Panic in her voice made me want to back down. But that might scare her more. “I’m doing research— ”

“Is this . . . is this some kind of rip-off?”

“No, I really am a psychol— ”

“What research? What are you talking about?”

“I’m sorry if— ”

“What research?”

“The stresses of foster care.”

Silence.

“I consult to the police and a young woman who was cared for by the same people who cared for you was found— ”

“Cared for? Is that what you said? Cared for? What’s your name?”

I told her.

Scratching sounds; copying it down.

“Ms. Scog— ”

“You shouldn’t be calling me. This is wrong.”

Click.

* * *

I sat there feeling dirty. Plenty of time to drop in on Allison now, but I was in no mood to be social. Logging onto my med school computer account, I ran an Ovid search on suicide and foster care, found no objective studies, only suggestions that kids taken out of their homes were at risk for all kinds of problems.

Gee thanks, academia.

I thought of calling Beth Scoggins back. Couldn’t see any way that wouldn’t make things worse. Maybe tomorrow. Or the day after. Give her time to consider . . .

By eight I was starting to feel the need to eat. Not hunger, more like an obligation to keep my blood sugar up. Maybe I’d be useful to someone.

As I was contemplating canned soup versus tuna, Robin called.

The sound of her voice tightened my scalp.

“Hey,” I said. Eloquent.

“Am I interrupting something?”

“Not at all.”

“Okay,” she said. “There’s no easy way to tell you this, Alex, but I felt it was the right thing to do. Spike’s not doing so great.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Age. He’s got arthritis in his hind legs— you remember the left one was always a little dysplastic? Now it’s really weak. Also, his thyroid function’s low and his energy level’s flagging, I have to put medicine in his eyes, and his night vision’s just about gone. All the other tests are normal except for a slight enlargement of his heart. The vet says it’s understandable, given his age. For a Frenchie, he’s a real old guy.”

The last time I’d seen Spike, he’d hurled his twenty-six pounds three feet in the air and come down insouciant. “Poor little guy.”

“He’s not the same dog you’d remember, Alex. Lies around most of the day and he’s gotten pretty passive. With everyone, even strange men.”

“That’s a switch.”

“I just thought you should know. He’s getting good care, but . . . no buts. That’s it. I thought you should know.”

“Appreciate it,” I said. “Glad you found a good vet up there.”

“I’m talking about Dr. Rich.”

“You’re back in L.A.?”

“Have been,” she said. “For a month.”

“Permanently?”