Page 26 of In Her Dreams (Jenna Graves #7)

Before he could finish, Walsh’s knees buckled. Jake lunged forward, catching the psychiatrist before he hit the floor. Walsh’s weight sagged against him, semi-conscious but still mumbling incoherently. “She did this... to me... to them...”

Jake moved swiftly to support Walsh against the wall. “I’ve got him,” he assured Jenna. “You go get Summers.”

Jenna’s hand instinctively went to her weapon. “Dr. Summers,” she called firmly, “hands where I can see them.”

Olivia stood there, hair disheveled and clothes askew, a far cry from her usual composed demeanor. Her eyes darted between Jenna and Jake, then without another word she bolted toward the nearest door.

***

Olivia burst into the bedroom, seeking escape from the sheriff, only to find herself facing a more terrifying adversary—her own reflection staring back at her from the closet’s full-length mirror. The sight hit her with physical force, driving the air from her lungs in a strangled gasp.

“No, no, no,” she whispered.

Behind her, she vaguely registered the sheriff’s voice, demanding something. But the words were meaningless compared to the horror before her. Olivia tried to turn away, but her gaze remained locked on the mirror as if magnetized.

The memory flashed unbidden—her grandmother’s ornate mirror, the sudden argument, her mother’s raised voice, her grandmother’s wild gesture, the sickening crack of glass splintering, her grandmother’s face split into dozens of distorted versions, each one seeming to contain some monstrous truth.

“Dr. Summers!” The sheriff’s voice penetrated her consciousness momentarily, but it was distant, unimportant compared to the need to escape the mirrored surface that held her captive.

Olivia stumbled backward, desperate for any direction that would take her away from the reflection. The room swam around her, furniture and walls blurring together.

Light. There was light coming from somewhere behind her. Daylight. Olivia turned toward it blindly.

The balcony doors were open, the late afternoon sun streaming through. She lurched toward the brightness, hands outstretched like a drowning person reaching for rescue.

The balcony. The sixth floor. Some distant part of her mind registered these facts, but they held no meaning against the overwhelming need to put distance between herself and the mirror.

“Stop! Dr. Summers!”

The sheriff’s voice again, closer now, urgent. But the words were just sounds, meaningless against the rushing in Olivia’s ears. Her body moved on pure instinct, driven by the most primitive part of her brain—the part that recognized only threat and escape.

And then she was falling, the ground rushing up to meet her with the inevitability of all things she had tried to control but never could.

***

Jenna lunged forward but her fingers closed on empty air. Dr. Olivia Summers tumbled over the balcony railing. No scream came.

Jenna struggled to process what had just happened.

She holstered her weapon in a single fluid motion, then moved to the railing, forcing herself to look down.

Six stories below, on the concrete sidewalk, lay the crumpled form.

Even from this height, Jenna could see there was no question of survival.

The professor’s body lay at an impossible angle, a dark stain spreading beneath her.

People were already gathering—residents emerging from the building, pedestrians stopping in shock. Someone was pointing up toward the balcony where Jenna stood.

Jenna cast one final glance at the gathering crowd below, then stepped back into the bedroom.

She paused, her gaze falling on the mirrored closet door that had seemed to terrify Summers so completely.

Just an ordinary mirror, reflecting the rumpled bed, the open balcony doors, the dreamcatcher on the wall, and Jenna’s own troubled expression.

She turned away, moving quickly back to the living room where Jake knelt beside Dr. Walsh. The psychiatrist was lying on the sofa, eyes closed but breathing more evenly now. Jake had loosened his collar and was checking his pulse, his movements precise and professional.

“Summers is dead,” Jenna said, keeping her voice low. “Went over the balcony. I couldn’t stop her.”

Jake looked up sharply, searching her face. “Jumped?”

“Not exactly,” Jenna replied, the scene replaying in her mind. “She was terrified of something. When I found her, she was staring at the mirror in the bedroom like it was going to attack her. Then she just... ran, right over the railing.”

She pulled out her phone and dialed dispatch to report the death and request medical assistance for Walsh. After completing the call, Jenna crouched down beside Jake, studying Walsh’s face. Color had returned to his cheeks, and his breathing had steadied, though his eyes remained closed.

“How is he?” she asked.

“Better,” Jake replied. “Whatever was happening seemed like a severe panic attack. But his pulse is steadier now, breathing’s normalizing.”

Walsh’s eyelids fluttered, then opened. His gaze, still unfocused, moved between Jenna and Jake before settling on Jenna’s face. Recognition dawned slowly.

“Sheriff,” he murmured, voice raspy. “You came.”

“We’re here, Dr. Walsh,” Jenna confirmed. “You’re safe now. Paramedics are on their way.”

Walsh struggled to sit up straighter, wincing with the effort. “Dr. Summers—”

“She’s gone,” Jenna said simply, watching his reaction carefully. “She went over the balcony. She didn’t survive.”

A complex series of emotions crossed Walsh’s face—relief, guilt, grief, and something that looked almost like vindication. “It was the mirror, wasn’t it?” he asked. “She never managed to cure her own …” A strange half-smile played at the corners of his mouth before he passed out.