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calling the shots. So don't judge me as if I'm some brainless slut."
    "No judgments."
    Her hands fisted and she stepped closer. "Why'd you have to leave like that? Why were you ashamed of me?"
    As I considered my answer, she gave a knowing smile. "I turned you on and that freaked you out."
    I said, "If you were a stranger, I probably would've stuck around. I left because I was ashamed of myself."
    She smirked. "ProteWy would've stuck around?"
    I didn't answer.
    "But we are strangers," she said. "How can you say we're not?"
    "The fact that you're here—"
    "So what?"
    "Lauren, once you came to me for help, I had a duty to be there for you. Like a surrogate parent. I felt my presence caused you shame too, but it was my own embarrassment that got me out of there."
    "How noble," she said. "Man, you're confused. Like all guys are— Okay, I got what I came for. Now I'm going to pay you."
    "There's nothing to pay for."
    She wagged a finger. "Oh no, you don't. You've got the title and respectability, and in your eyes I'm just some stripper-slut. But once I pay you, the balance of power equalizes."
    "I am not judging you, Lauren."
    "You say." She whipped a wad of cash out of her jeans pocket. "What's the tab, Doc?"
    "Let's talk about—"
    "How much?" she demanded. "What's your hourly fee?"
    I told her. She whistled. "Not too shabby." She peeled off bills, handed them to me. "Okay, here you go, and you don't even have to declare it to the IRS. I'll find my own way out."
    I followed her anyway. When we reached the door, she said, "My roll— that stash I paid you from? Did you see the size of it? That's my tip money, honey. I do great with tips."
    4
    NOW, FOUR YEARS later, I had to talk to her mother.
    Mrs. Jane Abbot.
    So she'd remarried. Was life treating her more kindly? Had the spot on her lung recurred? I was curious but could've lived without finding out.
    Life would be so much easier if I was one of those flakes who felt no obligation to return calls.
    My pompous little speech to Lauren about surrogate parenthood rang in my ears. I put off the call anyway. Revved up the coffee machine, tidied up an already clean kitchen, checked the stores in the pantry. When I returned to the kitchen I discovered I'd forgotten to put coffee in the filter and started from scratch. Listening to the machine bubble offered another few minutes of respite, and when I finally sat down to drink I dropped a little brandy in the mug, took my time sipping, scanned a newspaper I'd already covered from front to back.
    Finally, the inevitable. Staring at the big pine that nearly blocks the kitchen window, I punched numbers.
    Two rings. "Hello?"
    "Mrs. Abbot?"
    "Yes, who's this?"
    "Dr. Delaware."
    Two beats of silence. "I didn't know if you'd phone— Do you remember me?"
    "Lauren's mom."
    "Lauren's mom," she said. "My claim to fame." Her voice broke. "It's Lauren I'm calling about, Dr. Delaware. She's missing. For a week. I know you work with the police. I've seen your name in the papers. Lauren saw it too. That impressed her. She always liked you, you know. It was my husband—my ex-husband—who stopped her from seeing you. He was a very mean man—is a mean man. Lauren hasn't had contact with him in years. But that's neither here nor there — The problem I've got now is I can't find her. She's been living on her own for a while, but this—it just feels wrong. By the third day I called the police, but they say she's an adult and unless there's evidence of a crime there's nothing they can do other than have me come in and file a report. I could tell they weren't taking me seriously. But I know Lauren just wouldn't take off like that. Not without telling me."
    "Does she ever travel?"
    "Occasionally, but not for this long."
    "So you're in regular communication with her," I said, wondering if Lauren was still stripping, and did her mother know.
    Pause. "Yes. Of course. I call her, she calls me. We manage to stay in touch, Dr. Delaware." Adding, "I live in the