Elena’s pager had not gone off. The monitors at the nurses’ station showed nothing unusual. But something in Janet’s voice—a flat, unshakable certainty—made Elena turn and walk the twenty-three steps to room 408.

Janet turned her head slowly. Her eyes were not the eyes of a sedated stroke patient. They were dry, clear, and focused with an intensity that made Elena’s chest tighten.

“The dead don’t keep secrets, doctor,” Janet Mason said. “The living do. I’m just tired of being the mailbox.”

When Elena returned to the corridor, Janet Mason was gone. Room 412 was empty except for the cut braid and the bed, which had not been slept in. The sheets were folded at the foot, hospital corners intact.

Janet Mason was seventy-three years old. Retired librarian. Widow of eleven months. No known family. And until six hours ago, she had been sedated in room 412, recovering from a mild stroke that should have left her weak, disoriented, and immobile.

They got her back. Barely.

That was the first thought that crossed Dr. Elena Voss’s mind when she saw Janet Mason standing at the end of the hospital corridor, barefoot, wearing a nightgown spotted with something dark. It was 2:47 a.m. The floor was sealed for deep cleaning. Security had been notified of a lockdown on the pediatric wing.