While he talked, the pieces on Patton’s side were already coming together. The coroner’s toxicology had come back that morning, and it was not ambiguous: Roderick Benedict’s tissues carried lethal, accumulated concentrations of digoxin, built up steadily over a long period.

Not a single catastrophic dose. Not a pharmacy error. Months of it, patient and deliberate.

By noon, warrants were executed at three locations — the Bethesda mansion, Gareth’s apartment, and the private gym Gareth owned. In the mansion, in a bathroom cabinet and a locked drawer of Demi’s writing desk, technicians found forged prescription pads and a handwritten journal in Demi’s own hand, dated entries logging Roderick’s decline.

On her laptop, the digital forensics team recovered a search history that read like a confession all by itself — queries about cardiac toxicity, about which symptoms mimicked natural heart failure, about probate timelines and the rights of a surviving spouse.

On Gareth’s phone were message threads laying out the plan to liquidate Roderick’s company and relocate to California, and — sent in the days after the will reading — newer ones.

That orderly stole our life, Demi had written. It’s being handled, Gareth had answered.