In the photo, there are fifteen people clad in white T-shirts with the slogan “The Man With the Plan.” Sullivan had been quoted ad nauseum on television saying, “I've got a plan . . .” During his bid for governor it had always been “I have a plan for this great state” which quickly became “I have a plan for this great nation” during his bid for president. To his credit, he'd had a plan, and he was delivering on all fronts. The economy was the strongest it'd been in eight years, unemployment the lowest in a decade, and every troop had been pulled from the Middle East.

Jessica Renoix and the President are front and center. Jessica is petite and of medium height. Though she must have been barely out of high school, her confident eyes and wry smile speak to a girl who is not naive about the realities of the world. The President is wearing a crisp blue shirt under a black blazer. He towers over her, his right arm draped over her shoulder. There is nothing overtly sexual about the pose, and if anything, the contact appears fatherly. I surmise that any of the other fifteen volunteers could just have easily been in Jessica's place.

I spend the rest of my forty-five minutes in bed, scouring the internet for more information on Jessica Renoix.

I find very little.

…

It's ten minutes into my day when I scroll down to Ray's telephone number and nearly hit the Call button, then decide against it. I want to know more about Jessica Renoix before I talk to the detective.

I log onto the internet and find a company that does background checks. I fill in all the information I have on Jessica Renoix—a six-year-old address and a long out-of-service telephone number—then pay the nearly $200 for the rush job.

“Well, now I guess we just wait,” I say to Lassie, who is lick-eating his breakfast. In forty-eight hours, he has made a near full recovery.

Meow.

“You would think you would care more. This is your mother we're talking about.”

Meow.

“Yes, living with me is awesome, but still.”

Meow.

“Candy? What kind of candy?”

Meow.

“Dude, Twix is a cookie.”

We argue about this for another minute, then I open the door to the balcony and he goes to his mound and takes care of business. The fresh air feels wonderful and I decide I am going running outside.

Goons be damned.

There is a brown box on the kitchen table with an Amazon sticker. It had come two days earlier, but I'd yet to open it.

A minute later, I'm holding the strongest Taser on the market.

I shake it at Lassie. “Next time you go pee-pee on the carpet, zap. Four thousand volts, buddy.”

He laughs.