Page 20 of In Her Dreams (Jenna Graves #7)

Jenna was feeling the weight of this investigation as she steered the county vehicle into Pinecrest—three deaths, three phobias apparently cured, three victims who couldn’t explain how, three strange dreamcatchers hanging on the wall.

“Quieter than usual,” Jake noted, scanning the streets of the quaint college town. “Let’s hope Chief Morgan doesn’t catch wind of us being here,” he added, checking the rearview mirror as if expecting a Pinecrest patrol car to materialize behind them.

“We’re not stepping on his toes. Just having a conversation with a hypnotherapist who happens to practice in his jurisdiction.”

Jake’s skeptical sidelong glance said everything he didn’t put into words.

They pulled up to a modest building sandwiched between a modern glass-fronted bookstore and a coffee shop. The structure’s weathered red brick stood in defiant contrast to its sleeker neighbors, like a stubborn holdout against the march of time.

“This is it,” Jenna said, checking the address against her notes. A simple brass plaque beside the entrance confirmed: “Suite 204 - Dr. Valerie Mercer, Ph.D, Hypnotherapy.”

The building’s small entrance area greeted them with welcome coolness after the July heat. Although the elevator stood open invitingly, Jenna headed for the stairwell.

“You think she’ll actually tell us anything useful?” Jake asked as they climbed. “Patient confidentiality is a hell of a wall to break through.”

“Sam’s dead,” Jenna replied, her voice clipped. “And if she treated Winters or Palmer too, maybe she’ll see the pattern we’re seeing.” She didn’t want to mention the third possibility yet—that Dr. Mercer might be somehow involved.

On the second floor, they entered a waiting room that was a masterclass in calming neutrality—walls painted a soft beige, furniture upholstered in taupe fabric that looked both comfortable and expensive.

Abstract paintings in earth tones hung at measured intervals, their swirls and lines suggesting landscapes without committing to them.

A diffuser in the corner bubbled quietly, releasing the subtle scent of lavender that mingled with the cooled air. The effect was immediate and clearly intentional—an environment designed to lower blood pressure and slow breathing before patients even met with the Doctor.

“May I help you?” A young woman looked up from behind a curved reception desk. Her smile was warm, her blonde hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. Her name tag read “Lisa,” and everything about her radiated calm efficiency.

Jenna showed her badge. “Sheriff Jenna Graves, Genesius County. This is Deputy Hawkins. We have an appointment with Dr. Mercer.”

The receptionist’s eyes widened slightly at the badge, but her professional demeanor never slipped. “Of course. Dr. Mercer is expecting you. Please follow me.”

She rose from her desk and led them down a short hallway. Her knock on a heavy wooden door was answered by a melodic “Come in,” and she ushered them through with a respectful nod before retreating.

The contrast between the waiting room and Dr. Mercer’s office was immediate and striking.

Where the outer room embraced neutrality, this space celebrated color and texture.

Rich emerald curtains framed the windows, complemented by a plush gold sofa and armchairs grouped in the center of the room.

Bookshelves lined one wall from floor to ceiling, crammed with volumes whose spines ranged from the austere black of academic texts to the vibrant colors and crystal-embossed covers of new-age literature.

An ornate cherry wood desk occupied one corner, its surface neat except for a sleek laptop and a crystal paperweight catching the afternoon light. The walls held a mix of diplomas, certifications, and artwork—the latter featuring mandalas and sacred geometry patterns that drew the eye and held it.

“Sheriff Graves, Deputy Hawkins.” The woman who rose to greet them commanded attention without effort.

Dr. Valerie Mercer stood about Jenna’s height, her silver-streaked dark hair pulled back in an elegant chignon that emphasized her high cheekbones and striking gray eyes.

She wore a tailored charcoal suit that spoke of professionalism, but the vibrant silk scarf at her neck—patterned with intricate swirls of blue and gold—hinted at an artistic sensibility.

Jenna placed her in her early fifties, though she carried herself with the vitality of someone younger.

“Thank you for seeing us, Dr. Mercer,” Jenna said, accepting the offered handshake. The Doctor’s grip was firm, her hand cool and dry.

“Please, sit.” Dr. Mercer gestured toward the arrangement of armchairs. “Can I offer you coffee? Tea?”

“We’re fine, thank you,” Jake answered, settling into one of the chairs. Jenna took the seat beside him.

Dr. Mercer folded herself gracefully into her chair, her posture perfect without seeming rigid. “You mentioned on the phone that this concerns Samuel Rodriguez. I must say, I was shocked to hear of his passing.”

“Yes,” Jenna confirmed, watching the Doctor’s face carefully. “And we believe his death may be connected to two others in Genesius County—Richard Winters and Anita Palmer.”

The Doctor’s expression remained neutral, but Jenna noted the slight tightening around her eyes. “Connected how, exactly?”

“All three suffered from severe phobias,” Jenna explained. “Winters had claustrophobia, Palmer had ornithophobia—a fear of birds—and Rodriguez, as you know, had agoraphobia. Were either Winters or Palmer under your care?”

“I’m sorry, but no. And their deaths are news to me.”

“All three had their conditions for years,” Jenna continued. “All three apparently experienced sudden improvement recently. And all three died from heart failure that may have been induced by extreme terror.”

Dr. Mercer’s fingers interlaced in her lap. “That’s certainly disturbing, but I fail to see how I can help. Patient confidentiality—”

“We understand the constraints you’re under,” Jake interjected, his tone respectful. “But we’re trying to prevent more deaths. Anything you can tell us about Sam’s treatment might help.”

“More specifically,” Jenna added, “none of these individuals could or would explain how their phobias had suddenly improved. In at least one case, it was as if they were physically unable to discuss it.”

Dr. Mercer’s gaze flicked toward the wall of credentials, then back to Jenna. “That does sound … unusual.”

Jenna reached for her phone. “There’s one more connection. All three victims had rather odd dreamcatchers in their homes.” She pulled up the photos they’d taken at each scene. She held the phone out to Dr. Mercer.

The Doctor took the phone, her face a mask of professional interest.

“These are quite distinctive,” Dr. Mercer said, handing the phone back. “But I’m afraid I can’t comment on whether any of my patients possessed such items.”

Jenna tucked the phone away. “Dr. Mercer, I understand your position, but Sam Rodriguez wasn’t just a victim to me. He was a mentor, a friend. He helped shape my career in law enforcement.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss, Sheriff,” Dr. Mercer’s voice softened with what seemed like genuine sympathy. “But you must understand—”

“What if we contacted Mary Rodriguez right now for permission?” Jenna suggested. “Since Sam is deceased, she could authorize you to discuss his treatment.”

Dr. Mercer considered this, her gaze drifting toward the window. “That would help, certainly, though written authorization would be preferable.”

“We can call her,” Jake offered, already reaching for his phone.

Dr. Mercer hesitated, then nodded. “I have his home number. We’ll use my office phone. The speakerphone function will allow us all to hear clearly.” She gestured toward the desk.

Dr. Mercer reached for her sleek desk phone and dialed the Rodriguez residence number from memory. The phone rang three times before a weary voice answered on speaker. “Hello?” Mary’s voice was tinged with fatigue.

“Am I speaking with Mary Rodriguez?” Dr. Mercer asked.

“You are.”

“Mary, this is Dr. Valerie Mercer,” the Doctor began, her tone professional yet gentle. “I have Sheriff Jenna Graves and her deputy here with me.”

“Jenna,” Mary replied, a flicker of warmth threading through her exhaustion. “Have you... found anything?”

“We’re doing our best,” Jenna assured her softly, leaning forward slightly as if to bridge the distance between them. “Dr. Mercer needs your permission to talk about Sam’s sessions.”

A resigned sigh floated through the room, carrying Mary’s grief along with it. “Of course,” she agreed readily. “Anything that might help.” Her words were heavy with sorrow. “Sam believed in you, Jenna. He’d want you to solve this.”

Jenna felt a lump form in her throat and fought to keep her voice steady. “Thank you, Mary.” She glanced at Dr. Mercer, who nodded solemnly as Jenna added, “We’ll need written permission eventually, but this call really helps.”

After exchanging more comforting words with Mary, they ended the call together, leaving behind a silence thick with unspoken emotions and lingering resolve.

“I appreciate your thoroughness,” Dr. Mercer said finally. “But even with verbal permission, I’m uncomfortable sharing specific details without proper documentation.”

Jenna leaned forward, her eyes meeting Dr. Mercer’s with an intensity that spoke volumes.

“Dr. Mercer, I understand the importance of confidentiality and the weight it carries in your profession,” she began, her voice low and earnest. “But we’re dealing with something that goes beyond the ordinary here.

These deaths... they’re not just statistics to us.

They’re people—people like Sam, who had families, dreams, lives. ”

Dr. Mercer shifted slightly in her chair. She reached up to touch the edge of her silk scarf as if seeking reassurance from its vibrant colors.

“I know you care about your patients,” Jenna continued, softening her tone further. “You wouldn’t be doing this work otherwise. And right now, you’re in a unique position to help us prevent more tragedies.”

A moment passed where the only sound was the gentle hum of the air conditioning and the distant murmur of traffic outside.

“Sam was special,” Jenna said quietly, almost to herself but loud enough for Dr. Mercer to hear. “He believed in finding solutions where others saw none.”

Dr. Mercer’s expression flickered; there was a hint of something unguarded in her eyes—a glimmer of empathy breaking through her professional facade.

“I want to help,” Dr. Mercer admitted finally, a note of vulnerability threading through her words as she clasped her hands tightly together in her lap.

Jenna seized on this opening gently but firmly. “Then trust your instincts on this one,” she urged softly. “If there’s anything you can share—even if it’s just a theory or an observation—it might lead us down a path we haven’t considered yet.”

The Doctor hesitated for a heartbeat longer before nodding slowly.

Switching tactics, Jenna decided on a broader approach. “Can you tell us generally about treating issues through hypnotherapy? Not specific to Sam, but your professional experience?”

This seemed to ease some of Dr. Mercer’s tension. “Certainly. Hypnotherapy can be quite effective for phobias, though results vary widely. It involves guiding patients into a highly relaxed, focused state where they’re more receptive to suggestion.”

“And how long does improvement typically take?” Jake asked.

“That depends entirely on the patient and the severity of the phobia,” Dr. Mercer explained. “Most require multiple sessions over weeks or months. Sudden, complete remission would be...” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “Unusual.”

Jenna leaned forward slightly. “Did you discuss Sam’s phobia with any colleagues? Perhaps Dr. Anthony Walsh?”

A flicker of interest crossed Dr. Mercer’s face. “You’ve spoken with Dr. Walsh?”

“Briefly,” Jenna told her.

Mercer tapped her fingers lightly against the arm of her chair. “After my sessions with Sam, I did consult with Dr. Walsh. We occasionally refer patients to each other. He specializes in sleep disorders, which can sometimes accompany or exacerbate phobias.”

“And what did Dr. Walsh say about Sam?” Jake pressed.

“Not much, I’m afraid. He seemed unable to provide any insights about Sam’s condition or his improvement. Which was odd, since Walsh is excellent at what he does.” Dr. Mercer’s brow furrowed slightly.

Jenna stored this information away, adding it to the growing puzzle in her mind. “Dr. Mercer, is it possible for someone to be hypnotized into being unable to speak about certain things? To literally not be able to tell anyone about a specific experience?”

Dr. Mercer’s posture stiffened almost imperceptibly. When she spoke, her voice had lowered slightly.

“That’s a common misconception about hypnosis,” she said. “Contrary to popular belief, you cannot hypnotize someone to act against their will or fundamental nature. The mind has natural protective mechanisms.”

“But?” Jenna prompted, sensing there was more.

Dr. Mercer’s eyes met hers directly. “But there is a loophole of sorts. Let me explain it to you.”