is Sheriff Graves. I’m calling for an update on a patient—she’s only identified as ‘Jill’ at this point.”

The nurse’s voice was crisp, professional. “Just a moment, Sheriff. Let me pull up her chart.”

Jenna drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, watching as the station’s exterior lights flickered on automatically against the darkening sky.

“Sheriff? I’m afraid there’s no significant change. She remains in a coma, vitals stable but weak. The neurologist doesn’t seem optimistic about immediate recovery.”

The news settled like a stone in Jenna’s stomach. “And the other woman found with her? Ginger Lomax?”

“Ms. Lomax was transferred to Kansas City General this afternoon for specialized treatment.”

Jenna remembered that Ginger Lomax was from Kansas City. It made sense that she would be taken there to be treated by her own physician.

“I see. Thank you.” Jenna ended the call, letting her phone drop into her lap.

Another dead end on that case. Jenna didn’t mind so much that the FBI would be following the Harvester investigation into other locations. But Jill—the woman who might have answers about Piper—lay unreachable in a coma even though she remained in a nearby hospital bed.

The station’s front door opened, and Jake’s silhouette appeared, his broad shoulders outlined against the brightness behind him. When he spotted her car, he approached quickly, opened the passenger door and slid in beside her.

“You okay?” he asked, studying her face.

“Fine,” Jenna replied automatically, then caught herself. “Actually, no. I’m not.” She gestured vaguely toward her phone. “Jill’s still in a coma. And Ginger’s been transferred to Kansas City.”

Jake’s expression tightened. “So we’ve lost our only two witnesses to that … situation.”

“For now, at least.” Jenna turned the key, bringing the engine back to life. “Ready to pay Dr. Walsh a visit? Does he keep evening hours?”

“His receptionist said he’d still be in his office for another hour. But about that, Jenna...”

“What is it, Jake?”

He chose his words carefully. “We’ve been causing a lot of alarm. Rusty was genuinely shaken after we talked to her. Same with Alice Bowen and Bruce Autrey.”

“That’s because they should be alarmed. Two people are dead.”

“From natural causes, as far as anyone can tell,” Jake reminded her. “Remember that this isn’t actually a case, Jenna. We’re operating on your... intuition.”

The way he hesitated before that last word didn’t escape her. Jake had accepted her dreams as part of who she was, but that didn’t mean he was entirely comfortable with basing an investigation on information she received from the dead.

“My intuition has been right before,” she said, pulling out of the parking lot.

“I know that.” Jake’s voice softened. “I’m just saying we need to tread carefully. We don’t have any concrete evidence linking these deaths, except for the dreamcatchers.”

“And that they were both seeing the same therapist. You even said that was a connection.”

“It is. A connection, but not evidence of anything, at least not yet. All I’m saying is, don’t come on too strong with Walsh. What exactly are we hoping to get from him?”

“If he was treating both victims, an affirmation. A reaction concerning their deaths,” Jenna replied simply. “I know what this looks like, Jake. I know I’m asking a lot, pursuing this without solid evidence that there’s even a crime. But I’m certain there’s foul play involved.”

“Because of your dream about Anita Palmer?”

She nodded, keeping her eyes on the road. “It was more than just a dream. She was there, Jake. She was terrified. And whatever scared her to death wasn’t natural.”

Jake was silent for a long moment. Finally, he sighed.

“I trust you, Jenna. I always have. But we might be in over our heads here.”

She didn’t respond for a few moments as she navigated through Trentville’s quiet streets. The storefronts were beginning to shut down for the evening, their windows darkening one by one like eyes closing.

“Maybe we are in over our heads,” she finally agreed. “But that doesn’t mean we stop.”

They arrived at a modest medical complex on the outskirts of town. Dr. Walsh’s office occupied a corner suite, its windows glowing with soft light against the encroaching night.

Inside, the reception area was empty save for a middle-aged woman behind the desk, who glanced up with a stiff smile.

“I’m afraid Dr. Walsh is finishing with his last patient of the day,” she said after Jenna introduced herself. “He should be available in about fifteen minutes, if you’d like to wait.”

They settled into the uncomfortable waiting room chairs.

The space was meticulously clean, with muted artwork on the walls and outdated magazines arranged in perfect rows on the side tables.

Nothing about it suggested anything out of the ordinary—just another medical office dedicated to treating common ailments.

Yet something about the sterility made Jenna uneasy. Perhaps it was the contrast between this mundane setting and the very odd elements they were investigating, or maybe it was just her exhaustion painting everything in suspicious colors.

Then a door opened, and a tired-looking man in his early sixties emerged, showing an elderly patient out. Once the patient had departed, the man turned to them with a questioning look.

“Dr. Walsh? I’m Sheriff Graves, and this is Deputy Hawkins. We’d like to ask you a few questions if you have a moment.”

Walsh’s expression shifted subtly—a flicker of something Jenna couldn’t quite identify before his professional mask slid back into place.

“Of course, Sheriff. Please come in.”

His office was what Jenna expected—diplomas and certifications on the walls, a large desk with a computer, and two comfortable chairs for patients. Walsh gestured for them to sit while he took his place behind the desk.

“How can I help you this evening?”

“We’re looking into the death of Richard Winters,” Jenna began, watching him closely. “I understand he was a patient of yours.”

Walsh’s reaction was measured, almost clinical. “Yes, Mr. Winters suffered from severe claustrophobia and periodic insomnia. His death is unfortunate but, given his heart condition, not entirely unexpected.”

Jake spoke up. “We’re also looking into the death of Anita Palmer. Did you know her as well?”

The change was immediate and unmistakable. Walsh’s composure fractured, his eyes widening slightly, his hand freezing halfway to adjusting his tie. His recovery was quick but not convincing. “No, I don’t believe I know that name.”

He didn’t know she was dead, Jenna realized.

Jake said, calmly and firmly, “Her roommate told us she’d been seeing you.”

Something flickered in Walsh’s eyes—panic, perhaps, or calculation. He cleared his throat, adjusting his position in his chair. “Oh, yes. I suppose that’s true. I see many patients, Deputy. Sometimes the names...blur together.”

“You just lied to us, Dr. Walsh,” Jenna stated, her voice steady but edged with accusation.

Walsh’s professional mask slipped further, revealing a flicker of panic beneath his composed exterior.

“I wasn’t—that is, I didn’t mean to mislead you,” he stammered, his eyes darting towards the window as if searching for an escape route.

“Patient confidentiality is something I take very seriously.”

Jenna leaned forward slightly, her gaze unwavering.

“I understand doctor-patient confidentiality,” she said calmly but firmly.

“However, two of your patients have died under eerily similar circumstances within days of each other. Both had severe phobias, both struggled with sleep issues, and both apparently died from extreme terror. That can’t be a mere coincidence. ”

Walsh’s face drained of color as he swallowed hard. “I assure you, Sheriff,” he began shakily, “my treatments adhere strictly to standard psychiatric practices—prescribing medications when necessary and conducting regular therapy sessions.”

“We’re not questioning your methods per se,” Jake interjected smoothly. “We’re trying to understand what these patients shared beyond their symptoms.”

A bead of sweat trickled down Walsh’s temple as he shifted nervously in his chair. He dabbed at it with a handkerchief before speaking again: “All I can disclose without breaching confidentiality is that both individuals suffered from anxiety disorders manifesting through specific phobias.”

Jenna leaned forward. “What about dreamcatchers, Dr. Walsh? Do those factor into your standard protocols?”

That question seemed to genuinely confuse him. “Dreamcatchers? I don’t understand.”

“Both victims had nearly identical objects in their bedrooms,” Jake explained. “They seem to be unusual dreamcatcher designs. We’re trying to determine if they’re connected to their deaths.”

Jenna showed Walsh her pictures of the two dreamcatchers, and he seemed to seize on this change of subject. “I don’t prescribe folk remedies or alternative treatments, Deputy. My approach is firmly rooted in medical science.”

“And what exactly does your scientific approach entail for sleep disorders?” Jake asked, his tone conversational but pointed.

Walsh straightened slightly, seemingly relieved to discuss something less threatening.

“Cognitive behavioral therapy primarily, sometimes supplemented with medication. For insomnia, we work on sleep hygiene, stimulus control, relaxation techniques. For night terrors or sleep-related anxiety, we focus on the underlying psychological triggers.”

As Walsh continued describing his treatment methods, Jenna observed him carefully. There was an eagerness to his explanation that struck her as odd—as if he was deliberately steering the conversation toward safe waters.

“Dr. Walsh,” she interrupted, “did you refer either Richard Winters or Anita Palmer to any other specialists? Perhaps someone who deals with alternative treatments?”

His response was immediate and vehement. “Absolutely not. I would never—” He stopped, took a breath. “My patients receive evidence-based care only. But what aren’t you telling me? Are you accusing me of something? If so, please come out with it.”

“We’re just following leads,” Jake said. “We didn’t mean to upset you.”

Jenna exchanged a brief glance with Jake, who gave an almost imperceptible nod.

“Well, thank you for your time, Dr. Walsh,” Jenna said, rising from her chair. “We won’t keep you any longer this evening.”

Walsh stood quickly, relief evident in his posture. “Of course. I’m happy to help with your investigation in any way I can.”

As they exited the building and returned to Jenna’s car, neither spoke until they were safely inside with the doors closed.

“He’s hiding something,” Jake said, stating what they both knew.

“The question is, what?” Jenna replied, staring back at the illuminated windows of Walsh’s office. “And why. His shock at Anita’s death seemed genuine.”

“Which suggests he might not be directly responsible.”

“But he knows something,” Jenna said. “That comment about not knowing Anita was clumsy, desperate. I don’t think he’s actually accustomed to lying—at least not to authorities.”

“So where do we go from here? We’ve still got no hard evidence, just two deaths that have been diagnosed as natural, identical dreamcatchers, and a nervous doctor who we can’t exactly haul in for questioning.”

Jenna turned the key in the ignition but didn’t put the car in drive. The headlights cut through the growing darkness, illuminating nothing but an empty parking lot.

“Let’s talk to Frank,” she said finally. “He’s been in this town longer than either of us. If anyone might have insight into all this, it’s him.”

“Good idea. Frank’s seen just about everything Trentville has to offer, the good and the bad.”

As they pulled out of the parking lot, Jenna couldn’t shake the feeling that they were missing something crucial.

The dreamcatchers, the phobias, the sleep issues, Dr. Walsh’s nervousness—all pieces of a puzzle that refused to form a coherent picture.

And yet she felt certain that if she didn’t figure it out soon, there would be more threatening dreamcatchers, more terror… and more death.