A small, flat television played in the high corner of the room. Once Odessa realized what she was watching, her chest went cold. It was a report on the funeral of Cary Peters’s wife and children. His own funeral was being held separately. She saw footage of the line of automobiles at the cemetery, a massive outpouring of sympathy and remembrance for the victims. They showed photographs sourced from social media, Mrs. Peters and the children at a water park, at a petting zoo, at a New York Rangers hockey game. Then a familiar photo of just Peters from his days working for the governor. A photograph of their house in Montclair, taken that night, lit starkly by emergency reds and blues of the first responders. And then, without context due to the muted volume, the photo of a young woman with shoulder-length brown hair, wearing a jacket over a white blouse, smiling proudly. Odessa let out an audible gasp when she recognized her own photograph on television: her official FBI identification headshot.

And then back to the news anchor. It wasn’t even a local station, it was CNN. Nationwide. Odessa didn’t know what they were saying about her…and yet, she did.

“You from personnel?”

The voice startled her. Odessa whipped around, expecting it to be somebody at the door.

It was Earl Solomon. He was awake, if he’d ever been asleep. His eyes squinted at her, then widened. Warm and a little yellow.

“No,” she said, short of breath. She checked the television screen but the news had moved on to another story. She looked back at him. “I’m…Odessa Hardwicke. Special agent from New Jersey. Agent…Mr. Solomon?”

“Agent Solomon,” he said. “Earl. Put this up a bit, would you?”

He pointed out the bed controller, and Odessa raised the mattress two feet or so, in order that he could see her better. His lips were dry, his tongue pale. “You want some water?” she asked.

He shook his head. He pursed his lips and looked around as though trying to remember where he was. “New room,” he said.

Odessa nodded. She was still recovering from seeing herself on television. “Uh…are you comfortable?”

“Not so much.”

“You, um…you had a stroke, I’m told.”

“Some plaque got loose in my arteries. Lodged somewhere up in my head, blocked blood to my brain. Knocked me off my feet.” He patted the bed around his waist, smoothing out the top sheet. “Lucky I had my phone on me when I fell.”

“Your voice seems good. Any damage?”

He made a sour face again. “Can’t smell, nor taste. Dull tone in my ears. But if that’s it, I got off pretty easy. They did a scan, found some more plaque around my heart. And a fungus growing. And that’s not good.”

“No,” she said. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“You from New Jersey, huh?”