“Henry Bins,” he says. It isn't a question.

My vision is starting to clear. I'm in the back seat of a car. My chest is burning.

I try to speak, but only a cough comes out.

He hands me a Perrier and I take a small sip. A chill courses down my arms.

“Mr. President.”

…

The car light above illuminates Connor Sullivan's face in roughly the same shadow as the streetlamp had two weeks earlier. He is wearing jeans and a University of Dayton sweatshirt. He could be any other guy out for a drive. But he's not. He's the President of the United States.

“Sorry about my guys,” he says. “No harm was supposed to come to you.”

I bring my hand to my chest where I was shocked and know a ruby red burn is in the making.

I nod.

“I know time is of the essence, that for you time is always of the essence, so I will get right to the point. I knew the moment I saw your face in that window that you were going to pose a problem.”

We lock eyes, relive that moment in time.

I think about his words: that you were going to pose a problem. Callie Freig had also posed a problem. And she was dead. So why wasn't I?

“I didn't kill that girl,” he says.

I would have been more apt to believe if he told me he could turn off gravity. That if I dropped the Perrier in my hand, it would float to the ceiling.

I scoff.

“I don't blame you,” he says with a shake of his head. “If I had the information you have, I would have no doubt that I killed that woman. Let's see, you heard a scream, you saw me leaving, you found my cell phone, and you made the connection between me and Jessica Renoix.”

I try not to blink. I wonder if my house is bugged. Or if they know everything I've searched on the internet. Or both.

He takes a breath and says, “I met Jessica six years ago when she volunteered for my reelection campaign.” He whistles. “Still remember the day she walked in. Every male from eighteen to fifty literally stopped and stared. She had that effect.”

“How long did it take for you to start sleeping with her?”

“Not long. A month into the campaign, the lot of us were staying at a hotel. She snuck into my room and, well, I didn't turn her down.”

“I didn't take you for much of a philanderer.” In fact, he reeked of the consummate family man.

“Nothing I'm proud of,” he offers with an upward glance. I'm not sure if he was repenting or checking the roof of the car for tears.

“And you've kept this up for six years?”

“No. It only happened the one time.”

I am confused and must look it.