CHAPTER TWO
Seven days, Jenna thought, shaking her head.
Only seven days since she had found Piper, and already the world had shifted on its axis, familiar landmarks vanished, new ones rising in their place.
Jenna wondered if this was how it felt to wake from a twenty-year coma, everything both strange and achingly familiar.
The psychiatric wing of Trentville Memorial Hospital smelled of industrial cleaner and instant coffee.
It was a scent Jenna had grown accustomed to over the past week, visiting every day, watching as her sister—her twin—slowly emerged from beneath layers of lost memory like a photograph developing in chemical solution: blurry at first, then incrementally clearer.
Sunlight streamed through the window blinds into Dr. Samantha White’s office, where Jenna was waiting.
Diplomas and certifications lined the walls, testaments to decades of psychiatric practice.
A bookshelf held medical texts interspersed with small ceramic figurines—birds in flight, their wings caught in eternal suspension.
She checked her watch. Nine-seventeen. Dr. White had said she’d return with the discharge papers by nine-thirty. Outside the window, Jenna’s car sat waiting in the hospital parking lot, ready to carry Piper home.
Home. The word still caught in Jenna’s throat.
The past week had unfolded in a blur of surreal moments.
After finding Piper at Wendell Gillis’s cabin, Jenna and Jake had brought her straight here—following the ambulance through winding mountain roads, neither speaking, both understanding the fragility of what they’d found.
Piper—or Emma, as she still called herself then—had been disoriented and frightened, reeling from Wendell’s death and the shock of strangers claiming she was someone she couldn’t remember being.
That first night, Jenna had stayed at the hospital until visiting hours ended, then returned to an empty house that suddenly felt too large, too quiet.
She’d sat at her kitchen table until dawn, staring at old photographs spread before her—twin girls with matching grins and matching dresses, inseparable until one had gone missing.
The second day brought the first breakthrough. Mom had come to the hospital with Jenna. She’d approached Piper’s bed tentatively, as if her daughter might vanish again if she moved too quickly.
“Piper?” Mom had whispered.
And something had changed in Piper’s eyes—recognition flickering like a match struck in darkness.
“Mom?” The word had sounded uncertain, testing. Then firmer: “Mom.”
They’d embraced, Mom’s shoulders shaking with silent sobs, and Jenna had stepped into the hallway, her own tears falling unchecked.
Each day after brought more fragments: Piper remembering the house they’d grown up in, the treehouse Dad had built, the old golden retriever named Sandy. But the twenty years between her disappearance and now remained largely blank, with only scattered images emerging.
And always, when pressed about why she’d left, why she’d never contacted them, Piper’s face would cloud with confusion and fear.
What Jenna hadn’t shared with the doctors, with anyone except Mom, Jake, and Frank, was what had been happening in her own dreams. Three nights after finding Piper, Wendell Gillis had appeared to Jenna in her sleep.
The man who’d died was not a memory or a figment of her imagination, but a visitation as real as any she’d experienced since her gift first manifested.
He’d stood in her dream-space, more vital than she’d seen him in life, his eyes bright with urgency. “She’s still in danger,” he’d said, his voice echoing as if across a great distance. “The darkness—”
And then he was gone, ripped from the dream before Jenna could question him. Each night since, he’d returned, always with the same incomplete warning, always vanishing before he could finish whatever he was trying to tell her.
The office door opened, interrupting Jenna’s thoughts.
Dr. Samantha White entered, a manila folder tucked under one arm, her silver hair caught in a neat bun at the nape of her neck.
Despite her sixty-five years, she moved with the energy of someone decades younger, her posture straight, her steps purposeful.
“Sheriff Graves,” Dr. White said, settling into her chair. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Hospital bureaucracy moves at its own pace, I’m afraid.”
“No problem,” Jenna replied. “How is she today?”
Dr. White placed the folder on her desk, opening it to reveal neatly organized paperwork.
“Physically, she’s in good health considering the circumstances.
Underweight, some vitamin deficiencies, but nothing that can’t be addressed with proper nutrition and supplements.
” She removed her reading glasses, meeting Jenna’s gaze directly.
“Psychologically, it’s more complicated. ”
Jenna nodded, bracing herself. “The memory issues?”
“Partly, yes. Her amnesia appears to be dissociative in nature—a protective mechanism rather than the result of physical trauma. She remembers you, your mother, some aspects of her childhood. Those memories are returning steadily.” Dr. White tapped a pen against the desktop. “But that’s not my primary concern.”
“The visions,” Jenna said quietly.
Dr. White’s expression remained carefully neutral. “She calls them ‘communications.’ Vivid sensory experiences involving other people. Some from her past, others she claims she’s never met in life.”
“Do you mean hallucinations?”
“That’s the clinical term, yes.” Dr. White’s tone was measured. “But I’ve been practicing psychiatry in Trentville for thirty-five years, Sheriff Graves. Long enough to develop a certain... flexibility in my thinking.”
Jenna waited.
“Some people,” Dr. White continued, choosing each word deliberately, “possess an acute sensitivity to things that seem to exist beyond ordinary perception. Particularly to emotional residue, for lack of a better term. Violence, grief, rage—these leave impressions that most people never notice.”
“But some do,” Jenna said, barely audible.
“Yes.” Dr. White’s eyes held hers, unwavering. “Some do. And in my experience, dismissing these perceptions as merely symptomatic can do more harm than good.”
Jenna felt exposed, as if the woman across from her could see straight through to the visitations she’d experienced, the dead who spoke to her in dreams. Her reputation for intuition was well-known in Trentville, but few knew its true source.
Yet something in Dr. White’s careful phrasing suggested she understood more than she was saying.
“You’re not prescribing antipsychotics,” Jenna noted, neither a question nor an accusation.
“No.” Dr. White shook her head. “I’ve provided a mild sedative for anxiety, which she can take as needed.
But I believe antipsychotic medication would be counterproductive at this stage.
It might suppress not only the things she calls communications but also the emerging memories she needs to process. ”
She leaned forward slightly. “What your sister needs now is stability, safety, and understanding. A quiet environment where she can continue to recover without pressure.”
“She’ll have that with me,” Jenna assured her.
Dr. White’s expression softened. “Sheriff, with all due respect, your profession places you at the center of Trentville’s most difficult moments.
And Trentville has been experiencing more than its share of them lately.
You live with that darkness daily, and you’ve developed the strength to bear it.
” She paused. “Piper isn’t there yet. The things she perceives—the communications—they overwhelm her.
And your home... well, your everyday life might be too saturated with the kind of energies your work attracts. ”
Jenna frowned. “You think she shouldn’t stay with me?”
“I think,” Dr. White said gently, “that your mother’s home might be better suited for Piper’s immediate recovery. It’s the place where she grew up, familiar territory. And Margaret is there consistently, while your job often takes you away at unpredictable hours.”
A knot of worry formed in Jenna’s stomach. “Mom’s been sober for less than a year. After years of heavy drinking. I’m not sure she’s equipped for this.”
“I’ve had several conversations with your mother this week,” Dr. White replied. “Her commitment to sobriety appears genuine. And frankly, having Piper to focus on might strengthen her resolve. They both need healing, Sheriff Graves. They might help each other find it.”
Jenna felt conflicted. Dr. White wasn’t wrong—Mom had been transformed by Piper’s return, her eyes clearer than Jenna had seen in years, her movements more purposeful. But the risk...
“It wouldn’t need to be only the two of them,” Dr. White added, seeming to read Jenna’s concern. “You’d visit daily, I assume. But ideally, someone else would check in regularly as well. Someone who understands the situation’s... unusual aspects.”
Jenna thought immediately of Frank Doyle, his weathered face and steady presence. “Frank could do that. The former sheriff,” she explained. “He’s been like family since Dad died. He’s aware of Piper’s condition.”
Dr. White’s expression brightened. “Frank Doyle? Of course. I’ve known Frank since I was a girl. His grandmother and my grandmother were close friends.” A smile touched her lips. “He would be perfect. The Doyles have always understood things that others don’t.”
There was something in her tone that made Jenna look up sharply. “What do you mean?”
“Just that Frank comes from a family with certain kinds of ... insights.” Dr. White closed the folder, clearly considering the matter settled. “I’ll call Piper in now, if you’re ready. The discharge papers just need your signature as her emergency contact.”
Before Jenna could press further, Dr. White pressed a button on her desk phone. “Nurse Jenkins? Please bring Piper Graves to my office. Her sister is here to take her home.”
Home. The word still felt strange, applied to Piper. For twenty years, “finding Piper” had been Jenna’s mission, the driving force behind so many of her choices. Now that mission was complete, leaving a vacuum she didn’t know how to fill.
The door opened minutes later, and Piper stepped into the office.
She wore clothes borrowed from Jenna—jeans and a simple blue sweater that was loose on her too-thin frame.
Her hair, the same chestnut shade as Jenna’s but longer, was pulled back in a ponytail.
The physical resemblance between them was unmistakable, yet there was a fragility to Piper that Jenna had never possessed, a tentative quality to her movements.
“Ready to go?” Piper asked, a small smile lifting the corners of her mouth.
"More than ready," Jenna replied, standing. "Mom's waiting at her place. She's been cooking all morning, apparently you're getting the full homecoming feast."
Piper’s smile widened. “I remember her pot roast. Is it still good?”
“Better than ever,” Jenna assured her, surprised by the normalcy of the exchange. These moments of ordinariness had been increasing, brief windows when the twenty-year gap seemed to vanish, and they were simply sisters again.
Dr. White gave Jenna a clipboard with forms to sign, which she did quickly. Then the doctor turned to Piper.
“Remember what we discussed,” she said, her tone kind but firm. “Take the medication if the anxiety becomes overwhelming. Call me anytime. And try to trust the process—memories will return in their own time.”
Piper nodded, her expression solemn. “Thank you. For believing me.”
“Of course.” Dr. White’s gaze flicked briefly to Jenna. “And your sister understands more than you might think. You’re in good hands.”
With final goodbyes and a small bag of medications, they left the office. Jenna felt Dr. White’s eyes on them as they walked down the corridor, past the nurses’ station and toward the elevator. Hospital staff nodded in recognition—after a week of daily visits, Jenna had become a familiar presence.
They stepped into the elevator, and Jenna pressed the button for the ground floor. As the doors closed, sealing them in the small space, Piper took a deep breath.
“It feels strange,” she said quietly. “Going home. Like I’m walking into someone else’s life.”
“It is your life,” Jenna reminded her gently. “It always was. You just... lost it for a while.”
Piper looked at her then, green eyes—so like Jenna’s own—searching her face. “Did you ever stop looking for me?”
“Never.” The word came without hesitation. “Not for a single day.”
The elevator doors opened to the hospital lobby, sunlight streaming through the glass entrance doors. They walked together through the exit, their steps falling naturally into rhythm. Outside, the September air carried the first hints of autumn, crisp and clean.
As they approached Jenna’s car, she felt a strange sensation wash over her—a certainty that this moment marked both an end and a beginning. The search for Piper was over, but something else was taking shape, something she couldn’t yet name or understand.
Wendell’s unfinished warning echoed in her mind. “She’s still in danger. The darkness—”
Jenna glanced at her sister, who had paused to lift her face to the sun, eyes closed, expression peaceful.
Whatever darkness threatened, whatever Wendell had tried to warn her about, it could wait.
For now, this moment was enough—Piper, alive and returning home, the impossible made real. Whatever came next …
She unlocked the car and opened the passenger door. “Let’s go home.”