He slashes at the netting and the balls spill out, falling to the floor in a mass of jingling bells.

Lassie jumps down, darts toward the blue one. Then stops, darts toward the red one. Stops, yellow. Stops, green. He wants to play with all of them at the same time.

There is a loud crash, the sound of Murdock hitting the side of the doorframe as he tries to enter.

Now I remember why I was waiting to give Lassie the balls until we moved back home.

Murdock.

If they made Lassie crazy. They made Murdock down right psycho.

“Don’t do it,” I tell Murdock.

He ignores me.

Murdock grabs the blue jingle ball in his giant mouth and swallows it.

Then the green.

Then the yellow.

Then the red.

It is what Lassie will forever refer to as the Jingle Ball Massacre.

Murdock leaves as quickly as he came.

Lassie’s jaw is slack.

He looks at me.

Meow.

“I am not going to go ‘Old Yeller’ him.”

He takes a deep breath, then crawls under the bed.

::::

“That’s him,” my dad says. “That’s Jennifer’s brother.”

I look at the images on the computer. Markus Nubers is in the neighborhood of forty, slightly overweight, and balding. According to his LinkedIn profile — side note: I learned my dad has a LinkedIn account, which is odd because he doesn’t have a job — Markus is a father of three and a regional sales representative for an automotive parts conglomerate. He lives in Delaware City, Delaware.

“Have you heard from Ingrid?” I ask. “Did she talk to him yet?”

He shakes his head. “I haven’t heard from her all day.”

“What about Megan? Did you find her?”

“Yeah, but she was much harder to find. She changed her name a couple times, but there was an old photo of her in the newspaper from after Jennifer’s death, and I was able to match it to one of the pictures that came up in a Google images search.”

He clicks on a separate tab on his laptop. It is Megan Nubers’, now Megan Klein’s, Facebook page.

“We aren’t friends so there are only a couple pictures.”

He clicks on her photo.

She is a moderately attractive forty-something woman. Dark brown hair, light brown eyes.

My dad clicks through three more pictures.

No husband.

No kids.

She does have a big fluffy dog.

“I think that is one of those goldendoodles,” my dad said.

“What are you, a breeder now?”

“No,” he laughs. “The neighbors down three houses have one. Doodles. Murdock loves him.”

“Wait, they named their goldendoodle Doodles?”

He nods.

We both give a quick laugh. Once composed, I ask, “Where does Megan live?”

“Somewhere up north. I’m sure Ingrid will have no problem finding her.”

Speaking of Ingrid, I check my phone for any updates.

Nothing.

Not to mention that the President still hadn’t called.

Fricking Putin.