Jordan ran her hand over her hair, fingertips gently skimming over the bandage fixed to the back of her head. She was surrounded by shadows. She had hoped after a long rest her sight would return.

But the shadows did not brighten; if anything they had thickened. Her hands curled into fists, and panic-fueled adrenaline shot through her body as she stared into the darkness.

Rogan had taught her years ago to meditate when she felt off kilter and panicked. She began to breathe. Two-second inhales. Four-second exhales. Her heart slowed, and a fragile sense of control returned. Better.

As she exhaled, something in the corner of her room shifted. Adrenaline rushed her system again, scorching through her. She sat, her hand automatically fumbling for the service weapon that should have been in her nightstand. But this was not her room. It was the hospital.

“Who’s there?” she asked.

Silence slithered around in the dark corner.

“I know you’re there. I can feel you.” She rooted through her sheets for the nurse’s call button. The control panel was large and cumbersome and had multiple buttons that also controlled the pitch of the bed and the volume on the television. Which one summoned the nurse?

She could feel the gaze leveling on her. And then footsteps sounded quietly on the tile floor. The air shifted and a presence approached the bed. Whoever was there was not worried about trespassing. Or stalking.

She randomly pushed the buttons on the universal remote. The television turned on. The volume went up. Then down.

“Don’t be upset.” Harold Sunday’s voice reverberated from the edge of her bed.

“What are you doing here?”

“Came to see how you were doing? I was concerned.”

She sat, her heart beating, scanning the darkness with her ears. The early afternoon news blared loudly. “Get out of my room.”

“There’s the detective I know and love,” he said smoothly.

“Get out!”

“Have a good day, Detective,” he said.

The curtain blocking her open door shifted, and his footsteps feathered into the noise from the hallway.

She sat up in her bed, her brain hammering in her skull, her heart racing as she struggled to control her fury and fear.

“Detective Poe, what’s wrong?” The voice was female. There were hints of annoyance. “What’s going on?”

“Who is this?”

“Your afternoon nurse, Gina.”

“Gina, there was a man in my room. His name is Harold Sunday,” Jordan said.

“He said he was your friend.” Gina pulled the controller from her hands and turned off the television.

“He is not my friend,” Jordan said. “Never let him in here again.”

“Of course.”

“I don’t want any visitors unless the hospital staff announces them, understood?” The streets had taught her long ago to listen to her gut. And her gut told her Harold Sunday had not come here out of the goodness of his heart.