“27 MINUTES.”
That was written more than a dozen times, most with accompanied arrows pointing at the caption of a newspaper article from the fire.
“First on scene was Dr.Eugene Reeves’s daughter, Ivy Reeves.”
Another: the date of the fire. Three years ago, to the day. The location.
“Detective Ryan?”
“Delaney, I need you to come here. Document everything.”
“What? Where?”
Vaughn gave Delaney Tristan’s address. Repeated it twice, got him to say it back just to be sure. He didn’t plan on being there when the cop arrived.
Vaughn ran out of the house.
With all of the shit pasted to the back wall, Vaughn hadn’t thought of looking behind him. If he had, he would have seen the small camera in the upper right-hand corner of the room, aimed directly at the door.
Would have seen the red indicator light glowing brightly.?
?Chapter 74
The math wassimple: with three doors, the probability of the car being behind the initial door that you choose is one-third. The probability of it being behind one of the other two doors is two-thirds. When, in the show, Monty Hall opens one door, one of the two you didn’t select, revealing a goat, the odds change. The door that you selected still has a one-third chance of containing the car. The remaining door, however, has a two-thirds chance.
From a statistical perspective, you shouldalwayschange doors when Monty asks. But this wasn’t a game show, and they weren’t talking about goats and cars.
They were talking about people.
“I don’t want to choose,” Ivy said.
“If you don’t choose, they all die.” The voice sounded almost bored now. Repeating the same thing over and over again.
“I’m not picking. I’m not.”
“Thenyoudie.”
“Why the fuck are you doing this?”
“Because of twenty-seven minutes!”
Twenty-seven minutes? What the hell was he talking about?
Ivy thought of Dr.Moorehead and the note. The riddle.
“Twenty-seven minutes... the time that I had to save Dr.Moorehead.”
“Twenty-seven minutes,” the voice repeated, calm now, “was also the amount of time you spent in this house before calling 911.”
Ivy squinted. Her brain worked.
“I know he called you, Ivy—I managed to get a record of your cell logs. Eugene called you at 9:52 p.m. Your cell phone signal pinged six miles away. Credit card statements confirm that you paid for your meal at Osaka’s Sushi at 9:58 p.m. There was no traffic at that hour. Even if you were driving slowly, which I doubt you were, the drive takes at most twelve minutes. That brings us to 10:10. Except you didn’t place the 911 call until 10:37. Twenty-seven minutes, Ivy!”
She was again transported back to that night. First the call, her father’s ominous message. Then arriving on the scene, running into the burning building. Finding both men inside, charred, burnt. Ivy fought back tears.
“I know what you did.”
No—no you don’t. You have no idea.
