Page 9 of In Her Dreams (Jenna Graves #7)
Even with the cruiser’s air conditioning running full blast, Jenna could still smell death on her clothes—not the actual scent, but a phantom reminder of what she’d witnessed in Anita Palmer’s bedroom.
That look of terror, so similar to Richard Winters’.
That dreamcatcher, with its twisted design. Too similar to be coincidence.
As she drove toward Cassie Rivera’s house, the road wound through the older section of Trentville, where Victorian homes with peeling paint stood shoulder to shoulder with carefully restored craftsman bungalows.
“You know,” Jake said from the passenger seat, “I respect your thoroughness, but Cassie Rivera? I mean, dreamcatchers and mysterious deaths are right up her alley, but we need facts, not crystal ball readings.”
Jenna shot him a sidelong glance. “Cassie knows things. Not because she’s psychic—” she emphasized the word with gentle mockery, “—but because people talk to her. Half the town sits in her living room, spilling their secrets.”
“While she charges them sixty bucks an hour to hear that Venus is in retrograde?”
“Seventy-five now. Inflation.” Jenna allowed herself a small smile. “And it’s not like we’re flush with leads. Two deaths, two weeks apart. Both victims died of apparent heart failure induced by extreme fear. Both had those... things hanging in their bedrooms. We need to know what they are.”
Jake sighed. “I still think we should be focusing on rational explanations. Toxicology reports, personal connections—”
“We are,” Jenna said, turning onto Magnolia Street. “But I’ve learned not to dismiss any avenue just because it seems unconventional.”
“Fair point,” he replied. “But just because you have … unusual insights … that doesn’t mean that every supposed psychic is real. Or any other one at all, as far as I’m concerned.”
Jenna felt a comforting warmth at knowing how much he now believed in her. She understood that reaching this level of trust must not have been easy for him.
“Anyway,” she continued, “I’ve known Cassie since high school. She might come off as eccentric, but she’s observant. She notices patterns. And she doesn’t panic easily.”
They pulled up to a small Craftsman house painted a cheerful yellow with deep purple trim.
Wind chimes hung from the porch eaves, their gentle tinkling barely audible from the car.
A stone path lined with blooming lavender led to the front door, where a wreath of woven branches and dried flowers greeted visitors.
“Very subtle,” Jake muttered.
Jenna turned off the engine. “Be nice. I mean it, Jake.”
He raised his hands in surrender. “Professional and respectful. Scout’s honor.”
They approached the house, and Jenna felt the familiar sense of stepping into another world. Cassie had cultivated her space to feel separate from Trentville’s practical, small-town sensibilities. Here, even the air seemed different—expectant, charged with possibility.
Before Jenna could raise her hand to knock, the purple door creaked open, revealing Cassie in a swirl of vibrant colors.
Her black hair was twisted into a haphazard bun, with rebellious strands cascading around her face like ivy.
She wore a tunic that seemed to shimmer with every movement, its blue and green hues reminiscent of peacock feathers.
Loose linen pants billowed around her legs as if caught in an invisible breeze.
Her wrists were adorned with an array of bangles that chimed softly, creating an eerie melody as she extended her arms wide in a welcoming gesture.
“Jenna! I was just thinking about you!” Her bright smile faltered slightly as she registered Jake’s presence and their solemn expressions. “Oh. This isn’t a social call, is it?”
Jenna shook her head. “Mind if we come in? We have some questions.”
“Of course.” Cassie stepped back, ushering them into the house. “I just brewed some tea. Lemongrass and ginger. Good for clarity.”
The interior of Cassie’s home was exactly as usual—comfortable chaos.
Bookshelves overflowed with volumes on astrology, dream interpretation, and world religions.
Crystals of various sizes and colors caught the light streaming through the windows.
Several dreamcatchers—nothing like the ones from the crime scenes—hung from the ceiling, gently rotating in the air current.
The scent of incense hung in the air, mingling with the earthier smell of herbs drying in the kitchen. Cassie led them to a sitting area where an assortment of mismatched but comfortable furniture surrounded a low table made from a slice of tree trunk, its growth rings preserved under clear resin.
“Sit, sit,” Cassie insisted, gesturing to a deep purple couch. She disappeared briefly into the kitchen, returning with a tray holding a teapot and three mugs. Steam curled from the spout, carrying the promised scent of lemongrass and ginger.
Jake settled uncomfortably at the edge of the couch, looking like he was bracing for an interrogation. Jenna sat beside him, accepting a mug of tea from Cassie, who then curled herself into an armchair across from them, tucking her feet beneath her.
“Now,” Cassie said, her brown eyes suddenly sharp and focused, “what’s happened?”
Jenna took a steadying breath. “Did you hear about Richard Winters’ death?"
“Yes.” Cassie nodded solemnly. “Heart attack, wasn’t it? Betty’s been gone, what, two years now? Poor man. I did a reading for Mrs. Harmon—you know, from the florist shop?—and she mentioned he’d been looking tired lately. Said he’d taken up walking more, though. Seemed to be doing better.”
“Did Mrs. Harmon mention anything else?” Jenna asked. “About his habits, his health, any changes in behavior?”
Cassie tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Just that he seemed a little more social lately. More... at peace, I think she said. Like he’d finally started to move forward after Betty.”
Jake leaned forward slightly. “Any mention of new friends? New interests?”
“Not specifically,” Cassie replied, tilting her head and looking back and forth from Jake to Jenna. “But is there something else …?”
Jenna nodded. “There’s been another death. Anita Palmer. First-grade teacher at Trentville Elementary.”
The mug in Cassie’s hands wobbled slightly, tea sloshing close to the rim. “Anita? But she’s so young! What happened?”
“Same as Richard Winters. Apparent heart failure, but...” Jenna hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “She died terrified, Cassie. Both of them did. Their expressions—”
“Wait.” Cassie set her mug down on the table with a sharp click. “You’re saying they both died of fright? Like, literally scared to death?”
“That’s what it looks like. Melissa’s still running tests, but the preliminary findings show massive cardiac events consistent with extreme fear responses.”
“That’s...” Cassie shook her head, clearly disturbed. “That’s not natural.”
“No,” Jenna agreed. “It’s not. And there’s something else.” She took out her cell phone and held it up for Cassie to see. She brought up two photos, one after the other. “These were found in their bedrooms. One in Richard’s, one in Anita’s.”
Cassie leaned forward, studying the images of the dreamcatchers. Her face, normally so expressive, went very still. When she looked up, the usual sparkle in her eyes had dimmed.
“These aren’t dreamcatchers,” she said softly. “At least, not in the traditional sense.”
“What do you mean?” Jake asked, his skepticism momentarily set aside. “I thought they might have some connection with Native American ceremonies.”
“Not any that I’m familiar with,” Cassie replied.
“But I’m not an expert in that area.” She looked at the images again.
“Any dreamcatcher I know of is meant to protect. To filter. These...” She shook her head.
“The design is all wrong. The pattern should flow, creating spaces where good dreams can pass through while the bad ones get caught. These webs look deliberate—like they’re designed to trap rather than filter. ”
Jenna leaned closer. “And these?” She pointed to the objects woven into the rim.
“In Richard’s, they look like... teeth?” Cassie’s nose wrinkled in distaste. “And in Anita’s, those almost look like bird beaks. I think they must have been added to look threatening.”
Jake shot Jenna a significant look. Cassie was reading those details the same way that she had.
“Cassie,” Jenna said carefully, “what would you say if I told you Richard Winters suffered from claustrophobia and Anita Palmer had a severe fear of birds?”
Cassie’s eyes widened. “I’d say that someone has twisted the protective purpose of dreamcatchers into something... malevolent. This is—” She gestured at the photographs, then gave the phone back to Jenna. “This feels mishandled. That kind of thing can be dangerous.”
Jake shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable with the turn in conversation. “Let’s stick with what we can prove,” he said, his voice tight.
Cassie didn’t seem offended. “Of course. But even from a purely anthropological perspective, these objects are significant. They’ve been crafted with specific intent.”
She studied the photographs again. “You know, I could do a reading. The cards might offer some insight …”
Jenna knew that the conversation was about to veer off in a direction that neither she nor Jake would find productive.
“Actually,” Jenna interjected gently, “we were hoping you might know someone with more academic knowledge about these kinds of objects. Someone who might recognize the cultural significance or origin.”
Cassie’s expression brightened. “You need to talk to Olivia Summers at Ozark State. She’s an ethnology professor.” A slight edge entered her voice. “We’ve had our... differences of opinion on certain matters, but she knows her stuff. Written several books on shamanic practices across cultures.”
“You know her well?” Jenna asked, noting the subtle shift in Cassie’s tone.
“We’ve crossed paths at various seminars and workshops,” Cassie said, straightening the bangles on her wrists.
“She’s brilliant but dismissive of modern practitioners.
Thinks we’re all playing pretend with sacred traditions.
” A small, defiant smile curved her lips.
“I may have called her an academic vampire once, feeding off spiritual traditions without respecting their living essence.”
“So she’s not a fan of new age practices?” Jake asked.
“Oh, she’s fascinated by them—as anthropological curiosities. But she doesn’t believe in their efficacy.” Cassie shrugged. “Still, when it comes to identifying unusual ritual objects, especially those with potentially indigenous origins, she’s your best bet.”
Jenna tucked her cellphone away. “Would you mind if I mentioned your name when I contact her?”
A mischievous light danced in Cassie’s eyes. “By all means. Tell her I sent you specifically because these …things …look nothing like anything in modern practice. I guess you’ll have to refer to them as “dreamcatchers” because I don’t have another word for them. That should pique her interest.”
“Thank you, Cassie,” Jenna said, rising from the couch. “This helps.”
Cassie stood as well, her numerous bracelets jingling. “Wait.” She disappeared down a hallway, returning moments later with a small cloth bag. “Protective herbs,” she explained, pressing it into Jenna’s palm. “Rosemary, sage, and a bit of bayberry. Just... humor me, okay?”
The sincerity in her friend’s eyes made Jenna’s reflexive denial die on her lips. Instead, she tucked the sachet into her pocket. “Thanks.”
As they made their way to the door, Cassie caught Jenna’s arm. “Be careful,” she said, her voice low enough that Jake, a few steps ahead, couldn’t hear. “Whatever’s happening... it feels wrong. Not just bad, but fundamentally wrong.”
Jenna squeezed her friend’s hand. “I know.”
Back in the car, Jake waited until they were halfway down the block before speaking. “So. She’s saying it’s mishandled … what … magic?”
“Focus on what’s useful,” Jenna replied. “These hangings are deliberately constructed to reference the victims’ phobias. That’s not coincidence.”
“No,” Jake agreed. “That’s premeditation.”
They drove in silence to the station, the afternoon sun casting long shadows across the road. Jenna’s mind raced, connecting and disconnecting fragments of information, searching for patterns.
At the station, Jenna pulled out her phone and dialed the Ethnology Department at Ozark State University. After being transferred twice, she finally reached Dr. Summers’ teaching assistant, who, after some persuasion, agreed to squeeze her in for a late afternoon appointment.
“I need you to stay here,” she told Jake as she gathered her things. “Keep tabs on Cody and his team. See if they’re making any progress.”
Jake nodded, his face serious. “What about the connection between Winters and Palmer? Want me to dig?”
“Yes. School records, social circles, church membership—anything that might link them. And check if either of them traveled recently or took up any new hobbies or practices.”
“You got it.” Jake hesitated. “You sure you don’t want company for the drive to Pinecrest?”
Jenna shook her head. “I need you here. Besides, I could use the time to think.”
The drive to Pinecrest after Jenna dropped Jake off at the station took just under an hour, the familiar Ozark landscape sliding past her window.
Fields gave way to more densely wooded areas, the road winding through hills that had stood sentinel for millennia.
Jenna welcomed the solitude, using the time to mentally review the case from every angle.
Two victims. Two phobias. Two dreamcatchers designed to evoke those specific fears. The pieces were there, but the picture they formed remained frustratingly unclear.
As the outskirts of Pinecrest came into view, Jenna glanced at her rearview mirror. Somewhere in this academic enclave was Dr. Olivia Summers, an expert in ethnology who might hold the key to understanding the strange dreamcatchers—and by extension, the deaths that seemed linked to them.
Jenna adjusted her grip on the steering wheel, determination hardening within her. Whatever connection existed between Richard Winters and Anita Palmer, whatever significance the twisted dreamcatchers held, she would find it.