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There’s something clarifying about holding a gun on someone, especially when it’s her gun.
“Sydney…” Roger warned, as Eleanor protested, “You know I’m the victim.”
“You admit you just killed a man,” I pointed out. “Forgive me for restricting your movements until the authorities make their own determination as to what happened here. So get on your knees.”
Eleanor slowly lowered to one leg, then both, with the poise of a CEO doing her 2:45 desk yoga. I tossed Roger a set of plastic restraints. He hesitated.
“Roger,” I said, “Addy doesn’t have much time. Do it. And then call it in. For real this time.”
He threaded the plastic cuffs awkwardly, then pulled on Eleanor’s hands to make sure they held. Digging an agent’s card from his wallet, he said, “FDLE,” and paced behind Eleanor.
I w
