Who Put You To Sleep?

To Detective Hawk, the more she examined the scene, the more she felt the whole thing was an accident, an illusion. The ink was spilled, not spilling from her body. She lay slumped, not in a defensive pose. There were no glasses of drink, no tubes for gas, no pills, nothing to suggest foul play. She leaned close to the winged angel, her breath stirring stray ringlets of hair, looking for a mark on her alabaster skin.

Pulling on a glove to preserve the scene, even though her gut told her she didn't need to, she touched the nape of the muse's neck. She felt for bumps, pressing just hard enough to feel the contours in the sinew and bone.

There. An anomaly in the shape of a circle, nearly imperceptible. She pressed it.

The angel gave a small gasp and stirred, first an arm, then a shoulder. She sat up slightly and listened first to the quick, shallow breaths of the Detective. Then she blinked to clear her sight and set her crystalline eyes upon her revivist.

"Who put you to sleep?" breathed Hawk.

"You."