I scan the document, picking out the words that have brought me to this moment: “Inappropriate behavior reported by two colleagues . . . a failure to embrace the company’s code of conduct despite diversity and sensitivity training . . .”

“This is a load of bullshit,” I say.

“I’m sorry, Adam,” Tricia says, “but I’m going to need your laptop and your badge.”

“If this is about Colin’s bachelor party,” I say, “I had nothing to do with that blow-up doll he left in my office as a supposed thank-you. I deflated it and got it out of there pronto.”

Colin was a douche.

I can see by the look on Tricia’s face that she has no idea what I am talking about. This wasn’t about a blow-up doll, inflated or not.

Just then I notice uniformed security outside her door.

“This is fucking unfair,” I say. “Insanity!”

Tricia ignores what I’m saying. “The company wants you to acknowledge that you’ve read this,” she goes on. “Failure to do so will forfeit the six months’ severance we’re offering.”

“I won’t sign anything,” I tell her, ripping off my badge and dropping my laptop bag to the floor with a thud. “I didn’t do anything!”

Jerk speaks up. “Sign it or not. Up to you.”

I am so irate I feel like punching out that guy’s lights. I’m not very fond of Tricia at the moment, either. God, I thought we were friends. I told her that her kid was cute when he looked like a mutant Wookiee when he was born. Carrie turned me in. She’ll pay for this. Big-time.

Goddamn her. Goddamn all of them. Sophie’s death brought all of this on. Damn her too.

The security officer follows me out to the parking lot. I don’t say a word as we walk across the sticky asphalt. All I can think about is that the thing that I loved more than anything in the world is gone.

That night, while Aubrey sleeps, I drink Maker’s and dig through the computer that Sophie and I shared before we abandoned it in favor of our phones for everything. I find the photo I’m seeking. I have to admit that I kept it not because Carrie was particularly hot, though she kind of was, but because I knew someday that I could use it. At the time there wasn’t a term for it. Now, I know, I’m about to engage in a little revenge porn.

I go to Facebook and type:

Damn it! I’ve been hacked! If you see some posts, they aren’t from me. Seriously pissed off!