“Hang on,” Becca said. Emily examined the unit, shelf to shelf, while Becca tossed several more books into the box and checked for others. They’d made good progress. About a quarter of the books had been sorted. After that they’d have to do the document tubes—at least it looked as if those were clearly labeled and properly sealed in the first place. And after that, the boxes of assorted building hardware. Was it Emily’s imagination, or did there seem to be fewer of those?

“Here you go.” Becca closed the flaps on the box of discarded books and gave it a shove in Emily’s direction. “Oh, I need to send you the combination to the new padlock.” She sat back down on the ground and picked up her laptop.

“Thanks,” Emily said. But her attention was focused on Mr. Murphy’s dozen or so remaining boxes. Stuck to each of them were green plastic labels, punched with white capital letters. HINGES. KNOBS. BRACKETS. They reminded her of something. Something incongruous that she’d barely noticed at the time.

But before Emily could follow the thought, her cell phone pinged. She’d missed a call and had a voice message waiting. Caller ID read ANA PEREZ. The barista at the Java Connection.

“Catch you later, guys,” Emily said.

Becca waved. Lila, standing on the cinder block, was already pulling down another book. Mrs. Murphy was straightening an array of library pockets. Emily pushed the last box of discarded books across the floor and out to the curb. Then she got in her car and listened to the message.

In a lightly accented voice, “That man. He charged his coffee.” There was a brief pause filled with the background chatter of conversation at the coffee shop. Emily waited for the name she expected, Walter Newell.

Instead, Ana said, “Rafe Bartok.” She spelled the name, and then hung up.

31

WHO IN THE hell was Rafe Bartok? The name sounded like a Las Vegas lion tamer’s nom de guerre or a losing contestant from The Bachelorette. And why had this stranger been waiting for Emily to enter the coffee shop? And had the same man shown up at her house threatening Frank two days later, clean-shaven but still wearing coffee-stained loafers?

Emily typed the name into the Google app on her cell phone. Then she narrowed the search to images. The first photos that came up were of a man in his forties. Thick dark hair. Intense eyes. Emily’s heart skipped a beat. He looked like the man who’d driven the green pickup truck to their house.