If he’d said anything, it hadn’t been enough. She’d killed him and his unfortunate neighbor. And she’d thought sorry, no apple pie for anyone.

Sherlock walked carefully around the chalk outlines and sat down in the chair where Storin had waited. Did she know exactly when Dr. Madison was coming home? It turned out not to be long. The ME had said the killings were no longer than thirty minutes apart.

Thirty minutes sitting in that chair. After she shot Dr. Madison in his forehead, did Mr. La Shea hear the shot, come running in? Or had he been standing with Dr. Madison? And she’d shot Madison, then him. No, that didn’t feel right. She didn’t think La Shea was in the kitchen when Storin shot Dr. Madison.

Odd how Storin shot Mrs. Madison in the face rather than the forehead. Why? Because she was pissed off to lose? So many questions that would never be answered.

Sherlock knew the ballistics showed Storin had to have been standing when she shot the men, so Sherlock stood up. The investigating team believed Storin had approached Madison with her gun, the supposedly stolen Walther PPK, held in front of her, tracking through Mrs. Madison’s blood, and shot him up close. And when La Shea had run in, she fired again, both men shot in the center of the forehead. Steady, steady hand. The team thought she’d already taken Mrs. Madison’s jewelry, including her wedding ring, and emptied her jewelry case upstairs, and then she took the men’s wallets and their watches to make it all look like a robbery. Then she ran from the kitchen out through the side door, mixing up the bloody footprints, took off her shoes, and left the house. The side door, the team believed, because Storin wouldn’t take the chance of going through the front door and being seen. She’d dumped her shoes, her clothes, in case there was blood splatter, and of course the Walther.

The ME determined she’d shot the two men from no more than four or five feet away, any closer and there’d have been gunpowder residue. But that wasn’t right. Sherlock looked back at the chair. It stood at least twelve feet from the chalk outlines showing where the men’s bodies had fallen. Sherlock sat again in the chair, willed the scene to come clear. Storin heard Madison, and she stood up. But she hadn’t moved toward Madison. The jumble of bloody footprints came later.

You stood up and shot them, Angela, which means you’re a very fine shot. Twelve feet away and you shot both men in the forehead. With a handgun. You’re beyond good, you’re excellent.

Sherlock dialed Kelly. “You told me Storin denied she’d shot the Walther, right?”