She whipped around. Frank stood in the doorway, dressed in a dark suit—his court clothes. “I didn’t hear you come in.” She checked the time on her screen. One. “What are you doing back?” She snapped her laptop shut.

“Court’s recessed.”

“Didn’t the plaintiff settle?”

Frank waved off the question. “What are you up to?”

“Just messing around.”

“Can I see?” Frank didn’t wait for an answer. He reached past her and opened her laptop. The screen bloomed with the images of the two Photoshopped faces, side by side. Frank drew closer and squinted at the screen. “Who’s that?” Emily felt a surge of triumph. Evidently he thought the two images were the same person.

“It’s supposed to be Walter Newell,” she said.

“That’s the guy who ran into you at the coffee shop?”

Not That’s the dead guy in the storage unit. Or That’s Quinn Newell’s husband. Instead Frank was reminding her that the man in the coffee shop had been Walter Newell, though she was now convinced that he wasn’t.

Emily pretended to ponder the faces. “Doesn’t he look like your visitor from the other night? The man with the pickup truck who—”

“Ryan’s client,” Frank said quickly. Too quickly. “Now that you mention it . . .” He tilted the screen and stared into it. “Nah. This guy looks nothing like him.” He stood. “But where are you going with this? Because you told me you only got a brief glimpse of Walter Newell before his coffee spilled all over you. On top of that, you were a bit . . . more than a bit compromised. I could tell the minute you got home. You were plastered. He ran into you? I’m surprised”—Frank’s tone softened, like this was just between the two of them—“the police haven’t charged you with hit-and-run and driving under the influence.”

Emily recognized one of Frank’s tried-and-true techniques: If a witness gives you a hard time, make him look like a jerk. Still, his comment struck a nerve. She had behaved like a rank amateur, drinking with Quinn Newell. Oversharing. Toasting dead husbands. She’d still been under the influence when she arrived at the Java Connection. And if it had been only that man’s facial appearance, she’d readily admit that she hadn’t gotten a good enough look at him to say whether or not he was the same man who’d arrived in the green truck. But she had not, she reminded herself, Photoshopped a pair of coffee-stained loafers onto the guy’s feet.