Page 8 of In Her Fears (Jenna Graves #8)

Rectangles floated in the darkness, suspended in mid-air like cryptic monuments. Jenna moved among them. The space around her had no walls, no ceiling—just an endless nighttime void punctuated by these hovering white shapes that glowed in a bright white light from the moon far above.

A woman’s voice echoed from somewhere in the distance, the sound rippling through the darkness.

“It’s my fault,” the voice wept, each word distorted by sorrow. “It’s my fault.”

Jenna turned, trying to locate the source of the voice. The rectangles shifted around her, rearranging themselves as if responding to her movement. That’s when she realized—this wasn’t the everyday world. She was dreaming.

The familiar sensation of lucidity washed over her, that peculiar awareness that came with knowing she was asleep while simultaneously experiencing the dream as reality.

Her heart quickened. These were the dreams where the dead came to her, where they reached across whatever boundary separated their world from hers.

“Hello?” Jenna called out, her voice strange in her own ears. “Who’s there? I can hear you.”

The weeping continued, punctuated by the same refrain: “It’s my fault.”

“I want to help you,” Jenna said, moving toward what she hoped was the source of the voice. “But you need to tell me who you are.”

As she moved deeper into the strange space, the floating rectangles became more defined.

They weren’t just shapes—they were canvases, stretched on wooden frames and mounted on easels.

They were all blank, pristine white surfaces waiting for the touch of a brush.

The arrangement wasn’t random; it was deliberate, like a maze designed to be navigated.

Jenna weaved between the easels, which now stood firmly on what had solidified into a concrete floor.

The air around her had changed too, carrying the sharp, distinctive smell of linseed oil and turpentine.

It was as if she had found herself in some kind of vast, labyrinthine, open-air painter’s studio.

“Please,” she called again. “Let me find you. Let me help.”

The voice grew closer, the weeping more distinct.

Jenna rounded a particularly tall easel and finally saw her—a woman kneeling on the floor, face buried in her hands, shoulders trembling with each sob.

She wore a paint-stained smock over a simple dress, her dark hair pulled back in a loose knot at the nape of her neck.

Several strands had escaped, falling forward to curtain her face.

Jenna approached slowly, careful not to startle her. “Hello,” she said softly.

The woman’s head jerked up, revealing a face streaked with tears. She appeared to be in her late forties or early fifties, with features that might once have been beautiful but now seemed carved by grief. Her eyes widened at the sight of Jenna.

“You can see me?” she asked, her voice hoarse from crying.

"Yes," Jenna said, kneeling to be at eye level with the woman. "My name is Jenna Graves. I'm the Sheriff of Genesius County. Can you tell me who you are?"

The woman stared at her, confusion clouding her features. “I... I don’t know if I should be here.”

Jenna had seen this before—the disorientation, the uncertainty that often seemed to plague spirits who visited her dreams. Some seemed to understand their condition immediately; others existed in a fog of confusion about their state.

“That’s all right,” Jenna said gently. “Can you tell me what’s troubling you? You said something was your fault.”

The woman’s expression crumpled. “It’s going to happen again,” she whispered. “And it’s all my fault.”

A chill ran down Jenna’s spine. “What’s going to happen again?”

“I should have stopped it. I should have seen what was happening.” The woman’s hands twisted together in her lap. “But I was too consumed by my own darkness.”

“Who should you have stopped?” Jenna pressed. “What did they do?”

The woman looked past Jenna, her gaze fixed on something only she could see. Jenna felt frustration building. These cryptic conversations were common in her dream visits, but knowing that didn’t make them any less maddening.

“Please,” Jenna said, leaning forward. “I want to understand. What do you think you did?”

Before the woman could reply, something exploded in the air , splattering across the blank canvases surrounding them.

On contact, each drop expanded into abstract shapes of crimson that spread and dripped down the pristine surfaces.

The smell of paint became the metallic scent of blood.

The woman’s face started to blur, features running like watercolors in rain.

“Find him,” she whispered, her voice now coming from everywhere and nowhere. “Before he makes another masterpiece.”

Then the entire dream collapsed in on itself in a swirl of red and white.

Jenna jolted awake.

Sunlight was streaming through the gaps in her bedroom blinds. She was drenched in sweat, her t-shirt clinging uncomfortably to her skin.

“Jesus,” she muttered, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes.

The dream had already begun to fade around the edges, the way dreams do, but the image of blood splashing across blank canvases remained vivid. So did the woman’s final words: “Find him, before he makes another masterpiece.”

Jenna pushed herself upright, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Her alarm clock read 6:17 AM. She reached over and switched it off, knowing there was no chance of falling back asleep now.

She padded to the bathroom, turned on the shower, covered her hair, and stepped under the spray before the water had fully heated. The cold shock helped clear the last cobwebs of sleep from her mind, though it did nothing to dispel the unease that clung to her like a second skin.

Under the beat of the water, Jenna’s thoughts circled back to the dream.

The woman had been warning her about something—or someone.

The message seemed connected to art somehow, given the setting and the canvases.

Could it be related to the murder of Martin Holbrook in Pinecrest exactly a month ago?

His death had certainly been staged like some kind of grotesque artwork—tied to a tree with a stake through his heart, a pentagram carved above his head.

At the time, the ritualistic nature of the killing had suggested to Jenna that it might be the first in a series.

Serial killers often escalated, their murders becoming more elaborate, more “artistic” in their staging.

But a month had passed with no similar incidents reported in Pinecrest or any of the surrounding counties.

The case had grown cold, with Chief Morgan stubbornly refusing further assistance from outside his jurisdiction.

Jenna shut off the shower and reached for a towel, her movements mechanical as her mind continued to work the problem. If not the Holbrook case, then what? The Harvesters had been dismantled, their operation shut down. What other threat could the dream woman be warning about?

She dressed quickly and strapped on her gun in its holster.

In the kitchen, she made coffee on autopilot, the ritual comforting in its ordinariness.

She poured cereal into a bowl, added milk, and sat at her small table with the meal she barely tasted.

The dream woman’s face kept appearing in her mind’s eye—those features lined with grief, the terrible calm as blood filled the air.

It had to mean something. Her dreams always did. But without more to go on, Jenna was stuck.

“Damn it,” she muttered, pushing her half-eaten breakfast away.

She grabbed her keys, badge, and phone, and headed out to her car.

The early morning air was crisp with the promise of autumn, a welcome relief after August’s oppressive heat.

Leaves had begun to turn on a few trees, splashes of red and gold amid the green.

In another month, the forests surrounding Trentville would be ablaze with color.

As she drove toward the station, Jenna mentally cataloged everything she knew about the dream.

A woman in an art studio. Blank canvases.

Blood splattering like abstract art. “Find him before he makes another masterpiece.” A warning about something that was going to “happen again.” But what? And who was “he”?

The frustration of not knowing gnawed at her.

So did exhaustion. This past month had been marked by terrible insomnia—night after night of tossing and turning, her mind refusing to shut down.

When sleep finally came, it was often fitful and brief.

Even prescription sleeping pills had barely helped.

Why was that happening? She’d begun to wonder if the insomnia itself was some kind of warning, her subconscious trying to avoid something lurking in the depths of sleep.

At least there had been some bright spots amid the exhaustion.

Her mother had kept her promise to call Zeke.

They’d had a long conversation that Margaret had been vague about, but which had evidently resolved the awkwardness between them.

She was attending AA meetings regularly again, with Zeke still her sponsor.

Whatever attraction had developed between them seemed to have settled into a warm friendship that benefited them both.

Jenna was grateful for that small piece of stability in her otherwise chaotic life.

Then there was the call from Special Agent Hugh Cody just yesterday.

After months of investigation culminating in the rescue of Ginger and Jill from the abandoned mine shaft, the FBI had finally brought down the entire Harvesters organization.

Arrests had been made across five states.

The trafficking ring that had preyed on vulnerable people for their organs was no more.

It was a win, a clear and unambiguous victory that had left Jenna feeling accomplished for the first time in weeks.

Which made this morning’s dream all the more unsettling. Just when one threat had been eliminated, another was apparently looming.

Jenna pulled into her reserved parking space at the Sheriff's station and cut the engine.

She sat for a moment, gathering her thoughts, trying to shift into professional mode despite the lingering disquiet from the dream.

Today would be about paperwork and routine.

She would put that strange dream aside until she had more to go on.

That resolution lasted exactly as long as it took her to walk through the station’s front door and see the man waiting in the reception area.

“Sheriff Graves!” He stood quickly, extending his hand. “Ethan Pierce, Gateway Herald. I’ve been hoping to speak with you.”

Jenna recognized the name—the Gateway Herald was a regional newspaper that covered several counties, including Genesius.

Pierce was in his early thirties, with the polished appearance of someone who knew he might end up on camera at any moment.

His smile was practiced, professional, with just enough warmth to seem genuine.

“Mr. Pierce,” Jenna acknowledged, shaking his hand briefly. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m working on a feature about the recent takedown of the organ trafficking ring known as the Harvesters,” he said, pulling a small recorder from his pocket.

“Your department played a key role in locating victims and gathering evidence that led to the arrests. I’d love to get your perspective on the investigation. ”

Jenna suppressed a sigh. Of course. The Harvesters case was big news, and the media was hungry for details. But what could she possibly tell him? That she'd known where to find the victims because a dead man had led her there in a dream? Did she regularly receive tips from the deceased?