“She graduated from Ohio State in the winter, then moved out here four months ago. She might have met the President in Ohio somewhere, but we'd never be able to prove it.”

“What about friends and family? Ask them.”

“No family to speak of. As far as friends, we can't locate any.”

“But you have her cell phone records.”

“Sure do. She called and received calls from all of one number. And that number is now disconnected.”

“That's odd.”

“Very. This could easily be how she communicated with the President, but the cell company couldn't get a report on the number. We'd need a warrant to dig any deeper and since my ass is still stinging, I'm not doing anything that could come back on me.”

“So it's done. The President gets away with murder.”

“For now.” She pauses. “Yes.”

I hang up.

Three minutes later, my feet are pounding the cold Alexandria asphalt.

I dig a moat around my mind, fill it with alligators, and place a thousand archers on the turrets of my cerebrum, but I am unable to defend my thoughts. They are dominated by Connor Sullivan, Callie Freig, and the white noise of injustice.

I do not have a temper. I don't have time for anger. But my insides are engulfed in blue flames.

The car pulls to the curb. Doors open. Men jump out.

I cut left into an alley.

I think about what Ray said, that the only thing tying him to the scene is you and the phone, but the phone is no longer in our possession.

I am the only connection.

If I'm dead, no connection.

My pursuers are ten strides behind me. I run a quarter mile, knock over two trashcans and exit the alley. Headlights flash at me. I cut right and sprint three blocks, then take a left onto a side street that leads to the Potomac. I can feel the headlights on my back, singeing as they grow closer and closer. I can hear the river. I hit the concrete embankment and turn. Both cars have skidded to a halt. The doors fly open and four men leap out. I gaze down at the moving water twenty feet below.

I jump.

The water is cold, but I'm not in it. I am in a large drainage pipe that opens into the Potomac.

Gross, I know.

The pipe is impossible to see from the high embankment and I only know it's there because I'd jumped in the river once on a self-dare and crawled out just below it. It is roughly four feet high and I crouch down and wait.

I check my phone.

3:46 a.m.

Two minutes later, I hear wheels squeal on the asphalt.

I wait another minute, then climb out and scale the embankment. My pursuers are gone.

I have dual concerns as I start sprinting back: can I make the two-and-a-half-mile trek in time, and are those dickheads still out there looking for me?