You’ve been hunting Maura Tierney for so long that it has reduced you, like balsamic vinegar boiling, to a potent solution with a vigorous scent. And here she is in La Jolla, eating breakfast in front of you: poached egg and salmon over whole wheat toast.

Explain to her that she should kill you.

Ask her if her gun is loaded.

Tell her to tie you to the subway tracks.

Slide your cell phone across the table, already speed-dialed to the number that will explode the tiny bomb next to your heart.

“No,” she’ll say gently, and watch you sob.