“I’m not doing this on tape,” I tell her. “Not yet.”

“Calm down, Michael.” Sitting back, she lets me have my way. The recorder stays off. “I know it’s hard. Just tell your story.”

She’s right. This isn’t the time to lose it. For the second time, I find calm in a deep breath and take solace in the fact that it’s no longer being recorded. “So I’m driving down 16th Street, when I suddenly see a familiar car in front of me. When I take a closer look at it, I realize it belongs to Simon.”

“Edgar Simon-Counsel to the President.”

“Exactly. Now, for whatever reason-maybe it’s the time of night, maybe it’s where we are-as soon as I see him, something doesn’t seem kosher. So I drop back and start to follow.” Detail by detail, I tell her the rest of the story. How Simon pulled over on Rock Creek Parkway. How he got out of his car carrying a manila envelope. How he climbed over the guardrail and disappeared up the embankment. And most important, once he was gone, what I found in the envelope. The only thing I leave out is Nora. And the cops. “When I saw the money, I thought I was going to have a heart attack. You have to imagine it: It’s past midnight, it’s pitch black, and there I am holding my boss’s forty-thousand-dollar payoff. On top of all that, I could swear someone was watching me. It was like they were right over my shoulder. I’m telling you, it was one of the scariest moments of my entire life. But before I went and blew the whistle, I thought I should talk to someone first. That’s why I came to you.”

I wait for a reaction, but she doesn’t give one. Eventually, she asks, “Are you done?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

She leans across the desk and picks up the cassette recorder. Her thumb flicks back and forth against the pause button. Nervous habit.

“So?” I ask. “What d’you think?”

Putting on her glasses, she doesn’t look amused. “It’s an interesting story, Michael. The only problem is, fifteen minutes ago, Edgar Simon was in this office telling me the exact same story about you. In his version, though, you were the one with the money.” She crosses her arms and sits back in her chair. “Now do you want to start over?”

Why would he say that?” I ask, panicking.

“Michael, I don’t know what kind of trouble you’re in, but there’s-”

“I’m not in any trouble,” I insist. My mouth goes dry and nausea washes over me. I can feel it in my stomach. It’s all about to collapse. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about. I swear… it was him. We saw him carrying the-”

“Who’s we?”

“Huh?”

“We. You just said we. Who else was with you, Michael?”

I sit up straight in my seat. “No one was with me. I swear, I was all alone.”

Silence envelops the room and I can feel the weight of her judgment. “You really have balls, y’know that? When Simon came in here, he told me to take it easy on you. He figured you had problems. And what do you do? You lie to my face and blame it on him! On him of all people!”

“Wait a minute… you think I’m making this up?”

“I’m not answering that question.” She brushes her hand against a stack of red file folders. “I’ve already seen the answer.”

In the world of vetting and background checks, a red folder means an FBI file. Instinctively, I check the name on the tab of the top file. Michael Garrick.

My fists tighten. “You pulled my file?”

“Why don’t you tell me about your work on the new Medicaid overhaul-preserving Medicaid for criminals? It looks like a real crusade for you.”

There’s a tone in her voice that stabs like a stick in the eye. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t insult me, Michael. We’ve been through this once before. I know all about him. Still a real proud poppa, huh?”

I shoot out of my seat, barely able to control myself. She’s pushing the wrong buttons. “Leave him alone,” I growl. “He has nothing to do with this.”

“Really? It looks like a clear conflict of interest to me.”

“The only reason I’m on that issue is because Simon put the reference memo on my desk.”

“So you never thought about the fact that your father benefits from the program?”

“He doesn’t get the money; it goes straight to his facility!”

“He benefits, Michael! You can rationalize all you want, but you know it’s true. He’s your father, he’s a criminal, and if the program gets overhauled, he’ll lose his benefits.”

“He’s not a criminal!”

“The moment you got this issue, you should’ve recused yourself. That’s what the Standards of Conduct require and that’s what you neglected to do! It’s just like last time!”

“That was different!”

“The only thing different was that I gave you the benefit of the doubt. Now I know better.”

“So now you think I’m lying about Simon and the money?”

“You know what they say: Like father, like son.”

“Don’t you dare say that! You know nothing about him!”

“Is that what the money was for? Some sort of payout to keep him safe?”

“I wasn’t the one with the money… ”

“I don’t believe you, Michael.”

“Simon was the one who-”

“I said, I don’t believe you.”

“Why the hell won’t you listen?” I shout as my voice booms through the room.

Her answer is simple. “Because I know you’re lying.”

That’s it. I need help. I turn around and head for the door.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

I don’t say a word.

“Don’t walk away from me!” she shouts.

I stop and turn around. “Does that mean you’re going to hear my side of the story?”

Locking her hands together, she drops them on her desk. “I think I’ve already heard everything I need.”

I reach for the door and pull it open.

“If you walk out of here, Michael, I promise you, you’ll regret it!”

It doesn’t slow me down.

“Get back here! Now!”

I step into the hallway and my world goes red. “Drop dead,” I say without turning around.

Ten minutes later, I’m sitting in my office, staring at the small television that rests on the ledge by the window. Every office in the OEOB is wired for cable, but I keep the set locked on channel twenty-five-where the menu for the White House Mess runs endlessly throughout the day.

Soup of the day: French onion.

Yogurt of the day: Oreo.

Sandwich selections: Turkey, roast beef, tuna salad.

One by one, they scroll up the screen; boring white letters against a royal blue background. Right now, it’s about all I can handle.

By the third rerun of the Yogurt of the day, I’ve come up with thirteen unarguable reasons to rip Caroline’s head off. From setting me up, to taking those potshots at my dad-what the hell is wrong with her? She knew what she was doing from the moment I walked in there. Slowly, surely, though, adrenaline fades into a quiet calm. And with that calm comes the realization that unless we have another conversation, Caroline’s going to take Simon’s version of the story and bury me with it.

For the fourth time in ten minutes, I check the toaster and dial Nora’s number. It says she’s in the Residence, but no one picks up. I hang up and dial another two extensions. Trey and Pam are just as hard to find. I beeped both of them as soon as I got back, but neither has checked in.

I scan the digital call log one last time, just to make sure they didn’t call while I was on the line. Nothing. No one’s there. No one but me. That’s what it comes down to. A world of one.

Inside the White House, the heat, vent, and cooling systems keep the air pressure of the mansion higher than normal for one simple reason: If someone attacks with a bio weapon or nerve gas, the poison-filled air will be forced outward, away from the President. Of course, the joke among the staff is that this by definition makes the White House the most high-pressured place to work. Right now, sitting in my office, it’s got nothing to do with air systems.