Emily ran to the door, hoping to catch Lila, but her car was gone. She considered calling, but she knew her mother never answered her phone when she was driving. Instead she sent a text that she hoped Lila would understand:

It’s a woman’s coat. Let Becca know.

33

EMILY PULLED INTO the parking lot across from East Hartwell’s fitness center thirty minutes before Quinn’s eleven o’clock yoga class was scheduled to start. Quinn’s Miata wasn’t there yet. Emily parked and waited, watching as the lot filled and women in leggings and carrying yoga mats got out of their cars and made their way across the street. At eleven, Emily was about to give up when Quinn’s Miata pulled in. As Quinn raced from her car to the fitness center, Emily headed for Quinn’s house.

Mandarin Cliffs felt deserted. Few cars were parked in front of the houses. No children played in what would have made an excellent street hockey or basketball court. Signs sprouted in front yards proclaiming the security systems that protected the homes.

Emily made a U-turn in the mouth of the cul-de-sac and parked facing out, leaving the car door unlocked in case she needed to make a quick exit. She’d get in and out, staying just long enough to ascertain whether Husband #1’s treasures were on Husband #2’s walls.

With her gear bag over her shoulder, she rang the bell, making sure no one was home. Then she crossed the lawn to the garage, took out the controller that Quinn had given her, and pressed the button. One of the garage’s two double doors rose and folded back, revealing the empty bays where Quinn and her husband’s cars were usually parked.

Emily entered the garage. It smelled of car wax and leather, plus the residual musky smell of whatever dealers used to permanently perfume the interior of luxury cars. Off to the side, in the pair of bays behind the still-closed garage door, sat the pile of possessions that Quinn had said she was ready to deep-six.

Emily heard a plaintive cat’s meow coming from the kitchen. She closed the garage door and let herself into the house. The calico cat greeted her, rubbing its head against her leg. Emily resisted the urge to pick up the cat and give it a nuzzle. She didn’t have much time before Quinn could be back.

An open package of English muffins sat on the counter. In a shallow cobalt-blue glass bowl lay a loaded key ring that had probably been Wally’s. Beside the bowl was a brochure from Dunmeyer and Wellington Funeral Home, touting “Professional Services with Personal Care.”