I tried to decipher the way the entries were formatted, too. Each one began with a name, then listed an ingredient—dangerous or not—followed by a date. Some entries included a second name at the end with the designation, on account of. I assumed this meant the first name was the intended recipient of the ingredient, and the second name was the person who actually bought it. So Charlie Turner, for example, was meant to ingest NV tincture—whatever that was—and it was likely purchased by Ms. Apple.

I grabbed a pen and my notebook from the nightstand and jotted down a few things to research later:

Quantities of non-poisons needed to kill

Opium—lozenge?

Tobacco—oil?

NV tincture—what is NV?

I spent the next fifteen or so minutes cross-legged on the bed, furiously writing down questions and words, some familiar, some not. Nightshade. Wasn’t that a plant? Thorn apple. Never heard of it. Wolfsbane. No idea. Drachm, bolus, cerate, yew, elix. I wrote all of it down.

I flipped to another photo and gasped as my eyes fell on a word that I knew, without doubt, to be deadly: arsenic. I wrote it down in my notebook, putting an asterisk next to it. I zoomed farther into the photo, hoping to decipher the rest of the words in the row, when I heard another noise outside.

I froze. It sounded like someone had stopped just in front of the door. I silently cursed whoever it was; didn’t they see the Do Not Disturb sign? But then I heard the keycard slide into the door. Had James returned already? I shoved the phone underneath my pillow.

A moment later, James walked in—and I knew immediately that something was very, very wrong. His face was pale and clammy, his forehead dripping wet, and his hands shook badly.

Instinctively, I stood from the bed and rushed toward him. “Oh, my God,” I said as I approached him; I could smell his sweat and something else, sweet and acidic. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine,” he said, rushing for the bathroom. He leaned over the sink, taking deep breaths. “Must be yesterday’s Italian food.” He looked up to the mirror in front of the sink, making eye contact with me even though I stood behind him. “I’m such a fucking mess, Caroline. First you, and now this. I got sick outside, on the sidewalk,” he said. “I think I just need to get all this out. Would it be okay if—” He paused, swallowing something down. “Would it be okay if I have the room to myself for a bit until this is out of my system?”

I didn’t hesitate for a second. “Of course, yes.” I’d known for years that James hated being sick in front of other people. And, truthfully, I wanted the privacy, too. “You sure you’re okay, though? Do you need juice or anything?”