Page 40 of In Her Memory

“This house has chosen its path,” Shannon said.

Boyd’s thoughts fractured, fragments of the day’s events mixing with the impossible reality before him. The letter signed by Mayor Simmons. Donna Marsh’s death. Nolan Greer’s bitter accusations. This couldn’t be happening. He had to get help. Had to reach his phone.

His fumbling hand knocked against the nightstand, sending his cellphone clattering to the floor. Shannon didn’t even glance at it.

“They won’t find you until morning,” he said with certainty. “By then, it will be too late.”

The edges of Boyd’s vision darkened, the room receding as if he were falling backward down a long tunnel. His body felt distant now. His last conscious thought was of the irony — that he should die here, in the house he had worked so hard to reclaim, with the ghost of his family’s nemesis watching him take his last breath.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The dream came like a tide, washing over Jenna's awareness. She felt the familiar shift, the subtle tilt of reality as her mind crossed the threshold between ordinary dreams and those that were so different—sharper, clearer, with edges that cut through the fog of slumber. Lucidity bloomed as the darkness around her took on weight and texture. She knew what would follow.

Someone was coming.

A figure materialized, his edges blurring and reforming as if he wasn’t quite able to maintain a solid presence.

“Dad?” Jenna whispered.

Greg Graves stood before her, looking as he had in last night’s dream—strong, steady, with that reassuring smile that had always made her feel safe. The dream-space around them settled into a formless void, neither her bedroom nor any recognizable place.

“I know I’m dreaming,” she said.

Her father’s expression was more animated than she’d seen in last night’s visit. His eyes were bright with urgency, his movements quick and restless. Something was different this time. He seemed charged with energy, almost vibrating with it.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Jenna Marie.” Her name on his lips sounded strained, as if pushed through a barrier. “I found her. I found Piper.”

The words hit her like an electric shock. Jenna stepped forward, the dream-space shifting around her. “You found Piper? Where? Is she alive? Dad, where is she?”

Dad’s face contorted with frustration. His mouth worked as if he were speaking, but the words came out garbled, fragments of sound without meaning. Jenna recognized the pattern—the dead who visited her dreams often struggled to communicate clearly, especially about complex emotional matters.

“Try again,” she urged, reaching for him. “Please, Dad. Where is Piper?”

Her father’s form wavered, his outline becoming less distinct. He looked down at his own hands, which were beginning to lose substance. Panic flashed across his features.

“She’s—” he started, but his voice cut out like a failing radio signal. “She’s … she’s …” His words dissolved into meaningless sounds.

“Dad, stay with me!” Jenna pleaded. “I don’t understand. Where is she?”

Dad’s expression was pained now. He reached toward her, his hand already transparent. “Love you,” he managed clearly.

His form dissolved completely, scattering like mist, and Jenna found herself alone in the darkness.

“Dad!” she called. Only silence answered. But she was still in the dream.

Now the void around Jenna deepened. She felt suspended in absolute blackness, a sensation of falling without movement. Gradually, a pale glow began to form in front of her, sharpening into a rectangular shape that resembled a screen or a window. The two-dimensional surface flickered, and an image appeared—but strangely inverted.

Jenna squinted, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. The image was of a room, Victorian in its furnishings, with heavy curtains and ornate wallpaper. A couple moved through the space, but upside down from her perspective. The woman was unpinning her hair while the man removed his coat and waistcoat. The scene had the grainy, slightly jittery quality of silent film footage, though no captions appeared. The lighting was dim, casting long shadows across the inverted floor that was actually the ceiling.

“You’ll get used to seeing things that way,” a male voice said from somewhere behind her. “I rather like the view.”

Jenna turned, startled. A man stood with his hands in his pockets, his posture relaxed but commanding. Recognition was jarring. It was the man from the portrait at Calloway House—Pete Shannon. The dark hair parted in the middle, the thick mustache, and most distinctively, those eyes that seemed to calculate even as they observed. The portrait had also caught the sense of his ruthless intelligence perfectly.

“Mr. Shannon,” she said.

“Sheriff Graves. I’m flattered you recognize me.”