With my own hand.

Years ago.

Foreseeing, in some cold professional corner of myself I had not even known was watching him, that a man like Camden might one day need to be stopped, and quietly building the mechanism to stop him, and then forgetting I had done it, until the night he made me remember.

He had spent our whole marriage certain he was the intelligent one.

It is a specific and terrible thing, to watch that certainty die in a man’s face.