Page 17 of In Her Grasp

The figure opened his mouth, and from it came a voice, garbled and distant as if carried by an underwater current. Jenna leaned forward, straining her senses. She had become adept at deciphering the enigmatic language of the dead, the subtle cues and fragmented messages they conveyed. Yet the words that emerged now were unlike any she had encountered in her vigil between worlds.

“I’m... I’m …” the figure whispered, his voice trailing off into a mere breath against the chill air. Then, in a distorted voice, he said another word that she couldn’t quite understand.

It sounded to Jenna like the word he said was “alive.”

What could that mean? Had the figure just told her that he was alive? Since when had living people started visiting her in her dreams? That was never supposed to happen.

“Who are you?” she pressed, urgency sharpening her tone.

In a clearer tone than before, the figure added, “There are three of us.”

“What do you mean?” Jenna asked.

But her inquiry would go unanswered. His momentary solidity wavering, the figure began to descend once more into the dark water. Desperation gave way to helplessness as Jenna watched the form dissolve into the reservoir, leaving behind only the memory of its presence and the faintest whisper of that impossible message.

“Wait!” Her plea sliced through the silence of the dream. But the reservoir reclaimed its own, swallowing the mysteriousapparition with a quiet finality that left only ripples across its surface. The tranquility of the water mocked her urgency, reflecting nothing back but the moonless night.

The transition from sleep to wakefulness was abrupt, jerking Jenna into reality with her heart hammering against her ribcage. She sat bolt upright, the remnants of the dream clinging to her like cobwebs. Sweat beaded on her brow, the chill of the room battling the heat that flushed her skin.

The puzzling words reverberated in Jenna’s mind. They had sounded like “I’m alive.” Was that what the dream figure had said? Had that distorted pronouncement been a trick of her own subconscious, or a genuine cry from beyond?

The digital display of her bedside clock announced 6:45 AM, a familiar waking hour. Moving with urgency, Jenna grabbed the pencil and notebook she kept by the bed and scribbled down everything she could remember about the dream, even though details were starting to slip away from her already. She had learned long ago that this effort not only kept her from forgetting crucial details, but it was also part of the practice that actually promoted more clarity in future lucid dreams.

The dim glow of dawn seeped through her window, casting muted light on the pages as she wrote. But the message still confused her—the distorted, barely audible word that sounded like “alive.”

Jenna’s training in law enforcement had honed her ability to piece together evidence, but this was beyond physical clues. It was a realm where intuition reigned supreme—a gift that she hadn’t chosen, but had chosen her.

After she closed her notebook and set it aside, Jenna rose and made her way to the kitchen. Her movements were automatic, the routine of breakfast preparation a welcome distraction from the tumultuous start to her day. She remembered that just yesterday afternoon, she had poured out her mother’s bourbon.The comforting conversation with Zeke Canfield had left her with hopes of better days to come.

As eggs sizzled in the pan and toast crisped in the toaster, her thoughts meandered to the previous day’s lighter moments. A smile tugged at her lips, recalling the absurdity of chasing Hilda Thornton’s raccoon intruder from the attic—an unexpected interlude of normalcy. In those brief, shared episodes of small-town policing, she found a semblance of grounding—a reminder that not all of her world revolved around the ethereal whispers and cries of the lost. The raccoon caper was a snapshot of life’s simpler challenges, and Jenna allowed herself to bask briefly in the memory.

She set the plate on the table, a simple meal of eggs and toast that seemed too mundane for the morning’s surreal start. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the small kitchen, its warmth promising a moment’s peace before the day’s demands reclaimed her attention

And then it began. As Jenna reached for the coffee mug, the familiar vibration of her cellphone on the wooden table pierced the silence. She glanced at the screen, noting Melissa Stark’s name flashing urgently. With a swift motion, she picked up the call.

“Jenna, it’s Melissa. I have news about the body,” came the coroner’s crisp voice over the line, without preamble.

“Go ahead,” Jenna replied.

“I’ve just received the dental records from Colstock. They confirm what you suspected—Mike Larson is our John Doe.”

Jenna felt a jolt of rising wakefulness at the news. This was, indeed, a major break in the case.

“Thanks, Melissa,” Jenna said. “I’ll proceed accordingly.”

“Let me know what happens, Jenna,” Melissa said. “I’m curious.”

“I’ll do that.”

Ending the call, Jenna placed the phone back on the table. Mike Larson’s identity was no longer an assumption but a fact. As she started on her breakfast, the practical part of her mind began to chart the course of action. The news about Mike Larson cast a new gloom over the day ahead; interviewing his widow would be no easy task.

The puzzle of her dream still loomed, begging for attention. The figure had spoken clearly when he’d said, “There are three of us.” Did that mean more bodies lay under the water in the reservoir? If so, why had he said, “I’m alive”? Or had he really said that? Had she misheard those words?

In the quiet of the morning, Jenna found no answers. She pushed away her plate and picked up her phone again, calling a familiar number. The line rang twice before Jake’s voice came on the line, “Hawkins.”

“Jake, it’s Jenna,” she said crisply. “Melissa just confirmed our John Doe is Mike Larson. The dental records matched. It’s him.”

“Damn,” came Jake’s response, his voice rough with sleep. “What’s our next move?”

---