Page 18 of In Her Dreams (Jenna Graves #7)
Samuel Rodriguez is dead. The thought hammered against Jenna’s consciousness as she drove toward the Trentville police headquarters. Sam, who had taught her to trust her instincts when she’d first pinned on a badge.
The ringing of her phone broke the heavy silence. Jenna thumbed the button on her steering wheel to activate the hands-free system.
“Sheriff Graves,” she answered.
“Jenna, it’s Melissa.” The coroner’s voice filled the car’s interior. “I’ve got some preliminary on Rodriguez.”
Jenna’s stomach tightened. “That was fast.”
“Mary wanted him brought in right away, which was the right thing to do. And I set right to work.” A pause, then: “Jenna, there are some things you need to know.”
“What is it?”
“His expression—it’s identical to Winters and Palmer. The same look of absolute terror, like he’d seen something beyond comprehension.” The sound of papers rustling came through the speaker. “My guess is that toxicology will show another case of elevated stress hormones.”
“Yes, Mary told us about his expression. I assumed you’d find other comparisons. How long before you have a full report?”
“I’m putting everything else aside. By this afternoon, I should have something more concrete for you.”
“Thanks, Melissa. I’m heading to the station now. Jake and I are already on the case.”
“Good. There’s something not right here, Jenna.” Melissa’s voice dropped slightly. “I’ve seen a lot of deaths in my time, but three people dying of fright in such a short time? In Trentville? This isn’t natural.”
The call ended, leaving Jenna to consider Melissa’s words.
Natural. Nothing about these deaths felt natural, just as nothing about her own ability to speak with the dead in her dreams could be described as natural.
But she’d learned long ago that “natural” was a far more elastic concept than most people realized.
She pulled into the station parking lot and saw Jake standing outside the building, watching for her arrival.
His face was set in lines of concern, his normally easy demeanor replaced with something more guarded, more alert.
He slid into the passenger seat, his broad shoulders filling the space. “Just like the others?”
“Exactly like the others. And there was a dreamcatcher, Jake. The same kind of twisted patterns as the ones in Winters’ and Palmer’s bedrooms. Except that this one wasn’t so ugly.”
“No teeth or beaks?” Jake’s eyebrows rose.
She fished her phone out and gave it to him. “Take a look at the photos.”
Jake scrolled through her pictures and commented, “It certainly looks nicer. Not something about to attack, like the first two.”
“In my dream, it still felt dangerous in some way. But there’s more. Mary said that Sam had been in treatment with Dr. Anthony Walsh for his agoraphobia, but he had switched to a different therapist, Valerie Mercer, in Pinecrest.”
“So Winters, Palmer, and now Rodriguez. All had those dreamcatchers, all died looking terrified, and all had sought treatment for their phobias recently.”
“And all miraculously overcame those phobias,” Jenna added. “Mary told me Sam suddenly recovered from his agoraphobia a couple of months ago. After years of being practically housebound, he started going out again. She was thrilled, but...”
“But?”
“She said he couldn’t explain how or why it happened. Said whenever she asked him about it, the words never came.” Jenna continued as she navigated through Trentville’s quiet streets. “Almost like he couldn’t talk about it.”
Jake’s eyes narrowed. “Some kind of block? Hypnotic suggestion?”
“That’s what I’m thinking. Apparently, the therapist Sam saw in Pinecrest, Valerie Mercer, is a hypnotherapist. And Dr. Walsh specializes in sleep disorders. Hypnotherapy would surely be in his toolbox.”
“We need to go ask him about that,” Jenna added, pulling out of the parking lot. The remainder of the drive was spent in companionable silence, both of them processing the implications of what they knew.
At Dr. Walsh’s office, the same receptionist who’d been there yesterday looked up as they entered, her expression hardening.
“Sheriff,” she acknowledged with cool professionalism. “What can I do for you today?”
“We need to speak with Dr. Walsh,” Jenna said.
The receptionist consulted her computer screen. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. The Doctor is fully booked with patients today.”
Jake stepped forward. “This concerns three suspicious deaths. I’m sure the Doctor can spare a few minutes.”
The woman’s expression didn’t change. “I’ll let him know you’re here. Please take a seat.”
With furtive looks, the receptionist tapped a text message on her phone.
Jenna and Jake exchanged glances as they both guessed the same thing.
Walsh had probably given the receptionist instructions concerning what to do if the two of them came back today.
The text message was a warning. Getting to see him was going to be tricky.
They settled into the waiting area’s chairs, choosing ones that gave them a view into the hallway leading to Walsh’s office.
Jenna flipped idly through a magazine, her eyes regularly scanning the area.
After about fifteen minutes, Jake’s subtle nod directed Jenna’s attention to a door in the hallway that was partially obscured by a large potted plant. Dr. Anthony Walsh was easing that door open, glancing furtively around.
Jenna and Jake moved simultaneously as Walsh turned away, attempting to slip off down the hall.
“Dr. Walsh,” Jenna called after him. “We need to talk to you.”
Walsh looked annoyed. “Sheriff. I—I’m in the middle of a very busy day. My receptionist should have explained—”
“She did,” Jake cut in. “But three people are dead, Doctor. Surely, that warrants a few minutes of your time.”
Walsh’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “Three?”
He led them to the same office they’d met in before and took his seat behind his desk. Jenna noted how his hands trembled slightly as he arranged some papers on his desktop. A tell, clear as day. Walsh was scared.
“Doctor Walsh,” she began, “I’m here to inform you that Samuel Rodriguez was found dead last night.”
The news hit Walsh like a physical blow. His already pale complexion went ghostly, and for a split second, naked fear flashed across his features before he forced it behind a mask of professional concern.
“That’s... that’s terrible,” he managed, his voice strained. “How did it happen?”
“That’s what we’re trying to determine,” Jenna replied, watching him closely. “His symptoms match those of Richard Winters and Anita Palmer—extreme terror leading to heart failure. All three victims had sought your help for their phobias.”
“I don’t see how I can help,” Walsh said. “Patient confidentiality prevents me from discussing anyone’s treatment.”
“We’re not asking you to breach confidentiality,” Jake said, leaning forward slightly. “We’re asking about a potential connection between these deaths and the treatments they received.”
“I treat many patients with anxiety disorders and phobias,” Walsh replied, his words carefully measured. “We discussed this before.”
“Did you treat Rodriguez for his agoraphobia?” Jenna demanded.
“I can’t answer that.” Walsh’s hands moved restlessly across his desk, straightening items that didn’t need straightening. “Sheriff, I understand you’re doing your job, but I cannot discuss specific patients or their treatments.”
“Why did Sam stop his treatments with you?”
“He had every right to do that, and I can’t discuss anything he said to me.”
Jenna reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone.
“As we told you yesterday, each victim had unusual objects hanging over their bed. Very odd dreamcatchers.” Turning the screen toward him, she brought up the photographs she’d shown him yesterday, plus the one she’d just seen hanging in Sam’s bedroom.
Walsh flinched—a subtle reaction but unmistakable. He glanced at the last photo for only a second before looking away as if the image burned his eyes.
“I’m not familiar with those objects,” he said, the words coming too quickly to be convincing.
“That’s interesting,” Jake interjected. “Because all three victims had these in their homes, and all three had miraculously recovered from lifelong phobias shortly before their deaths. Quite a coincidence.”
“Mrs. Rodriguez told me something interesting,” Jenna said, her voice deceptively casual.
“She said Sam couldn’t explain how he’d recovered from his agoraphobia.
Said whenever she asked, he couldn’t get the words out.
Almost like he physically couldn’t talk about it.
” She leaned forward, her emerald eyes fixed on Walsh’s face.
“Does that sound familiar to you, Doctor? Because you seem to be having a similar problem right now.”
The observation struck home. Walsh’s professional veneer cracked, revealing a glimpse of panic underneath. For a moment, Jenna thought he might break—might tell them what he so clearly knew. But instead, his expression hardened, and he pushed back from his desk.
“I think we’re done here,” he said, his voice taking on a sharp edge. “You have no evidence linking me to any crime, Sheriff Graves. In fact, you don’t have evidence that a crime was even committed. Only your famous intuition, which isn’t grounds for this kind of interrogation.”
The words were cutting and personal. Jenna felt Jake stiffen beside her.
“Your intuition,” Walsh continued, his tone almost mocking now.
“That’s what I hear about you. How Sheriff Graves just seems to know things she shouldn’t, how she solves cases with uncanny insights.
Where do those come from Sheriff? Rumors say from ghosts telling tales.
But I don’t believe in ghosts. And I don’t believe you have any good reason to come around here interrogating me. ”
The calculated attack landed with precision. Jenna kept her face neutral, but inside, a cold knot formed in her stomach. How much did people speculate about her?