Page 22 of In Her Dreams (Jenna Graves #7)

Dr. Anthony Walsh stared at the dreamcatcher hanging on his bedroom wall, its web of threads seeming to pulse in rhythm with his racing heart.

Three hours had passed since Sheriff Graves and Deputy Hawkins had delivered the news about Samuel Rodriguez.

Three hours of hiding in his sixth-floor apartment, blinds drawn against the afternoon sun, trying and failing to break free from the invisible chains locked around his mind.

His receptionist’s startled face flashed in his memory—the confusion in her eyes when he’d burst from his office after the Sheriff’s visit, ordering her to cancel all remaining appointments before rushing out the door.

“Dr. Walsh, are you ill?” she’d asked, concern evident in her voice.

He couldn’t even answer her properly. What could he say? That he’d sent three people to their deaths and couldn’t even explain why? That he knew he might well be next on a murderer’s list?

The dreamcatcher hung motionless in the still air. No breeze disturbed its feathers or beads, yet Anthony couldn’t shake the sensation that the thing was watching him. Judging him. Waiting for him to succumb to the same fate as the others.

“Breathe,” he whispered to himself, his voice barely audible over the hum of the air conditioning. “You’re a psychiatrist, for God’s sake. Pull yourself together.”

He closed his eyes and attempted once more to employ the self-hypnosis techniques he’d practiced for years with his patients. The same techniques that had utterly failed him these past few months.

“You are calm,” he murmured, pressing his fingertips against his temples. “You are in control.”

The words rang hollow in the quiet room. He wasn’t in control. Hadn’t been for months. Not since that damned conference in St. Louis.

Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cool air.

His throat tightened at the memory of Sheriff Graves’s solemn face as she’d told him about Sam Rodriguez.

Old Sam, who’d struggled with agoraphobia for years.

Sam, who’d trusted Anthony to help him, and whom Anthony had instead delivered into deadlier hands.

Just like Richard Winters. Just like Anita Palmer. All gone now.

Anthony pushed himself up from the edge of the bed and paced the confines of his bedroom, five steps one way, five steps back, like a caged animal.

He stopped in front of the full-length mirror mounted on his closet door, barely recognizing the haggard face that stared back at him.

Dark circles rimmed bloodshot eyes. His typically neat hair stood in disarray.

His tie hung loosely around his neck, top button undone, a far cry from his usual meticulous appearance.

Four months. It had been four months since everything changed.

He closed his eyes, and the memories washed over him unbidden.

The grand ballroom of the Westlake Hotel in St. Louis had been packed with his peers—brilliant minds in the field of psychiatry gathered for the annual conference. Anthony had secured a coveted speaking slot, scheduled to present his research on innovative sleep therapy techniques.

He remembered adjusting his tie in the bathroom mirror minutes before his presentation, practicing his breathing exercises, desperately trying to keep his glossophobia at bay.

It was the same debilitating fear that had plagued him throughout his career—the fear of public speaking a cruel irony for a psychiatrist who could help others overcome their fears but remained imprisoned by his own.

“You’ve prepared for this,” he’d told his reflection. “You can do this.”

But when the moment came, when the moderator called his name and three hundred faces turned expectantly toward the podium, Anthony’s throat had closed.

His mouth went dry as parchment. The room tilted sickeningly as he stood frozen at the microphone, index cards clutched in trembling hands, unable to force a single word past his lips.

Finally the sympathetic moderator had stepped in, making some excuse about technical difficulties to spare Anthony further humiliation. He’d stumbled from the stage, shame burning through him like acid, finding refuge in a quiet corner of the hotel bar.

That was where she found him. “Glossophobia,” she’d said without preamble, sliding into the seat across from him. “I recognized the symptoms immediately.”

Her name badge identified her as Dr. Olivia Summers, an ethnologist from Ozark State University. He’d noticed her earlier during other presentations, her sharp insights during Q&A sessions belying her somewhat disheveled appearance. And he knew of her by her sterling reputation.

“I’ve tried everything,” he’d admitted, the words easier now with just one person listening. “Cognitive behavioral therapy, medication, hypnotherapy, exposure therapy. Nothing works.”

Olivia had leaned forward, her intelligent eyes holding his.

“I understand completely. I have spectrophobia myself—fear of mirrors.” She gestured vaguely toward her slightly askew blouse, the tendrils of hair escaping her bun.

“Hence the eternal bedhead. I can barely glance in a mirror long enough to make myself presentable.”

There had been something compelling about her openness, her lack of pretense.

“I’d never have guessed,” Anthony said, finding comfort in this unexpected connection. “You seem so confident during discussions.”

A smile curved her lips. “As do you—until you’re standing at that podium.”

They’d talked for hours, two professionals bound by the irony of their situations—experts trapped by their own minds. It was near midnight when she leaned close, lowering her voice despite the nearly empty bar.

“I’ve found something,” she’d said, excitement evident in her tone. “Something that actually works.”

Anthony remembered how his heart had quickened with hope. “What is it?”

“The Santico Rite—an ancient practice of the Zantican people. I discovered it during my ethnological research.” Her eyes had gleamed with intensity. “It’s not published in any journal. It’s not endorsed by any medical board. But Anthony, it works.”

He should have been skeptical. Should have asked for peer-reviewed evidence, case studies, documentation. But desperation had overridden his professional caution.

“What does it involve?” he’d asked, already leaning toward yes.

“A substance called Ka’lutma. A guided meditation of sorts.” She’d hesitated, looking around before continuing. “I need to perform the rite on myself to address my spectrophobia, but the ritual requires two participants. We could help each other.”

Anthony opened his eyes, the memory dissolving as his attention returned to the dreamcatcher on the wall with its intricate web of threads and dangling beads.

He couldn’t recall most of what happened in her hotel room that night.

The drink she’d prepared had tasted bitter, herbal.

There were candles, chanting in a language he didn’t recognize.

Then... nothing. Fragments only. Her voice, weaving through his consciousness. Strange symbols drawn on his skin. The sensation of falling, endlessly falling.

He remembered waking the next morning in his own hotel room with the dreamcatcher beside him and a note that simply read: “It is done.”

And it had worked. Two weeks later, he’d given a flawless presentation at a local medical seminar without a trace of anxiety. His phobia had vanished as if it had never existed.

But something else had taken its place—an invisible tether binding him to Olivia Summers. A compulsion he couldn’t resist, couldn’t even fully comprehend.

When she’d called a month later asking him to refer suitable patients to her for what she called an “experiment,” he’d found himself agreeing despite every ethical alarm bell clanging in his mind.

He seemed to have no choice, as if he had no will of his own.

Worse, he couldn’t talk about it, couldn’t warn anyone, couldn’t seek help.

The words simply wouldn’t form when he tried.

Anthony sat on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands.

He’d chosen them carefully, hadn’t he? Patients with severe phobias who hadn’t responded to conventional treatment.

Richard Winters with his claustrophobia.

Anita Palmer and her crippling fear of birds. Samuel Rodriguez and his agoraphobia.

He’d told them about an experimental treatment protocol. Hadn’t mentioned Summers by name, just gave them each a card with an address and appointment time.

And now they were dead. All of them.

The shrill ring of his phone cut through the silence, making him jump. His caller ID displayed a number he recognized instantly. His hand shook as he picked up the receiver, knowing he had no choice but to answer.

“Hello?” His voice cracked on the single word.

“Dr. Walsh.” Olivia Summers’s voice flowed through the line. “I trust you’re having a pleasant afternoon?”

Anthony’s free hand curled into a fist. “What do you want?”

“That’s hardly polite,” she chided, amusement evident in her tone. “I’m calling because I believe there’s something you should tell me. Isn’t there?”

His mouth went dry. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Come now, Anthony.” Her voice hardened slightly. “I’m talking about Samuel Rodriguez. I just learned about his unfortunate passing a little while ago.”

Anthony closed his eyes, fighting the wave of nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. “Yes,” he managed. “Sam is dead.”

“I see.” A pause, then: “You know what this means, of course.”

“No more,” he whispered. “I won’t do this anymore.”

“I’m afraid that’s not how our arrangement works,” Summers replied, her tone mild as if they were discussing lunch plans rather than the deaths of three people. “You owe me three more subjects for my experiment.”

Anthony surprised himself with a sudden surge of defiance. “No. I won’t do it.”

Laughter filtered through the phone, soft and utterly chilling. “Oh, Anthony. You’ll do exactly as I say. You don’t have a choice—you never did.” Her voice lowered to a silken murmur. “Unless, of course, you’d prefer to join Richard, Anita, and Samuel. Is that what you want?”

“You can’t control me,” he said, but even to his own ears, the words sounded hollow.

“Can’t I? Look at your dreamcatcher, Anthony. Really look at it.”

His eyes were drawn unwillingly to the object on his wall. The web seemed to shift and writhe, though he knew it remained perfectly still.

“You’ll find me three new subjects,” she continued. “Special ones. People with fears so deep-rooted they’ve shaped their entire lives. And you’ll do it soon.”

“And if I refuse?” The question escaped before he could stop it.

There was a pause, just long enough to make his skin crawl.

“Where are you?” she asked. “Right now?”

More than anything he could remember wanting in his life, Anthony wanted not to tell her. He managed to tear his gaze away from the dreamcatcher and look through the double doors to his sixth-story balcony that now stood open, displaying a view of Trentville. But he couldn’t lie.

“I’m at home,” he stammered. “In my apartment.”

Without another word, the line went dead.

Anthony stared at the phone, ice spreading through his veins. He wanted to run, to flee the apartment, the city, to get as far from Olivia Summers as humanly possible.

Instead, he found himself rooted to the spot, unable to even leave his bedroom. The invisible tether pulled taut, holding him in place as surely as physical restraints would have.

The dreamcatcher seemed to pulse with malevolent energy from its place on the wall. Anthony tore his gaze away, focusing instead on the small digital recorder he kept on his nightstand for patient notes.

With trembling fingers, he pressed the record button.

“You are listening to my voice,” he began, the words coming automatically from years of guiding patients through hypnosis. “My voice will help you relax, help you find the strength within yourself.”

His own voice sounded strange to his ears—desperate, thin, unconvincing. But he pressed on.

“With each breath, you feel the tension leaving your body. With each breath, you become more in control.”

The lies flowed from his lips as the shadows in his bedroom lengthened. Outside, the afternoon sun began its long descent toward the horizon, painting his walls with orange-gold light that did nothing to dispel the darkness gathering inside him.

“You are free,” he whispered, knowing it wasn’t true. “You are strong. You can break this hold.”

But even as he spoke the words, the dreamcatcher watched from the wall, its web of threads glistening like a silent promise of things to come.