An odd name, she thought, “conversation room”—it just seemed so peaceful for a place of such emotional and mental unrest. Her visitor’s tag hung haphazardly on her leather jacket. She stood with folded arms listening to pages for so-and-so doctor, blue, yellow, red codes—extraneous considerations equaling that of elevator music. Megan was cold. Chilled to the bone, actually, but she wouldn’t display any vulnerability. With each breath she visualized a brick wall surrounding her, her personal castle without a moat. No one crossed, no one entered, not anymore. Not ever again. A killer had entered her private world. Only one person could give her answers, and it was the man who was being escorted by two orderlies and one fully armed guard. Her gut told her someone as sick, as heinous as he was, could give her a glimpse into the killer she now tracked. The atmosphere of the room seemed to change as the man entered, as if the universe could accommodate only so much evil, leaving Megan to defend and honor the remaining miniscule space for justice.
