And the cruelest part of his design was that he’d routed the whole thing through my own money, so that my kindness paid for my poisoning, my love funded my harm.
He wanted me to know that, I think.
He was the kind of man for whom the cruelty wasn’t complete unless it was also ironic.
Chapter 20 — Come to the Warehouse
That afternoon another text came: an address, an abandoned industrial warehouse on the edge of Tucson.
Come alone, it said, if I wanted the files my mother had buried thirty years ago.