Disclaimer: Don't own a one of them….obviously. Wish I did….but alas, I don't, despite repeated phone calls to Tim Kring to see if he would like to sell them…

For once solitude was just what this doctor ordered….

It had been a long day…a long, tiring two days, as a matter of fact. She had just pulled the double from hell…And now, thank God, it's over, Jordan thought as she entered the elevator to go down to parking garage and get into her El Camino to go back to her apartment. For once, she was glad she was all by herself…for once, she was glad she didn't have anyone waiting at home…she could go to her apartment, get herself a beer from the refrigerator, sink into a hot bubble bath, and hit the bed – as early as she wanted to. With no one else to worry about but herself. For once, being alone, didn't sound quite so lonely.

She stepped out of the elevator and began to walk over to her truck. Suddenly, she stopped. She could have sworn she heard footsteps behind her. Turning around, she saw nothing. Cautiously, she opened her car door, got inside, and locked it back. Then she saw him…standing across the garage…a man with sandy, brown hair, staring at her from behind one of the columns. So that's who she heard. Figuring it was another city worker looking for his car, she shrugged and backed her truck out of the garage and headed home. Sleep never sounded sweeter to her


"Cavanaugh," she said into her cell phone, meanwhile silently congratulating herself on finding it successfully out of a dead sleep. There was no answer on the other end.

"Cavanaugh," she said again, this time a little louder, thinking the person on the other end didn't hear her…maybe there was a bad connection. Still silence answered her back.

"Cavanaugh," she said, one more time…her patience wearing thin. "If you had the guts to call at 3 a.m., at least have the guts to answer me."

The response was only quiet laughter and then the line went dead. Jordan shook her head and chalked it up to some teenage prank…teenagers somewhere dialing random numbers and they just happened to hit upon hers. Rolling over, she went back to sleep, determined not to let this event rattle her, or her much needed rest. She put it completely out of her mind. The next morning, she barely thought about the incident.

As a matter of fact, it didn't surface again in her consciousness until several days later, when she was going back to her El Camino in the parking deck and felt she was being watched. Shifting her purse to her other shoulder, she looked around, but saw no one. But still, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched. She could feel someone's eyes following her. Looking around and assessing the situation, she saw no one. She got in her vehicle and backed it out of her parking place…only to catch a quick glimpse of that same man with the sandy, brown hair. I must be going nuts, she thought. This is the second time I've seen him…and he's getting in his car. He's obviously works somewhere around here, since he uses the same parking deck. But still, she made a mental note to check his vehicle tomorrow and see if there was a parking sticker on the bumper…to validate that the car did indeed belong in the deck.

The next morning, she couldn't find his car – a blue, late model, Ford sedan. Maybe his wife, girlfriend, or partner works here and he just visits. I've got to get a grip…I can't let my mind play tricks on me like this….She hadn't been the same since her apartment had been broken into six months ago…she had tried, but she wasn't. She knew that robberies often left their victims feeling vulnerable…and violated. In truth, she had felt both, but had worked her way through those feelings.

She feared the feelings that were left were more paranoia on her part. Her mother's locket had been taken during the robbery….a fact she had tried to somehow link to her mother's murder -- unsuccessfully. Woody had disproved that idea. But still the notion that someone had invaded her personal space…rummaged through her things….took one of her few valuables – but the one that no one could put a price on – rankled her already sensitive nerves.

Jordan had been working hard on herself, trying to find a peace inside her soul. A task that was hard for her to accomplish. She had spent a large part of the past ten years trying to find her mother's murderer. She had only recently accepted the fact that she may never find him…or discover the truth behind the murder. But the search for both had torn her relationships apart. Her working relationship with Garret and Nigel was good. Her personal relationships with both men were at an all time low. She and her father were barely talking. She and Woody weren't.

So she attributed the feeling that she was being watched…coupled with the odd, early phone call, to her overworked sense of paranoia that had mushroomed in size since her apartment had been broken into. Everything is fine, she kept telling herself. Over and over.

And the mantra worked until a week later when she received a card in the mail that arrived at the morgue. It was simple card…one with flowers on the outside…but had no verse on the inside. It simply said, in coarse, almost first-grade-style, block letters, I think you're pretty. It wasn't signed.

Nigel had watched her open the card. Emmy had handed it to Jordan while he was in her office going over some ballistics with her. He had read the sentiment over her shoulder. "How sweet," he said. "Jordan has a secret admirer. Any clue who he might be, love?"

Nervously, she chewed her bottom lip. "No. No, I don't. It's probably just another prank, anyway." She shoved the card in her desk drawer and went back to discussing the ballistics with Nigel. The card was never mentioned by her again to him. But when he had left, she shut her door and pulled the card out again. No return address. It had been postmarked from the main Boston post office, so it could have come from anywhere. For a split second, she thought about dusting it for prints. No. That's just going to feed into my paranoia. This has got to stop…I've got to make it stop. I'm not going to do it. She resolutely threw into the back of her bottom desk file drawer, determined to forget it.