Stanley showed her the next picture. The time stamp was a minute later, 1:17 a.m. In this photo a car was sideways to the camera, backed up to the door of the unit next to 218. The car’s hatch was raised. “That’s your car, isn’t it?”

Emily’s stomach turned over. The car was light-colored, probably white. Clear as day, the Clutter Kickers logo was stenciled on the door. She looked at Stanley. He didn’t say anything, but his eyebrows rose in a question. When she didn’t say anything, either, he slapped another picture on the desk.

“Here you are again.” This photo showed a shadowy figure hunkered down on the far side of the car from the video camera, presumably opening the padlock.

Emily bit her lip.

“But you were home, right? So maybe you were sleepwalking.” Stanley put down another picture. “Because here’s you again, crouched inside your car and pushing something out the back.”

It was a compelling narrative, but the picture didn’t actually support it. Nothing was clear but the side of the car.

“You crawl out the back yourself,” Stanley went on. “Disappear into the unit. Ten minutes later, here you are locking up.” Deliberately he placed another picture down on the desk. This one showed the car’s hatchback shut, and a shadowy someone hunched over the lock again on the far side of the car. But this time, even though the person was facing away from the surveillance camera, Emily could see that her top and pants looked like Emily’s work uniform. A long ponytail hung out the back opening of a baseball cap. “That is you, isn’t it?” Stanley asked.

Emily caught one detail that proved, to her at least, that it wasn’t her. She pointed to the person’s shoes, which were clearly not open-backed Crocs. “That day I’d hurt my foot. I would have been wearing these.” She stuck out her foot for Stanley to see her Crocs.

“You’re saying that’s not you? Not driving your car?” Stanley said. “License plate QVC838?”

Of course Stanley would know her plate number. He’d had her car right there in the police garage for the last twenty-four hours. Frank’s warning was spot-on. They want information and they’ll do whatever they need to do to get it.

“And perhaps you can explain something we found in your car,” Stanley added. “Carpet fibers. I don’t need to remind you that Walter Newell was rolled inside a rug.”

Fibers from that rug? It wasn’t remotely possible. Emily put her elbows on the table and leaned forward, head in her hands. They make things up.

“And by the way,” Stanley said, “about the person who called in the hit-and-run? The witness? We traced the call. It came from Walter Newell’s cell phone.”