Cordis Weatherby, the name on the receipt, was her supplier and her accomplice, a man with the access she needed and no conscience to slow him down.

She had been planning my death as a matter of estate management.

For years.

The scale of it was what undid me, kept undoing me, all the way up that mountain.

Because a crime of passion I could almost have understood — a moment of rage, a thing done and regretted.

This was the opposite of passion.