Angie ignored the impatience in the surgeon’s gaze. “When the suspect’s family identify her, we need to be informed immediately. She may be visited by an accomplice, so we will have two members of the force stationed outside her room at all times. If her health status changes, we need to be informed. And, if she communicates in any way, verbal or physical, we need to know that, too. Please make sure this is written on her chart—” Dr. Kapur’s pager beeped and she moved as if she was about to dart around Angie.

Angie shifted her weight so that Dr. Kapur could not leave before she was finished. “And do not share any information at all about Jane Doe with the media. The police will be providing updates. She is currently a suspect in a major crime.”

“And a major news story,” Dr. Kapur added. “We have already banned the media from this floor. They were way ahead of you, Detective. Now, I must go.” She pivoted in a neat 180 and hurried away from Angie, checking her pager as she went.

Angie gazed at Jane Doe’s inert form lying behind the glass window. The sheets were tucked neatly around the woman’s upper body. Her upper torso and shoulder were heavily bandaged, presumably from the wound in her chest. Various drips and tubes were hooked up to her wrist, chest, and throat. With her translucent skin, white blond hair, and white bandages, she resembled a ghost.

Ghost in the machine. For surely it was a machine that was keeping this ghost woman’s body going right now.

From the corner of her eye, Angie saw a woman in her fifties bolt out of the elevator and rush toward the nursing station. A man hurried behind her. “We are looking for our daughter. We were told she could be here.” The woman’s voice trembled as she glanced back at her husband. Wind—or anxious fingers—had caused his white-blond hair to stand in soft tufts on his head.

Bingo.

Jane Doe’s family had just arrived.

“We have a patient who was carrying no identification,” the nurse said. “Can you provide any details about your daughter?”

“She is six feet tall, weighs about one-seventy, hair the same color as mine,” the man said, his voice staccato with urgency. “Is she here?”

“Yes.”

Anxiety radiated from the two parents. The nurse gave them a reassuring smile, and asked, “Do you have any I.D.?”

The man pulled out his wallet and showed his driver’s license. The nurse glanced at it, and said, “Mr. Roberts, what is your daughter’s name?”

“Leah,” her mother said. “Leah Roberts.”

The nurse handed Mr. Roberts’ driver’s license back to him. “We will need her health card number and photo I.D. as soon as possible.”

“Can we see her?” Mr. Roberts asked. “Will she be okay? The news reports said she was in critical condition.”