Page 6 of In Her Dreams (Jenna Graves #7)

The familiar brick facade of the Genesius County Sheriff’s Department stood solid and reassuring against the backdrop of Trentville’s modest skyline.

Jenna had walked through those front doors countless times, but today they seemed more imposing, as if her secrets had somehow made the threshold higher.

“I’m still struggling with the need to explain how we found people imprisoned underground without mentioning that a dead man told me where to look,” Jenna told Jake.

His mouth quirked up at one corner. “We’ll figure it out,” he said. “We always do.”

Inside, the station hummed with the controlled chaos that always followed a major case breaking. Officers moved with purpose through the corridors, their voices creating a steady undercurrent of sound punctuated by ringing phones and the soft whir of printers. The air smelled of coffee.

Deputy Miller nodded at Jenna as she passed his desk. “Sheriff, they’re waiting for you in the conference room.”

Jenna nodded her thanks and continued down the hallway, Jake a half-step behind her. The conference room door stood ajar, voices spilling out into the corridor.

“—unprecedented opportunity to dismantle their entire operation,” a voice Jenna didn’t recognize was saying as she pushed the door open.

Colonel Chadwick Spelling stood at the head of the conference table, his posture ramrod straight. Beside him stood a man Jenna had never seen before—tall, with close-cropped gray hair and eyes the color of winter sky, piercing and cold.

“Sheriff Graves,” Spelling said, his voice carrying the formal tone it always did in official settings. “Deputy Hawkins. Thank you for joining us.”

Jenna nodded, taking the seat across from the stranger. Jake settled beside her, his shoulder a reassuring presence against hers.

“Sheriff, Deputy, this is Special Agent Hugh Cody,” Spelling continued. “He heads the FBI team investigating the Harvesters.”

Cody didn’t smile as he extended his hand across the table, first to Jenna, then to Jake. His grip was firm, his palm dry.

“Sheriff Graves. I’ve heard a lot about you.” His gaze was evaluating, measuring. “Your reputation precedes you.”

“I hope that’s a good thing, Agent Cody,” Jenna replied, meeting his eyes without flinching.

“That remains to be seen.” Cody’s voice was neutral, but there was a subtle edge beneath the words.

He turned away, tapping a remote. The screen on the wall was illuminated with a map dotted with red pins stretching across Missouri, Arkansas, Illinois, and Iowa.

“The Harvesters have been operating in the Midwest for approximately eight years,” Cody began, his crisp baritone filling the room. “We’ve confirmed twenty-seven abductions connected to their operation, though we suspect the actual number is significantly higher.”

Images appeared on the screen—faces of men and women, young and old, their expressions frozen in DMV photos and graduation portraits.

“Their pattern is consistent. They target individuals with minimal social connections—drifters, estranged family members, people living on the margins. They abduct them, hold them in secure locations, and eventually harvest their organs for black market sale.”

Jenna watched the faces scroll by, wondering how many more people had simply vanished without anyone asking the right questions.

“We’ve had multiple near-misses over the years,” Cody continued. “Three months ago in Jonesboro, we raided a warehouse based on intel from an informant, found evidence they’d been holding victims there, but they’d cleared out forty-eight hours earlier.”

He clicked to another slide—a clinical photograph of surgical equipment on a metal table.

“Two months before that, a state trooper in Iowa pulled over a suspicious vehicle. Driver shot himself before questioning. Passenger escaped on foot. The trunk contained specialized transport equipment for organs.”

Jenna felt her stomach tighten. She thought of the people they’d found in the mine—gaunt, terrified, kept like livestock awaiting slaughter.

“What we found today,” Cody said, his voice dropping slightly, “is the first active holding facility we’ve been able to access before they cleared it out. The victims you recovered are potentially our best source of intelligence on this organization to date.”

He turned from the screen, fixing Jenna with that penetrating gaze again. “Which brings me to my question, Sheriff Graves. How exactly did you and Deputy Hawkins know to look in that abandoned mine shaft?”

The room fell silent. Jenna had been preparing for this question, rehearsing plausible explanations that didn’t involve her conversations with the dead. But she couldn’t put any of them into words.

“We … got a tip,” she said instead.

“So it was a confidential informant?” Cody repeated, skepticism evident in every syllable.

Jenna nodded noncommittally. After all, it wasn’t entirely untrue.

“And this informant just happened to know the exact location where an organization that has successfully evaded federal authorities for years was holding their victims?” Cody asked.

Jake shifted in his chair. “Our CI has proven reliable in the past.”

“I’d very much like to speak with this CI,” Cody said.

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Jake replied. “The nature of their position makes direct contact with federal authorities too risky.”

Jenna cringed at how Jake felt compelled to twist the truth on her behalf, and not for the first time.

“Too risky,” Cody echoed. He placed his palms flat on the table, leaning forward slightly.

“Sheriff Graves, I hope you understand that this investigation has been ongoing for years. We’ve lost potential witnesses, missed crucial evidence, and watched victims disappear because we’ve always been one step behind.

And now you’re telling me that you just happened to receive a tip that led you directly to their operation? ”

“Sometimes small-town connections yield big results, Agent Cody.” Colonel Spelling’s interruption was smooth.

“Sheriff Graves has an exceptional track record utilizing local knowledge and resources. I’ve worked with her on several cases where her methods, while unconventional at times, have proven remarkably effective. ”

Cody’s eyes narrowed slightly, moving from Spelling to Jenna and back again.

“I see.” Then he added sternly, “Regardless of how this discovery came about, the FBI will be taking jurisdiction over the investigation from this point forward. We’re bringing in a forensic team to process the scene thoroughly.

We’ll need complete access to any and all evidence collected thus far, including your preliminary interviews with the victims.”

“Of course,” Jenna said, ignoring the frustration of having the case taken out of her hands. It was protocol, after all. “We’ll provide everything we have.”

The shrill ring of the phone on the conference table cut through the tension. Colonel Spelling reached for it, listening briefly before extending the receiver to Jenna.

“It’s for you, Sheriff. Your dispatcher.”

Jenna took the phone, listening as the dispatcher described the situation—two men on Maple Street arguing over a fallen tree, threatening to escalate to physical confrontation.

“We’ll handle it,” she said, hanging up. “Duty calls. Agent Cody, we’ll transfer all our files on the mine discovery to your team immediately.”

Cody nodded, his expression inscrutable. “Thank you for your cooperation, Sheriff. We’ll be in touch if we need further information about your... confidential informant.”

The transition from the high-stakes federal investigation to a mundane neighborhood dispute felt almost surreal as Jenna and Jake drove through the familiar streets of Trentville. The afternoon had mellowed, golden light washing over the small businesses and modest homes that made up the town.

“Well, that went about as well as could be expected,” Jake said, breaking the silence.

“Spelling ran interference for now,” Jenna agreed, turning onto Maple Street. “Let’s just hope Cody doesn’t push the issue. He can’t reconcile how we found those people.”

“Can you blame him?” Jake’s tone was gentle. “If I didn’t know what I know about you, I’d be suspicious too.”

Maple Street emerged before them, a picturesque row of older homes with established yards and mature trees.

At the moment, the tranquility was broken by two middle-aged men gesturing angrily at a massive oak that had partially toppled across a property line, crushing a section of white picket fence.

“What seems to be the problem here?” Jenna called as she and Jake approached.

The taller of the two men turned, his face flushed with anger. “My problem is that Fred here refuses to pay for the damage his tree did to my fence. I’ve been telling him for years that oak was leaning too far.”

“It was the storm that knocked it down, not me,” Fred countered, arms crossed defensively over his chest. “Act of God, not my responsibility.”

Jenna looked at the fallen giant, its exposed roots still clinging to clumps of earth, its branches reaching across the property line where they had crushed a white picket fence along with some flowers, and narrowly missed a garden of meticulously tended roses.

“Gentlemen, let’s take a step back and talk this through calmly,” she said, slipping into the mediator role that made up so much of small-town policing. “Mr.…?”

“Lawson. Dave Lawson,” the taller man supplied.

“And Fred Meyers,” the other added.

Jenna nodded. “Mr. Lawson, Mr. Meyers, can we agree that regardless of who’s legally responsible, the tree needs to be removed and the fence repaired?”

The next hour dissolved into a detailed discussion of arborists’ assessments, insurance policies, and the technicalities of property law. Jake quietly took notes while Jenna guided the conversation away from accusations and toward practical solutions.

It was tedious work, yet there was something almost comforting about it—the ordinary problems of ordinary people, the kind that could be solved with patience and common sense rather than firearms and federal task forces.

By the time they’d helped the neighbors reach a compromise—shared costs for tree removal, with Meyers covering the fence repair and Lawson agreeing not to pursue claims for his crushed hydrangeas—the sun was dipping lower in the sky.

Back in the patrol car, Jenna felt exhaustion settling into her bones. The adrenaline of the morning’s discoveries had long since faded, leaving behind a weariness that made even lifting her arms to the steering wheel an effort.

“Long day,” Jake observed, his own voice rough with fatigue.

“And it’s not over yet,” Jenna replied, starting the engine. “I need to check on our Jane Doe at the hospital.”

Jake looked at her, concern etched in the lines around his eyes. “You should get some rest, Jenna. The hospital isn’t going anywhere.”

“I can’t,” she said simply. “That woman recognized me, Jake. I need to know what that means.”

“You think she might know something about Piper,” Jake said quietly. It wasn’t a question.

Jenna nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

The drive to Jake’s house passed in comfortable silence. When she pulled up in front of his modest bungalow, he hesitated before opening the door.

“Call me if you learn anything,” he said. “And Jenna? Try to get some sleep tonight. You look like you need it.”

She managed a small smile. “I’ll try. No promises.”

As Jake disappeared into his bungalow, Jenna turned toward Trentville Memorial Hospital. When she parked and went inside, the building was quiet.

At the nurses’ station, a woman in purple scrubs looked up from her computer.

“How is Jill, our Jane Doe?” Jenna asked without preamble.

The nurse’s expression softened with professional sympathy. “No change, I’m afraid. She’s stable, but still comatose. Dr. Reeves doesn’t expect her to regain consciousness anytime soon.”

“How about Ginger Lomax?”

“She’s been sleeping mostly. Tomorrow we expect to transfer her to Kansas City, where she can be under the care of her own physician.”

Jenna weighed her options. She doubted that she could learn anything meaningful from Ginger, certainly not about Jill’s exclamation when she saw Jenna’s face. Jill herself was another matter.

Jenna nodded. “Can I see Jill?”

“Of course. She’s in room 35.”

The private room was dimly lit. The steady beep of the heart monitor provided a rhythmic counterpoint to the woman’s shallow breathing.

Jenna approached the bed slowly. With her face relaxed in unconsciousness, the woman looked younger than she had in the mine.

Her skin, now clean of the grime that had covered it when they found her, was pale and drawn tight over pronounced cheekbones.

Her hair, revealed as a dull blonde now that the dirt had been washed away, lay limp against the white hospital pillowcase.

“Hello, Jill,” Jenna said softly, settling into the chair beside the bed. “I don’t know if you can hear me, but I’m Sheriff Jenna Graves. You recognized me earlier today. I need to know why.”

There was no response, only the continued beep of the monitors and the soft hiss of the oxygen being delivered through the nasal cannula.

Jenna leaned forward, studying the woman’s face for any signs of recognition, any clue that might explain her earlier words.

“Where did you know me from?” Jenna whispered. “Was it me you recognized, or was it my sister? Did you know Piper? Piper Graves?”

The questions went unanswered.

“I’ll come back tomorrow,” Jenna promised the unconscious woman. “And the day after that, if necessary. If you know anything about my sister, I need to hear it.”

The drive home passed in a blur of streetlights and familiar landmarks. When Jenna finally pulled into her driveway, the house was unlit and quiet, just as she’d left it early that morning—though it felt like a lifetime ago.

Inside, she moved through her evening routine mechanically—checking that doors were locked, blinds drawn, her service weapon secured.

She heated leftover soup in the microwave, too exhausted to prepare anything more substantial, and ate standing at the kitchen counter, her mind still cycling through the day’s events.

The Harvesters’ underground prison. Richard Winters’ inexplicable death.

Agent Cody’s suspicious questions. The mysterious Jill’s recognition and subsequent collapse.

All parts of different puzzles without clues to answers.

As she finally climbed into bed, Jenna found herself hoping that tonight, her dreams might provide some answers.

But even as she yearned for clarity, a part of her dreaded what those dreams might reveal.