I had studied the photograph inside it hundreds of times in my office, but this morning I stared at it again for a different purpose. The overhead shot of Amanda Quillian on a steel gurney had been taken at the morgue, shortly before her autopsy was performed eight months ago. Circular bruises were clustered on her throat, and crescent-shaped abrasions ringed the discolored areas of her skin, outlining the exact place where someone had ended her life by crushing her neck with his hands. “Loneliest seat in town. Prosecutor in a domestic standing up before twelve good men and true — plus a few whacky broads mixed in — with a wee bit of circumstantial evidence, a snitch with a rap sheet longer than a roll of toilet paper, and no idea who actually squeezed the breath out of the late, lovely Mrs. Quillian.” I looked up at the sound of Mike Chapman’s voice. “I didn’t hear the door open. Is it unlocked already?” Mike’s smile was readiest at any chance to tease me. He brushed back his dark hair from his broad forehead, even his eyes laughing as he shook his head while reminding me of the uphill struggle that was about to unfold at trial.
