Alexander Pennington, M.D., was Greer’s husband. He was twenty years older than she was, with a very bitter ex-wife and a creative bent for diagnosis. As in, if the medical facts didn’t jibe with Medicare’s payment schedules, he whittled them to fit.

A chill wafted into my sphere, coming from Greer’s direction. “Alex didn’t ask me to call,” she said stiffly. “Nor did he say anything about the billings. We’re trying to help you, Mojo. Throw a little business your way, since you seem determined never to get a real job.”

I could have pointed out that at least I worked for my money, instead of drawing an allowance from a rich husband, but I didn’t. Greer really pissed me off sometimes, but I considered her my sister, and I loved her. That day in the bus station, Lillian had bought her a meal and a seat next to us on the Greyhound to Las Vegas. Our latest car had just died alongside the highway, but not to worry. When we got to Vegas, Lillian put twenty dollars into a slot machine and won a spiffy subcompact. Greer was as much a part of our strange little family as if she’d been born into it.

I’d been too young to get the big picture, back then. Greer was a runaway and, thus, pimp bait. She’d already done some hooking by the time Lillian took her in, but afterward, she’d been a straight-A student and an all-around good kid.

“Are you still seeing that cop?” Greer asked, when I went too long without saying anything. Greer was uncomfortable with silence. If I didn’t chatter like a magpie, she thought I was mad at her.

“No,” I said, examining the fridge again. There was nothing for it. I was going to have to tap my bank account and spring for a few provisions.

“Good,” she answered. “He might as well still be married.”

No way was I walking into that one. Alex Pennington, M.D., had been married when Greer met him at a country club mixer, where she’d gone to network, hoping to line up some jobs for her interior design firm. Yes, Pennington’s wife had been a raging drunk, but that didn’t excuse the fact that he and Greer had started an affair the same night. Systematically, they’d eased the first Mrs. Pennington right out of the picture, and within a year, Greer took over the title.

“Tucker,” I said, “is not married. He’s divorced.”

“Emotionally, he’s married,” Greer insisted. She sounded so damn self-righteous that I had to bite my lip and remind myself that she’d taken to the big sister role like a pro from the moment we cruised away from that bus station in Idaho. She was devoted to Lillian, too. It was Greer’s signature on the checks covering the nursing home.