Whispers Turn to Whimpers: Could He Ever Change? novel Chapter 1229

“Jenna?”

At last, Sherilyn stirred. Hesitant, she slowly lifted her head and looked at the phone screen.

One small image—and with just that, her eyes reddened and tears streamed down her cheeks.

“Jenna!”

She whispered the name, then lunged forward, snatching the phone from Joyce's hand. She cradled it, staring hungrily at the screen.

It was her Jenna. No mistake.

“You—” Sherilyn looked at Joyce in disbelief, tears trembling on her lashes. Her voice quivered, words tumbling out awkwardly. “How… how did you…?”

But Joyce understood her perfectly.

Standing on the other side of the barrier, Joyce patiently explained, “It wasn’t hard to find her. I asked the police, and they told me where she had been taken.”

Sherilyn’s eyes were swollen and red, her lips trembling. “So Jenna, right now…”

“Don’t worry.” Joyce’s own eyes grew misty with emotion. “She’s staying at a foster home. I’ve visited her—and asked the director to take special care of her. But I haven’t been able to bring her out yet. That’s why…”

Joyce gripped the bars tightly. “You have to stay strong. Once you get out, you’ll be able to take Jenna home.”

“But I…” Sherilyn’s tears fell harder, her voice filled with despair. How could she possibly get out?

“I hurt someone. A white man.”

“Don’t be afraid.” Joyce pointed behind her. “This is Mr. Daniel, your attorney. He’ll handle your case. It was self-defense—it wasn’t your fault. You’ll be okay!”

Attorney?

Sherilyn looked up. For the first time in ages, a flicker of hope disturbed the dead calm in her eyes.

He was white.

Sherilyn’s throat tightened, tears rushing even faster. “Doctor, you…”

She remembered Joyce now. The doctor who had treated her wounds that night, who’d said they came from the same place, who’d draped a coat over her shoulders.

Gilbert sat with fists clenched, the veins standing out sharply on the backs of his hands. His face was ashen, eyes empty and unfocused.

Joyce watched him, thinking to herself how much he resembled Sherilyn back then.

After a long silence, Gilbert finally spoke, looking up at her. “Sherilyn’s illness… did it start back then?”

Joyce nodded, giving the clinical term. “It’s PTSD.”

PTSD. Post-traumatic stress disorder.

Gilbert stiffened, a chill running through him.

He’d never really understood the illness, but he’d heard of it in movies.

“It’s a severe anxiety disorder that follows a traumatic event or extreme emotional shock,” Joyce explained. “Afterward, Sherilyn went through a long period of therapy. She was able to live a normal life, mostly, but she couldn’t handle too much physical closeness.”

She glanced at Gilbert. “Later, when you two got together, I thought maybe she’d recovered.”