“I’m telling you, it’s a mistake.” Frank squeezed her arm. “You’ll say something. You’ll react. You won’t be able to help yourself, and then they’ll twist it. This is the typical kind of bullshit they pull. For all you know, there are no pictures. It’s nothing but a ploy to get you alone.”

“We have pictures,” Stanley said. “Mr. Harlow, your wife’s a grown-up. She can see what’s on the tape and judge for herself. Though I have to wonder why you’re so adamant that she shouldn’t.” He gave a little salute, tugged up his belt, and strutted off.

Frank rolled his eyes at Emily as if to say, Told you so. He dropped her arm and opened the door of her car.

Emily glanced back. Stanley stood waiting, silhouetted in the stairwell doorway.

“Get in!” Frank said, gesturing for Emily to get in the car.

How long had they been married, and still he hadn’t learned that ordering her around in that tone of voice was counterproductive? Why not look at the surveillance video? She could keep her mouth shut. Emily bumped the car door shut with her hip.

As she walked toward the stairwell, Frank called after her, “Emily, don’t. This is not a good idea.”

She turned back. “I get that. And it’s also not a game. I appreciate that you’re trying to protect me, but I need to see what they have.”

“Okay, okay. Go.” Frank shook his head. “But don’t say anything. Understood?”

The advice was for her own good, Emily told herself. But a smart detective, and she had no doubt that Stanley was good at his job, observed as well as listened. She’d have to watch what she did as well as what she said. When she reached Stanley, she forced a polite smile and then followed him up the stairs.

26

SERGEANT STANLEY LED Emily to an office. It was a bare, functional space containing a desk and a pair of file cabinets, with a window overlooking the parking lot. He waited for Emily to sit across the desk from him. Then he pulled out a folder, set it on the table, and opened it. Inside was a stack of photos. The one on top was a grainy black-and-white shot. It showed an alleyway lined with storage units. Painted in white on the driveway of the closest unit was the number 218.

Stanley tapped the time stamp at the bottom of the frame. The picture had been taken at 1:16 a.m., hours after Emily had conked out after much too much wine and a soothing cup of hot chocolate. “See that?” Stanley said. He indicated a dark shadow with two pinpoints of light that, on closer inspection, looked like parking lights of a car facing the camera.