"These are threatening messages my sister sent me the night before last, after eleven. And this photo—she slipped it into my pocket three days ago. There's no way she's dead."
The cameras in the reporters' hands flashed without pause.
On the front steps, a gray-haired officer rose slowly to his feet.
He pulled off his gloves and regarded Aileen as she rambled on. Then his gaze drifted to the photo in her hand. His tone was level.
"You're saying you received this message the night before last?"
He walked to the stretcher and folded back one corner of the white sheet, revealing my face—already tinged blue-green.
"The body has begun to decompose. Lividity is fixed and does not blanch under pressure. There is visible discoloration across the abdomen."
"Preliminary estimate places time of death at a minimum of seventy-two hours ago."
Before the words had fully settled, he took the photo from Aileen's hand. His gaze swept between her and her mother.
Each word fell distinct and separate, his voice so calm it made the skin crawl.
"In other words, she died three days ago. Around seven in the evening."
"So tell me—how does someone who's already dead send you threatening messages?"