Greer wanted me to stay at her house, and I refused. The last thing I wanted was to be under the same roof with Alex Pennington, especially in a vulnerable state. I couldn’t face going back to the apartment, either, at least not until I was myself again. Too much had happened there, both downstairs and up.

I didn’t want Nick to be there.

I didn’t want Nick not to be there.

It was a lose-lose situation.

Tucker’s place was a rented condo in north Scottsdale. Bethany met us there, with Russell, and immediately went out again, for groceries, with Tucker’s list and a wad of bills in hand.

“Sorry about the mess,” Tucker said, gathering scattered newspapers, empty chip bags and a few stray socks as he spoke. His furniture was worse than mine, and that’s saying something.

I was settled on the couch, numb with sorrow over Lillian. Underneath that was an urgent, revving sensation. I needed to find Geoff before he found me.

A little of the fog cleared. “Is Bert really in Witness Protection?” I asked. “And how’s Sheila?”

Tucker stopped moving, studied me intently for a long moment. I knew he was wondering how much more I could take, and I braced myself.

“Officially,” he said, finally, “Bert is dead. Sheila’s with him.”

“They’re dead?”

“Officially,” Tucker reiterated.

I hoped that meant not-dead. As in, new identities, in new places. I also knew Tucker was never going to tell me the straight-up truth. He couldn’t, unless—

Unless.

“You quit your job?” I asked carefully. Russell climbed up onto the couch and stretched out beside me, resting his big head on my ankles. “You said you were unemployed—”

“Yes,” Tucker said, standing very still. “The custody thing.”

“Right,” I agreed. “So if you’re not a cop anymore, you could tell me the truth about Bert and Sheila.”

“I told you all I could, Moje. Leave it at that, okay?”

I sighed, stroking Russell’s head. Missing Lillian. Missing Chester. Missing the parents I barely remembered. There were so many empty places in my life where loved ones should have been.

“Okay,” I said, and noticed that Tucker’s gaze was resting somberly on Russell.

I tensed. “What?”

“Dogs can be in Witness Protection,” Tucker said.

I felt a mingling of hope and sorrow. Hope because in cop-lingo, “officially dead” doesn’t always mean “really dead,” sorrow because Russell was probably going away.

“Soon?” I asked, and the word came out squeaky-hoarse.

“Yeah,” Tucker said. He leaned down, kissed the top of my head, and vanished into the kitchen.

I ruffled Russell’s ears. “I’m happy for you, bud,” I told him, “but you’re going to leave a big hole when you go.”

Tucker was banging around, probably making tea. There was a certain comfort in his knowing what I needed when things got stressful.

Besides that.