“I need a search warrant,” she said into the phone, “for Luca Vance’s compounding facility and his personal vehicle.

Effective immediately.” And I thought, listening to her: four months.

He had acquired the means four months ago.

This was not a crime of passion, not a sudden snap.

He had been building it, patiently, quietly, for a third of a year — securing his access to the one substance that could kill his wife, while sitting across from her at dinner every night, while drinking scotch with me on Tuesdays.

The patience of it was the most frightening part.