No. No sidebars! This wasn’t some corporate lawsuit with damages and legal expenses hanging in the balance. This was their life. But Emily feigned indifference and followed her officer to another small, windowless interview room farther along the corridor. Before she stepped inside, she glanced back to where Frank and Ryan were huddled.

Emily entered the interview room and took a seat at the table. Frank joined her, closing the door behind him. He paced the few steps that he could. Up and back. Pent-up anxiety. Emily kept seeing Quinn’s glasses-masked, emotionless face as she’d gazed out at Emily. Ryan’s sidebar repeated itself in her head like a record scratch. What kind of sidebar had Frank and Ryan needed? Were they circling the wagons? Or maybe strategizing, since they could soon find themselves defending opposing clients?

“What were you and Ryan—” Emily began.

Frank shushed her, raising his eyebrows in the direction of a mirror that was installed on the wall facing them. Probably two-way glass. “Remember, they’re watching and listening,” he said under his breath.

“That’s sturdy and nice-looking,” announced a woman’s voice, “and thirty years ago you might have found a buyer.” It took Emily a moment to recognize the voice as her own, another moment to realize that it was coming from a small speaker that sat on the table. “But these days, it’s what people refer to as . . . ‘brown furniture.’ Frankly, it’s hard to give away. But there’d be a ready buyer for that kitchen set if you put it out at a yard sale.”

“What is this bullshit?” Frank said.

Emily stared at the speaker in disbelief and horror. This bullshit was the conversation she and Quinn had had on the night they’d first met, a conversation fueled by far too much prosecco. Quinn had recorded it?

“Oh goody.” Quinn’s voice. “A yard sale! And let’s not invite Wally.” Her throaty laugh.

“Or you could donate.” Emily. “There’s a ton of charities and you’d get a tax deduction. I can find one that will pick up.”

“What I really should do is stuff all of my old shit down Wally’s goddamned—” Silence for a few moments. “Think there are any charities that will come over and pick him up? Or maybe he’s just another worthless piece of—what did you call it?—brown furniture. Maybe I should just chuck him off the roof instead.”

The laughter that followed was Emily’s. Had she really found that so hilarious? Frank sank down into the chair beside her as the laughter continued and Quinn joined in. Cackling and hooting. Frank stared at Emily, disbelief in his eyes. Emily wanted to crawl under the table.