Page 25 of In Her Dreams (Jenna Graves #7)

The dreamcatcher hung on the wall like a malevolent eye, its web tangled and chaotic. Dr. Anthony Walsh sat huddled on the floor beside his bed, knees drawn to his chest.

“Don’t look at it,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Look anywhere else.”

He forced his eyes toward the full-length mirror on his closet door.

The reflection that stared back at him was barely recognizable—a disheveled man with dark hollows beneath bloodshot eyes, hair sticking up in tufts where he’d been pulling at it.

This wasn’t the respected psychiatrist who specialized in sleep disorders. This was a man unraveling at the seams.

The harsh buzz of the intercom shattered the silence, sending a jolt of fear through Anthony’s body. He knew who it must be.

“No,” he whispered, even as his body betrayed him, rising from the floor with the jerky movements of a poorly operated marionette. “Don’t answer it. Don’t let her in.”

But the posthypnotic suggestions planted while he was under the influence of ka’lutma were too powerful. His legs carried him out of the bedroom, into the living room.

The intercom buzzed again as Anthony approached it, his arm reached out against his will. His finger hovered over the button, trembling with the effort of his resistance.

“Anthony?” Dr. Summers’ voice came through the speaker, deceptively gentle. “I know you’re there. Let me in, please. We need to talk.”

He pressed the button.

“I’ll be right up,” she said, satisfaction evident in her tone.

He found himself moving to the door, his body once again betraying his mind’s frantic commands to run, to hide, to fight. He stood there, hand on the doorknob, waiting helplessly.

Anthony Walsh knew his time had run out.

***

Olivia Summers assessed Anthony with clinical detachment as he opened the door. The hypnotic suggestion was working precisely as designed. Fear had hollowed him out, making him malleable. Perfect. Or was it?

She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. “Sit down,” she said, gesturing to the sofa.

Walsh moved to the couch, his movements stiff and mechanical.

“You’re fighting it,” she observed, settling into the armchair opposite him. “That’s unusual, but ultimately futile.”

“What do you want?” Walsh managed to ask, the words seeming to scrape his throat raw.

“I thought I made that clear. I need three more patients from you—specifically, those struggling with significant phobias. The Chantico Rite requires new participants.”

Walsh’s face contorted. “No more. They’re dying because of us.”

“Because of their inability to transcend,” Olivia corrected him firmly. “They weren’t strong enough to face their fears.”

“I can’t,” Walsh said, each word clearly requiring immense effort. “No more patients. No more deaths.”

Olivia leaned forward, her intensity filling the space between them. “The Zaltican shamans understood what modern psychology refuses to acknowledge—true transformation requires confrontation with our deepest terrors. What we’re doing is revolutionary.”

“What you’re doing is murder,” he whispered.

Olivia felt a flicker of annoyance. She hadn’t expected this level of resistance after the posthypnotic suggestion.

“You seemed to have developed a rather inconvenient conscience, Anthony,” she said, her voice cooling several degrees.

“When we met, you were desperate for relief from your phobia. I offered you a path few will ever experience—direct communion with the subconscious through ka’lutma.

Now you want to renege on our agreement? ”

“I’m going to reach out to Sheriff Graves,” Walsh said, his voice stronger now. “I’m going to tell her everything.”

Olivia tilted her head, examining him like a curious specimen. “Are you? How interesting that you think you can.” She paused, watching realization dawn on his face. “You physically cannot tell them, Anthony.”

His expression collapsed, the momentary strength draining away. “They’re figuring it out anyway. The dreamcatchers—”

“Where is yours?” Olivia interrupted.

Walsh’s mouth worked silently for a moment, fighting the compulsion to answer. Then, defeat: “Bedroom.”

Olivia rose. “Show me.”

“No.” The single word seemed to cost him tremendous effort.

“Show me your dreamcatcher, Anthony,” she repeated with the same hypnotic cadence she had used during the ritual.

“I can’t go in there,” he said, gripping the sofa cushions as if they could anchor him. “It’s... affecting me.”

Olivia smiled thinly. “That’s precisely the point. The dreamcatcher is working as designed, bringing your fear to the surface.” She gestured toward the hallway. “Come. Now.”

Walsh remained seated, sweat beading on his forehead with the effort of resistance. His defiance was becoming problematic. Olivia needed to ensure his silence—permanently.

She moved to stand directly in front of him, leaning down until their faces were inches apart. “You leave me no choice, Anthony.”

His eyes widened with recognition of what was coming. “Please, don’t—”

“The emergency trigger was designed as a last resort,” she said calmly. “The Zalticans believed that one could either transcend their fear or be consumed by it. I had hoped you would be strong enough to transcend.”

Walsh tried to stand, to move away, but her gaze held him in place.

“You know what happens when I say this word,” she continued. “Your heart rate will spike, adrenaline will flood your system. Your fear will manifest physically in ways your body may not survive. Is that what you want?”

“Don’t,” he pleaded, tears welling in his eyes.

***

Jenna pulled the cruiser to a sharp stop in front of the six-story apartment building.

“Ritzy place,” Jake commented as they hurried to the front doors. A directory panel showed Walsh’s name beside apartment 612. Jenna pressed the button. No response. She pressed it again, holding it longer this time.

***

Olivia straightened, her decision made. “Nath-hak-to-mah,” she said, the word sliding from her tongue as she prepared to witness the ultimate confrontation between fear and survival.

The word slammed into Anthony’s consciousness like a physical blow.

Pain erupted in his chest, a vise of agony squeezing his heart as if determined to crush it.

He clutched at his shirt, mouth gaping in a silent scream, convinced that this moment—this unbearable, excruciating moment—would be his last.

Then a distant buzzing sound penetrated the roaring in his ears. The intercom. Someone was in the entrance, buzzing his apartment.

Someone was here. Someone might help.

“Ignore it,” Olivia commanded. “Focus on what you’re feeling, Anthony. Surrender to it.”

Instead, Anthony lurched to his feet, swaying like a drunk man, still clutching his chest. The room spun around him, but he fixed his gaze on the intercom panel by the door. The buzzer sounded again, more insistent this time. Hope gave him strength that his body shouldn’t have possessed.

“What are you doing?” Summers demanded, stepping toward him. “Stop fighting it!”

Three steps away. Two.

Summers moved with surprising speed, positioning herself between him and the door. “You can’t fight this, Anthony. The suggestion is too deeply embedded. Your fear will consume you.”

“No,” Anthony gasped, the single word requiring herculean effort. “You’re... wrong.”

He lunged forward suddenly, catching Summers off-guard. His shoulder struck her . She stumbled backward, losing her balance and falling hard against the wall.

The buzzer sounded a third time as Anthony staggered to the intercom, his vision blurring with each step. He slapped at the panel, somehow managing to hit the button.

“Hello?” a woman’s voice came through the speaker. “Dr. Walsh? This is Sheriff Jenna Graves.”

“Help,” he gasped, the word barely audible. But it was enough. The intercom picked it up.

***

Jenna and Jake had bypassed the absent elevator, taking the stairs two at a time. The stairwell was concrete and utilitarian, their footsteps echoing off the walls as they climbed. By the fourth floor, their breathing had deepened, but neither slowed the pace.

“What if we’re wrong?” Jake asked between breaths. “What if it’s nothing?”

“Then I’ll apologize for the cardio workout,” Jenna replied, pushing through the fatigue in her legs.

***

“They’re coming,” Anthony said, each word a victory over both the hypnotic suggestion and his lifelong fear. “It’s over.”

“Nothing is over,” Summers snarled. Her free hand struck out, catching him across the face with enough force to split his lip. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.

They grappled awkwardly, two elite professionals unused to physical confrontation, yet driven by opposing desperations—his to survive until help arrived, hers to silence him permanently.

They crashed into the coffee table, sending books and papers flying.

A lamp toppled, the bulb shattering against the hardwood floor.

Anthony’s heart continued its painful, erratic rhythm, but each second he remained standing, each moment he continued fighting, was a second longer than Summers had intended him to live.

He just had to hold on.

***

Jenna and Jake burst from the stairwell, the sound of their footsteps muffled by the plush hallway carpet as they raced toward apartment 612.

Jake reached the door first and rapped sharply.

“Dr. Walsh? Sheriff Graves and Deputy Hawkins,” Jenna called out.

A crash sounded from inside the apartment—followed by a thud and muffled voices.

The door flew open suddenly. Dr. Anthony Walsh stood in the doorway, a terrifying sight—face ashen except for a trickle of blood from his lip, hair wild, eyes wide with panic. He clutched his chest with one hand while the other gripped the doorframe as if it were the only thing keeping him upright.

“She’s trying to kill me,” he gasped, the words tumbling out in a desperate rush.