Emily zoomed in. Even with crappy resolution, the maps looked identical. One old and one new? She remembered what her mother had told her about printing a forgery of an old map onto old paper using digital technology so advanced that even experts were fooled.

“What? What did you get?” Frank said.

Emily clicked back, then ahead again. Mrs. Murphy hadn’t been opening the tube. She’d been closing it. And she’d slid one of those two maps inside, keeping one and sealing up the other. It wasn’t hard to guess which copy she’d be keeping and which she was planning to return to the library. It was a neat trick, and she probably would have gotten away with it, especially with Lila running interference for her.

“People can really surprise you, can’t they?” Emily said, looking at Frank. “And not in a good way.”

Frank had gone pale. “You have to destroy those pictures.” He grabbed for the camera, but Emily held on as she backed away. He tugged it his way, she tugged it hers. Finally it flew from their hands and landed on the pavement with a thud.

Frank lunged for it. Picked it up. A web of cracks in the lens lit up as he turned the camera over under the streetlight. He dropped the camera on the ground and stomped on it with his heel until the screen shattered and the case came wedged apart, disgorging circuit boards and wires.

Emily gasped as a wave of sadness swept over her. Not for the camera, which could be replaced. Not for the pictures that revealed Mrs. Murphy to be a thief, a swindler, and a fraud. She wasn’t even a widow.

No, the grief Emily felt was for Frank—the Frank she’d married. The one who’d bought his first pin-striped suit for their wedding. Who’d stood stiffly in it, his hair refusing to slick down, as they faced the minister. When they’d kissed he’d smelled sweet and musky. They’d made love that night twice, the first time frantic, the second time slow and leisurely. That lazy smile of his that could still take her breath away.

Back then, Emily knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that she was the one he’d chosen. Now he could barely meet her gaze. “Emily, I—” he began. For a moment it seemed as if he were about to break down. But if so, he was interrupted by a car that approached from behind her. His face was lit up by oncoming headlights and his shadow, cast against the adjacent storage unit door, grew taller as the car approached and came to a halt. When Frank waved, Emily’s heart sank. She wheeled around.

The car’s headlights went out, but even in the dark Emily could see that it was a white Honda Civic hatchback with the Clutter Kickers logo stenciled on the door.

40