While Mat and Lucy scowled at each other, the dog disengaged himself and hoisted his weak body up onto the couch next to the car seat. Nealy was just moving forward to get him away from the baby when he gave Button a doleful look, then covered her from chin to forehead with a long, slow lick.

“Oh, God! He’s licking her face!” Nealy charged forward to push the dog away.

“Stop it!” Lucy cried. “You’re hurting his feelings.”

Button clapped and tried to grab the dog’s ear.

Mat moaned.

“Get him away from her!” Nealy tried to wedge herself between Button and the dog, only to feel Mat slip his arm around her waist and pull her back.

“Where’s that handy cyanide capsule when you need it?”

“Don’t! Let me go! What if he has rabies?” Even as Nealy struggled to get away from Mat, one part of her was thinking about how good it felt being right where she was.

“Calm down, will you? He doesn’t have rabies.”

Mat drew her toward the front of the Winnebago, then let her go so suddenly she nearly fell. She knew he’d just remembered he was manhandling Cornelia Case and not Nell Kelly. She rounded on Lucy. “Get that dog off the couch.”

“I’m going to keep him!”

“Put him in the back!” Mat jammed himself behind the wheel and pulled back onto the highway. “First it was just me. Exactly the way I wanted it! Then I got stuck with two kids. The next thing I know—”

A Greyhound flew past from the opposite direction and water thwacked the windshield. He made a disgusted sound, then flicked on the radio.

“. . . reports from citizens across the country who believe they’ve seen First Lady Cornelia Case—”

Nealy leaned over and snapped it off.

Every surface of the room was covered with knick-knacks. Glass candy dishes sat next to figurines of animals with bows on their heads, which nestled next to ceramic plaques printed with Bible verses. Where was a good earthquake when you needed one? Toni wondered.

“You sure you don’t want some coffee?” The woman that Toni and Jason had driven across two states to question regarded Jason apprehensively. She wore a short-sleeved blue knit pant suit with a rhinestone umbrella pin and white spiked heels.

Jason shook his head, anxious as usual to cut to the chase, and gestured toward a blue velour couch that sat underneath the window in the small second-floor apartment. “Do you mind if we sit down and ask you a few questions?”

“Oh . . . yes . . . no. I mean . . .” She twisted her hands. She’d just returned from church when they’d arrived, and having members of the FBI and Secret Service in her home had clearly undone her. The woman was in her early forties. She had a pudgy moon face, overly permed brown hair, and exquisite porcelain skin.