I had just given birth when my eight-year-old daughter ran into the hospital room, her eyes wide and alert. She closed the curtains, then whispered right against my ear: “Mom… get under the bed. Right now.”

Raina clutched my hand, her fingers trembling. The newborn slept in the bassinet, wrapped in a mint colored blanket, unaware of how the atmosphere in the room had transformed into something tight and breathless. I tried to speak, but Raina gave a tiny shake of her head and pressed a finger to her lips.

Then footsteps entered the room.

Heavy. Slow. Confident in a way that made my heart rattle. The kind of walk that belonged to someone who believed he had every right to be wherever he pleased. The soles scraped lightly against the tile, stopping just beside the bed. Raina squeezed my hand even tighter, her heartbeat fluttering fast beneath her skin.

A shadow stretched across the floor. I angled my head to look, but she covered my mouth and pulled me back against her. Her eyes searched mine with a mixture of terror and determination I had never seen. I knew then that she had seen the person before she ran in, and that whoever stood above us was not supposed to be here.

The mattress dipped as a hand pressed on it from above. I heard slow breathing. Controlled. Measured. The kind of breathing someone used when they wanted to stay calm while doing something dreadful.