In Her Memory (Jenna Graves #13)

PROLOGUE

Donna Marsh stood at her kitchen sink, warm water rushing over the delicate bone China teacup from the set her husband had given her on their thirtieth anniversary.

The marble countertop gleamed under the soft glow of the pendant light, making the kitchen look like something from a magazine spread—beautiful, perfect, and utterly lifeless.

Just like the rest of her condo. Just like the rest of her evenings since Richard had died.

She turned off the faucet and set the teacup on the drying rack next to its saucer. Everything was in its place. Everything was as she wanted it. Everything except Richard.

She pulled her silk robe tighter around her frame, now fifteen pounds lighter than when they’d celebrated their last anniversary together.

The doctors had called it “grief weight loss,” as if giving it a name made it less concerning.

She put one hand on the cool marble of the counter, steadying herself for a moment.

With a sigh, Donna turned and moved into the large living room, where the marble fireplace reflected the warm light of the brass lamps she’d positioned just so. Moonlight spilled through the bay window, catching on the edge of her new silk curtains.

“This is supposed to be elegant,” she whispered to herself, her voice sounding foreign in the stillness. “This is supposed to be healing.”

The move to Calloway House was meant to be her fresh start—a chance to rebuild without the constant shadow of memories in their St. Louis home.

The real estate brochure had promised “luxury living with historic charm,” and Boyd Calloway himself had given her the tour, emphasizing the building’s meticulous restoration and exclusive clientele.

“Only ten units,” he’d said, his smile practiced but warm. “A select community of discerning residents. The interior has been redesigned with nice entrances to each unit from the grand old hallways.”

What he hadn’t mentioned was how those discerning residents kept to themselves, nodding politely in those hallways before retreating behind their solid oak doors.

Three months in, and Donna still felt like an outsider—the widow from the city who talked too much, asked too many questions, and hadn’t yet learned that Trentville had its own rhythm, its own unspoken rules.

At her feet, Biscuit—a Yorkshire terrier with more attitude than size—had curled into a comfortable ball. He was another gift from Richard, a companion for her “golden years.” She hadn’t realized those years would arrive so suddenly, or that she would face them alone.

The silence around her made the spacious condo feel cavernous.

During daylight hours, she could almost convince herself that she’d made the right choice.

The morning light streaming through the tall windows, the view of the gardens below, the history that seeped from the walls of the old mansion—all of it had seemed to promise possibilities.

But most nights, Donna felt more like a guest in a museum than the mistress of a home.

She picked up her phone from a small table, checking for messages.

Her daughter’s last text was from three days ago: “Super busy with work. Call you this weekend. Love you.” Katie was building her own life in Chicago, her visits becoming shorter and less frequent with each passing year.

Donna couldn’t blame her. At thirty-two, Katie had her career, her fiancé, her future.

What she didn’t need was a mother clinging to her like a life raft.

Donna set down the phone and gazed out at the October night. The trees on the edge of the property swayed in the autumn wind, casting moving shadows across the moonlit lawn. In the distance, the lights of Trentville twinkled, a reminder of the community she had yet to join.

A sudden growl broke the silence. Donna turned to see Biscuit standing rigid, his ears perked toward the hallway that led to the guest bedroom and laundry nook. The fur on his back stood on end.

“What is it, boy?” she asked, frowning.

Biscuit let out a sharp bark and darted into the darkness of the hall.

“Biscuit!” Donna called, annoyance sharpening her voice, though underneath it was a tremor of unease. The dog had been acting strangely for days—growling at empty corners, barking at the closet in the guest room, refusing to enter certain parts of the condo without coaxing.

The building had its quirks, she knew that.

Boyd Calloway had been upfront about the “settling noises” typical of historic properties.

What he hadn’t mentioned were the persistent maintenance issues—the flickering lights in the hallway, the cold spots near the windows despite the new weatherstripping, the faint smell of smoke sometimes drifting through the air ducts despite the strict no-smoking policy.

Donna had filed three maintenance requests in the past month alone. Each time, the building superintendent, Nolan Greer, had arrived with his toolbox and his taciturn demeanor, fixing the issues without comment beyond “These old houses, they got their ways.”

Another bark echoed from down the hall, followed by the clicking of Biscuit’s nails against the hardwood. Donna sighed and straightened her robe. It was nearly midnight, and she had planned to finish her novel before bed. Instead, she was chasing her neurotic dog through the shadows.

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered, flicking on the hallway light.

The long corridor stretched before her, lined with framed photographs from her previous life—Katie’s graduation, her and Richard’s trip to Europe, the family cabin on Lake of the Ozarks.

She had arranged them carefully, trying to create a sense of continuity between her past and present.

Now, in the harsh overhead light, they looked like artifacts from someone else’s life.

As she moved away from the kitchen, a familiar tightness returned to her chest. It wasn’t fear, exactly—more like a premonition, a sense that something was not quite right. Richard would have laughed at her, called it her “mystery novel imagination.” But Richard wasn’t here.

The house seemed to hold its breath as she walked, the old wooden floors creaking beneath her slippers. Despite the extensive renovation, Calloway House retained a certain presence, as if the walls themselves were watching, listening, judging.

“The place has history,” Boyd had told her during the tour, his eyes gleaming with what looked like pride. “Built in 1878 by Pete Shannon, one of the county’s most successful coal barons.”

“And now owned by you,” Donna had replied, catching something in his expression. “A Calloway.”

“Yes,” he’d said, his smile tightening just slightly. “Fitting, don’t you think? After all these years.” With a laugh, he’d added, “Some people say Pete’s ghost still haunts this place. If so, I don’t guess he’s resting easy now that it’s mine.”

She’d overheard enough conversations at the one HOA meeting she’d attended to understand the significance. The name Calloway meant something in Trentville, just as Shannon did. Old money, old grudges, old stories passed down through generations.

Biscuit barked again, the sound muffled now, coming from the laundry room at the end of the hall. Donna found the light switch on the wall, illuminating the last stretch of corridor.

“You’d better have a good reason for this midnight adventure,” she called out, trying to keep her voice light.

The guest bedroom door stood ajar to her right, the room beyond it dark and still.

She’d decorated it in shades of blue and cream, hoping that Katie and her fiancé might visit someday.

So far, the only occupant had been her sister Ellen, who’d stayed for two awkward days before declaring that she “couldn’t sleep with all the strange noises. ”

Donna had dismissed Ellen’s complaints as the usual dramatics, but now, standing alone in the quiet hallway, she wondered.

There was something about the nighttime stillness of Calloway House that made even the most rational thoughts twist into concerns.

Her mind drifted to tomorrow’s plans—the HOA coffee hour she’d been avoiding, the invitation from the woman in unit seven to join her garden club.

Maybe it was time to stop hiding behind her grief.

Maybe what this place needed, what she needed, was to open up a little. Let some light in. Let some people in.

“I’ll go,” she decided aloud, the words hanging in the empty air. “I’ll say yes.”

It felt like a promise, not just to herself but to Richard. He’d always been the social one, drawing people in with his warmth and humor. He wouldn’t want her retreating from life like this.

The laundry room door was closed, though Donna was certain she’d left it open after retrieving some clean towels her housekeeper had folded and left there. Biscuit whined, his nails scratching at the wood.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she sighed, her earlier unease giving way to irritation. She reached for the knob, cool brass against her palm, and pushed the door open.

The small room was dark except for the green glow of the digital clock on the dryer. The air felt different here—cooler, charged somehow, like the atmosphere before a storm. Biscuit stood in the center of the tile floor, his small body rigid, growling at something Donna couldn’t see.

She fumbled for the light switch, her fingers trailing along the wall. The prickle at the back of her neck returned, stronger now, a warning she couldn’t quite interpret. The house seemed to inhale around her, the walls contracting slightly.

“Biscuit, come here,” she commanded, her voice sharper than intended.

The light switch eluded her, and for a moment, panic flared in her chest. She had been in this room a dozen times today—why couldn’t she find the switch? The darkness pressed closer, and Biscuit’s growl deepened.

There was a soft sound behind her—sounding like a brush of fabric against wood, the gentle exhalation of breath. Donna’s nerves were taut now, stretching to their breaking point.

“Who’s there?” she called, hating the tremor in her voice.

She finally found that light switch, but before she could flip it, she sensed rather than saw movement there in the shadows. A swift displacement of air, the subtle shift of weight on the old floorboards. Then came the sudden, crushing blow to the back of her head.

The pain was shocking in its intensity, a white-hot burst that stole her breath. Donna’s knees buckled, and she felt herself falling, her body twisting as she tried instinctively to catch herself. The cold tile rose to meet her, unforgiving as concrete.

As she lay on the floor, her vision narrowing to a pinpoint, fractured thoughts tumbled through her mind.

The maintenance request she’d filed yesterday about the strange scratching in the walls.

The email she’d been drafting to Katie, full of forced cheerfulness and carefully edited loneliness.

The invitation to the garden club, now an opportunity that would never be taken.

Biscuit was barking frantically now, the sound distant and muffled as if coming from underwater. Donna tried to move her hand toward him, to offer one final comfort, but her body refused to respond.

In her last, fading moments of consciousness, regret washed over her—for the chances not taken, the connections not made, the life cut short just as she was finding the courage to begin again.

And beneath the regret, a final, terrible question: Would anyone notice she was gone?

Would anyone in Calloway House hear her dog’s desperate cries, or would they simply close their doors tighter, turning away from the sounds of distress as they had from her attempts at friendship?

The room grew darker, colder. Donna’s awareness contracted to a single point of light, then winked out entirely, leaving only the echo of Biscuit’s whimpering in the silent condo.