I leaned over the edge of the bed, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

The phone lay face down on the dark linoleum, just out of my reach.

The door to my room slowly creaked open again.

I looked up, expecting to see Rachel with the tea.

But the hallway behind the door was dark, and the figure standing in the threshold was not Rachel.

The figure stepped into the sliver of light from the hallway.

It was Detective David Sullivan.

He wore his heavy wool overcoat, dusted with light flakes of melting snow.

His face was grim, his eyes fixed on the floor where my phone lay.

He stepped inside and closed the door softly behind him.

The heavy latch clicked into place.

“I saw the light on,” Sullivan said.

He walked over to the bed and knelt down to retrieve my phone.

He wiped a smudge of dust off the screen with his thumb.

“You dropped this,” he said, placing it gently on the tray table.

“Ethan,” I croaked, my throat dry and raw.

I pointed my bandaged hand toward the screen.