A listaholic. That was how I handled all of my litigation. My pet-sitting. My life. But I had no idea how to list a plan of attack to locate Jeff. That night before bed, I sat on Jeff’s white sectional sofa, in his sunken living room, surrounded by sympathetic dogs. Lexie’s head was on my lap, and Odin’s butt abutted my leg on the other side. I held a pad of paper and a pen in my hands, and the news on Jeff’s big-screen TV near the huge stone fireplace was on mute. I’d turned it on in case there was something more about the murder at The Clone Arranger. So what did I have to jot down? Not a lot, yet much too much. A missing lover whose Escalade was located at the bottom of an aqueduct canal. A missing lover whom I really missed. . . . No, Kendra, concentrate on your list, not your possible loss. Okay. Next was a friend of that lover, Lois, who’d been put in touch with me by that lover’s mother, Irene. Irene belonged on the list only peripherally. Lois, on the other hand, seemed of central significance.
