“You know you need a Michigan driver’s license,” I said to Lucy, grabbing a flavored seltzer from my fridge. “A real one.”

“Hey,” she said defiantly, “if five-oh checks any of the ones I’ve got against their rickety old NDR or NMVTIS databases, they’ll see a model citizen who goes to bed praising Jesus for her virginity and wakes up singing ‘The Star-Spangled Banner.’”

“You need a real one,” I said sternly.

“Whatever.”

Having been the recipient of approximately eight hundred million of Lucy’s “whatevers,” I interpreted her inflection on this particular one as a decisive win for me.

She wanted to talk about Tomás.

I didn’t.

“That bottle of Tylenol PM you’ve got on your bathroom vanity? And the empty bottle in the trash?” she said. “Does that help you sleep?”

“You shouldn’t snoop, Lucy.”

“Yeah, well, just so you know, Sherlock, Tylenol is a liver killer. You need to watch it with that stuff.”

“Thanks for the advice.”

“You want me to smudge your house?” she said. “I know how to smudge. I mean really smudge. Not the colonizer’s tie-dyed-flower-child way. The real way. The Native way. I got some sage sticks and—”

“That’s all right, Lucy,” I said, not quite trusting Lucy to light a botanical fire in my house. “Save the smudging for another time.”

Someone awkwardly, loudly clambered onto my front porch. Instantly, my right hand settled on the handle of my Glock, secured by my belt in the small of my back. Military muscle memory. An ex-cop’s fight-or-flight instincts.

A fist banging on my door.

“Stay there,” I said to Lucy, pointing to the space between my kitchen island and stove.

I brought out my Glock and concealed it by my right thigh before I swung the door open.

A thick pink and purple knit mitten slapped me.

“Nobody breaks up with me via Skype! Nobody!”

Tatina.

11

11

I stood in the doorway slack-jawed for a moment as Tatina—wearing a silver bubble coat, pink and purple knit scarf, black tights and snow-encrusted black knee-high boots—pushed past me, dragging her overstuffed wheeled luggage.

I gathered enough of my senses to close the door behind her and say, “You might want to go home now, Lucy.”

“And miss this?” she said. “No way!”

“Who are you?” Tatina said, pointing an accusatory mitten at Lucy. “Who is she?”

“I’m Lucy. Lucy Three Rivers.” Lucy offered her hand. “Maybe the big dude’s mentioned me?”

“Oh, my God, yes!” Tatina instantly switched from angry, jilted girlfriend to BFF. The women embraced, with Tatina giving the two-cheek continental kiss.

“Holy shit!” Lucy said. “You’re beautiful! I mean, it’s like you’re photoshopped or something—only in real freakin’ life!”