Page 13 of In Her Dreams (Jenna Graves #7)

“I was wondering when you two would show up,” Frank said when he opened his front door to Jenna and Jake. “Figured you’d be by after what happened at the mine.”

Jenna wasn’t surprised. News traveled fast in Trentville, especially news involving a sheriff’s department rescue operation.

As usual, she felt a sense of relief at seeing her mentor again, as sturdy and dependable as ever.

The retired Sheriff was in his mid-sixties now, and his short white hair and gray eyes matched his gruff appearance.

Jenna had served as his deputy before becoming Sheriff and could depend on him for both kindness and good advice.

“Come on in,” Frank said, stepping aside. “Just made some tea.” He led the way to the kitchen and set three mugs on his counter beside an old ceramic teapot adorned with faded blue flowers—a remnant of his late wife’s touch.

“Chamomile,” Frank said, answering Jenna’s unspoken question as he poured the steaming amber liquid. “I’m sure we could all use something calming tonight.”

Jenna and Jake both said thanks as they took their mugs. Then Frank gestured toward the kitchen table, and they settled into the familiar mismatched wooden chairs.

“So,” Frank said, his gray eyes moving from Jenna to Jake and back again. “Tell me about those people you found in the mine.”

Jenna wrapped her hands around the warm mug, drawing comfort from its heat. “Two women were held captive in an abandoned shaft. Apparently, there had been others … it was lucky that we found them when we did.”

“Luck,” Frank repeated, arching one bushy eyebrow. “Or something else?”

Jake shifted in his chair. “Jenna had one of her... feelings about that place. She rousted me out before dawn to get to them.”

Frank’s gaze sharpened. “A dream?”

“Yes,” Jenna acknowledged. “A man who said that someone was collecting people in the old mine. He said he’d been cut up and sold.”

“The Harvesters,” Frank said quietly, the name of the trafficking wing not new to him.

“The FBI told us about them,” Jake said. “They’ve taken over the case.”

“There was something more,” Jenna muttered. “One of the victims, a woman named Jill... there was a strange moment … she looked at me and said, ‘It’s you. You’ve come back.’ But I’d never seen her before.”

Frank’s expression softened with understanding and concern. He knew that if that recognition was not of Sheriff Jenna Graves, it could be of someone who looked exactly like her. “You think she might know something about Piper?”

“I don’t know,” Jenna admitted. “Jill slipped back into unconsciousness before I could ask. I visited her at the hospital, but she was heavily sedated. The doctors say she’s suffered severe trauma, both physical and psychological.”

“And the other one?” Frank asked.

“Also dehydrated, malnourished,” Jake interjected. “Ginger Lomax. She’s been moved to a hospital in Kansas City, closer to her family. She gave me no reason to think she recognized my face. It was really just Jill.”

Frank’s expression clouded. “These Harvesters... they were operating right here.”

Jake replied grimly, “We don’t even know how long they’d been using that location.”

“But that’s not the only reason we’re here,” Jenna added.

She set her mug down carefully, organizing her thoughts. “You’ve heard about Richard Winters and Anita Palmer?”

Frank nodded slowly. “A heart attack, from what I heard—at least for Richard. Tragic, so they say, but natural causes.”

“That’s what everyone thinks,” Jenna said. “That’s what the preliminary reports suggest. But I’m not convinced.”

Jake leaned forward, his mug cradled between his palms. “Richard Winters died of cardiac arrest—technically natural. But Melissa says the state of his body indicates extreme terror at the time of death. And Anita Palmer had the same expression on her face. Pure terror. I saw both faces—Richard’s in the morgue and Anita’s shortly after she died. They were just frozen like that.”

“You’re thinking these deaths are connected?”

“I know it sounds far-fetched,” Jenna acknowledged.

“There’s no physical evidence of foul play, no toxicology results suggesting poison or drugs.

Just two people who literally died of fright.

And maybe what’s most important, I had a lucid dream about Anita just before I learned of her death. I saw her being consumed by birds.”

“And we’ve got a psychiatrist who’s acting mighty suspicious,” Jake added. “Dr. Anthony Walsh. He treated both victims for phobias—claustrophobia for Winters, ornithophobia for Palmer.”

Frank’s eyes narrowed. “Walsh... I remember him. Came to town about, what, ten years ago? Well-respected. I hear he’s one of Mayor Simmons’s strongest backers.”

“We just interviewed him,” Jenna said. “He was evasive, nervous. Claimed doctor-patient confidentiality when we pressed about their treatments. And he denied any knowledge of the dreamcatchers.”

“Which is valid,” Jake acknowledged reluctantly. “But it was more than professional discretion. The man was so shaky, he’s got to be covering up something.”

Frank took a thoughtful sip of his tea. “So you’ve got two deaths by extreme fear, a nervous psychiatrist, and no legal grounds for an investigation because officially, there’s no crime.”

Jenna nodded. “That about sums it up. Except for one thing. Both had the very odd objects in their homes, positioned near their beds. Dreamcatchers—not typical commercial ones—these were distinctive.”

She pulled out her phone and showed him the pictures.

Frank’s expression changed subtly. A slight tension around the eyes, a tightening of his jaw. The kind of reaction most people wouldn’t notice, but Jenna had known him too long to miss.

“Frank,” she said quietly. “What aren’t you telling us?”

Frank leaned back in his chair. “My grandmother,” he finally said, his voice taking on a reverent quality, “was what folks around here used to call ‘touched.’ A small, wiry woman with eyes that could see right through you. She knew things she had no way of knowing.”

Jenna felt a familiar ripple of recognition. How many times had people looked at her sideways after she’d known something she shouldn’t have?

“I remember,” Jake said. “You once told us your grandmother had abilities similar to Jenna’s. That she could... sense things.”

“She had dreams,” Frank continued. “Not regular dreams, but visions that felt more real than reality. She’d wake up in the middle of the night, eyes wide, talking about conversations she’d had with people long dead.”

“Like Jenna’s lucid dreams,” Jake said softly.

Frank nodded. “Exactly like that. As a kid, I was fascinated and terrified by it. She’d tell me things no child should know—secrets of the dead, warnings about the living. But it was her warnings about Genesius County that really stuck with me.”

He paused, taking another sip of tea.

“She believed there was a darkness here. Not just evil in the ordinary sense, but something... older. Something tied to the land itself. She said it slept most of the time, but occasionally, it would wake up and... feed.”

A chill ran down Jenna’s spine despite the warmth of the kitchen. “Feed on what?”

“Fear,” Frank said simply. “The most primal human emotion. She said fear was like a nutrient for this darkness, and when it awoke, strange things would happen. People would die in unusual ways, often related to their deepest fears.”

Jake exchanged a glance with Jenna. “Like dying of claustrophobia or a bird phobia?”

“Exactly like that,” Frank confirmed. “I dismissed a lot of it as I got older. The ramblings of an old woman with too many ghost stories. And I spent my years as Sheriff tracking down perfectly ordinary criminals. But recently...”

“But recently we’ve had several serial killer cases, a human trafficking ring, and people dying of fright,” Jenna finished for him. The pieces were starting to align in a pattern she wasn’t sure she wanted to see.

“Could be the darkness is feeding again,” Frank said, his voice dropping to nearly a whisper. “At least, that’s what my grandmother would say.”

The kitchen suddenly felt smaller, the shadows in the corners deeper. Even the tea in Jenna’s mug seemed to have cooled too quickly.

“Did your grandmother ever mention dreamcatchers?” Jake asked.

Frank’s expression turned grim. “She made them herself. Said they could trap nightmares, keep the darkness from entering through dreams. But she was very particular about how they were made and used.” He paused.

“She said that in the wrong hands, they could do the opposite—draw the darkness in instead of keeping it out.”

Jenna thought of the dreamcatchers in the victims’ homes, positioned over their beds. Watching over them as they slept. Or perhaps, watching them and waiting for the right time.

“So what are we dealing with here, Frank?” she asked. “A supernatural force? Or a killer who knows how to manipulate fear?”

Frank shrugged. “Could be both. My grandmother believed that the darkness couldn’t act on its own—it needed human vessels. People who were willing to channel it, use it.”

“Like Dr. Walsh?” Jake suggested.

“Or someone using him,” Jenna countered. “He seemed more frightened than predatory to me.”

The conversation spiraled into speculation—about the nature of this darkness, about how it might relate to the dreamcatchers and Walsh’s treatments, about what their next steps should be.

The shrill ring of Jenna’s phone cut through the conversation like a knife.

She glanced at the screen and felt her shoulders tense immediately.

“Mayor Simmons,” she said, answering with professional crispness. “What can I do for you this evening?”

Claire Simmons’ voice sliced through the speaker, sharp enough that Jake, sitting across the table, winced in sympathy with Jenna.

“Sheriff Graves, I need to see you at my home immediately. This... situation with Richard Winters and Anita Palmer has gotten completely out of hand. There are rumors circulating about—” She paused, her voice dropping to a controlled hiss. “About murder. In my town.”

Jenna caught Jake’s eye across the table. “I understand your concern, Mayor, but—”

“No buts, Sheriff. My home. Right now. Bring Deputy Hawkins if you must, but be there.” The call ended abruptly.

Jenna lowered the phone slowly, feeling the familiar tension that always accompanied interactions with Claire Simmons.

Trentville was the county seat, the governmental center of Genesius County.

The Trentville mayor actually held no authority over the county sheriff, but Jake and Jenna had learned that life went much more smoothly if they allowed Clair to exert her demands—as long as she didn’t get in the way of their jobs.

“Duty calls,” Jake said with a wry smile. “Real world this time.”

As they stood to leave, Frank caught Jenna’s arm gently. “Be careful,” he said, his voice low and serious. “The darkness my grandmother spoke of—it doesn’t just feed on fear. It creates it. It finds what terrifies you most and brings it to life.”

He walked them to the door. On the porch, as Jake headed toward the car, Frank held Jenna back for a moment.

“Remember what I told you about Jake?” he asked quietly.

Jenna felt heat rise to her cheeks despite the cool evening air. Frank had noticed the attraction between them long before she’d admitted it to herself. “I remember,” she said.

Frank’s eyes crinkled with affection. “It’s possible to have both, you know. A career and a fulfilling personal life. I’ve had both. It’s been a good life. I’d hate for you to miss out on all that.”

She squeezed his hand gently, grateful for his concern even as she deflected it. “One mystery at a time, Frank.”

His chuckle followed her down the steps, a warm sound in the cool night.

As Jenna slid behind the wheel, she noticed how different Trentville looked in the darkness. The familiar streets and buildings she’d known all her life suddenly seemed like facades, thin veneers barely concealing something much older and more sinister beneath.

Jake fastened his seatbelt beside her. “You okay?” he asked quietly.

“Just thinking,” she replied, starting the engine. “About what Frank said. About the darkness, finding what terrifies you most.”

Jake’s gaze was steady on her profile. “What scares you, Jenna?”

She pulled onto the road, the headlights cutting through the darkness ahead. “Not finding Piper,” she admitted. “Living my whole life never knowing what happened to her.”

The unspoken question hung between them: Was the darkness already using that fear against her? Was Jill’s moment of apparent recognition a sign that Piper might be alive, or was it the darkness playing on Jenna’s deepest hopes and fears?