And then there were the comments. Every few minutes, more people weighed in. Some thought that whoever’d done this to Craig Pierce, an act described as everything from despicable to worthy of a Nobel prize, should be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. Others lauded him, called him the best kind of vigilante, a hero who was stepping in to do what was right when the courts had failed to live up to their obligations.

One person went to so far as to compare him to Batman, even though Batman was not known particularly for using a dog to bite off a bad guy’s junk.

Cory even went on the site himself and left a comment, saying that whoever this guy was, he was terrific.

When he was at home, up in his bedroom, his father down the hall, he had to keep a lid on his enthusiasm during his repeated checks of the site. But when he was at Dolly’s place, he was uncontrolled in his excitement, letting out whoops of delight as he sat in front of her computer.

“Look at this!” he’d cry, calling her again and again to look at the screen. “Look what they’re saying!”

She wasn’t always as excited about it as he was, and that troubled him some. But after all, he was the mastermind of this operation. It made sense that the enthusiasm levels were somewhat lopsided.

Even though his name never appeared—and a good thing too—he reveled in the attention. He wished there were some way to tell the world with impunity that he was the one responsible.

Very quickly, the online adulation became addictive. As the comments began to wane in the weeks following the attack on Craig Pierce, Cory became agitated and restless. He needed to keep the interest alive, to maintain the debate. Praise or condemnation, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that the world was talking about him.

So he started to think about his next project.

How he wanted to rub the noses of his goddamn brother and his goddamn sister in it.

How Daddy loved them. So fucking proud.

There was Caitlin over in Europe, helping those people who’d fled Syria with little more than the clothes on their back, taking perilous boat journeys, half of them drowning. That little kid on the beach. One night, Cory and his father were watching CNN when a story came on about the refugees. They were literally walking out of the water, their boat having gone down about a hundred feet offshore, carrying babies in their arms, everyone crying and screaming. There were aid workers on the beach, waiting for them. Doctors and care workers and all that shit, and suddenly Alastair pointed to the screen and shouted, “It’s Caitlin! Look, it’s Caitlin! It’s your sister!”