My chest seized. The breath left my lungs in a sharp, jagged gasp that burned my throat.
“My father…” The word shattered on my tongue. “My father was eighty-one years old. He had a pacemaker. He had a weak valve. You’re telling me someone poisoned him?”
“We’re not telling you someone poisoned him, Eleanor,” Callahan replied, sliding a glossy eight-by-ten crime-scene photograph across the table.
The image showed the small mahogany table beside my father’s reading chair in his library. Resting upon a silver coaster was the porcelain cup I had bought him in Kyoto three summers ago. Beside the cup sat his daily pill organizer.