Chapter 11: Six Minutes

I called 911 from the porch, with Rowan beside me, gave the address, and reported it: "Body, study."

Fox Lake belonged to the county sheriff, not the city.

That meant strangers, a drive from Waukegan, and about six minutes of grace.

"Six minutes," I said. "Then it's their room."

"What do I do?"

"You listen. I read it out loud, the way I would for a rookie. You tell me what I'm missing."

He swallowed. "Why?"

"Because you'll be asked, and I want you to have heard the answer first."

We went back in, side by side, our hands in our pockets.

The woman in the chair hadn't moved.

"First," I said. "Her face."

He looked, and flinched, and made himself look again.

"The left cheek is dark," I said. "Purple. So are her left forearm and her left hand.

"That's where her blood settled after her heart stopped."

"So?"

"She's sitting up, and her right side is pale.

"She didn't die sitting. She lay on her left side for six or eight hours before someone put her in this chair."

Rowan's jaw tightened. "They moved her."

"Yes. The gate log wants us to think she died after eleven Thursday, here, in this chair.

"She was already dead by then."

"You said built."

"It's built, Rowan. Look at it."

He looked.

"Second. Which hand did she use?"

He thought. His eyes closed.

"Left. She signed the retainer left-handed. She smudged the ink. She apologized for it."

"The gun is under her right hand. The wound is in her right temple."

"A left-handed woman would use her left."

"Most of them would."

"That isn't proof."

"No. It's a question. A good one." I tilted my head at him. "You're fast."

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