“Sure. He even knew it was going to be a girl. Don’t know, man, but sometimes … Andrew knew stuff. And sometimes he did work for free; he could afford to. So if he wanted to deal with Tika’s family …” Greg shrugged.

“Did he?” D.D. pressed.

“Don’t know. It’s not like we hang out.”

D.D. exchanged a glance with Alex. She could tell what he was thinking. Lightfoot had lied to them about not knowing Tika Solis. He’d also failed to mention that he was engaged in some manner of health-care fraud, billing the state for professional services he wasn’t qualified to render. Made D.D. wonder what other secrets the healer had been keeping.

D.D. turned back to Greg. “Jealous? I mean, here you are, tragic past, mentally ill sister, having to work so hard to scrape by. And there’s Lightfoot. He’s got the looks, the life, the house on the beach. How are you ever gonna compete with a guy like him?”

“Compete?” Greg asked.

“Sure. He tosses you fifty bucks to send him some work, but we all know he’d give you even more if you’d hand over your girlfriend.”

“Excuse me?” Danielle this time.

“Please. The way Lightfoot looks at you,” D.D. drawled. “Like you’re a dessert he wants to gobble up.”

“He only cares about my family history—”

“No he doesn’t.” Greg this time, voice curt.

Danielle turned to him. “What the hell?”

“He wants you. Always has. Anyone can tell by watching him watch you. What I don’t understand is why you don’t want him.”

“Because he’s an asshole?” Danielle offered.

“An asshole with money.”

“You do have issues,” she informed him, eyes blazing.

“Don’t we all.”

“Look, I had one dinner with Andrew, that was enough. Like I’m some commodity for guys to buy and sell.”

“You never had dinner with me,” Greg retorted. “How many times have I asked? One dozen? Two? Three? In your own words, you gave more consideration to the ‘asshole’ than you did to me.”

Danielle flushed. She slunk down in her chair, looked away. “Well, I honestly like you,” she muttered. “That makes a difference.”

“Assholes get dinner. Likable guys get squat.”

“As you said, we’ve all got issues.”

“Well, now I’m an asshole who milks desperate parents for money. Does that mean I can buy you dinner?”

“Excuse me,” D.D. interjected. “Hate to intrude, but forget dinner: Next place Gym Coach here is heading is jail. You knew all the families. You had opportunity to hang Lucy and poison Lightfoot. You’re also obviously familiar with the more deadly uses of strychnine, plus have a history with family annihilations—”

“Technically, no.” Greg interrupted. “I have a family history of patricide. My sister killed my parents. That’s not family annihilation.”

“He’s correct,” Alex spoke up.

D.D. glared at him.