Chapter 4

I took the mouthful. I held it under my tongue like a secret, smiled at him over the rim, and said, "Mm. Perfect." Then I carried the mug upstairs, locked the bathroom door, and spat sixty milliliters of my own murder into a specimen vial. I rinsed. I swallowed two Prussian blue capsules dry. I sat down on the cold tile with my back against the tub and let my heart do whatever it needed to do for ninety seconds. Then I labeled the vial, photographed it beside that morning's newspaper, and...