THE CAR DOOR opened and a woman got out. She wore a blue cap, its brim pulled down over her eyes. A long, straight ponytail stuck out the back. She had on blue pants and a top, just like the ones that Emily and Becca wore for dirty work. It was Quinn Newell.

This must have been how she’d looked when she’d driven Emily’s car to pick up her husband’s body from wherever he’d been killed—not the wharf, Emily was pretty sure—and deliver it to this storage unit. Making sure that the CCTV camera got just enough of a glimpse of her to convince the police that she was Emily.

Now Quinn stood, arms akimbo, facing Emily.

“Shall I tell you how her first husband died?” Emily said to Frank. “The one she married before Wally.” She raised her voice, adding, “She killed him, too.”

“Shut up,” Quinn said, and lunged at Emily.

Emily backed up onto the apron of the storage unit. “On her honeymoon—” Before she could finish, Quinn backhanded her across the face. Emily staggered back, tripped over her gear bag, and landed on her behind on the concrete floor inside the unit. Winded, she sat there gasping, her ears ringing as Quinn stood over her.

“Stop it!” Frank shouted. “This wasn’t part of the deal.”

Emily rolled over onto her stomach. “She’s not good at deals, unless it’s the part about ’til death do us part.”

“I said, shut up!” Quinn said, and kicked Emily. Emily curled into a fetal position and lay there, her arms folded, pain like lightning searing her rib cage.

Above her, she heard Frank. “You were married before? You never told me . . .”

“What difference does it make?” Quinn snapped.

Emily slowly rolled onto her stomach and dry-heaved. Her mouth tasted salty and metallic. “Big mistake,” she said as drops of blood stained the floor. “You were so careful not to leave blood evidence for the cops to find the last two times. Now—” She got onto her knees and spat onto the concrete.

“Cops,” Quinn said, her tone dismissive. “They never know where to look. They won’t this time, either.”

Quinn grabbed Emily under one arm. “Come on,” she said to Frank. “Help me.”

Frank hesitated for a few seconds before he grabbed Emily under her other arm. Together he and Quinn dragged her to the back of the storage unit. The rough cement floor scraped Emily’s back and her arms felt as if they were being pulled from their sockets.

Quinn yanked the overhead door shut. It landed with a thud. The interior went pitch-black for a moment before Quinn turned on the light.

“Your first husband was killed?” Frank asked.

“So?” Quinn gave a slow smile. “Does it matter?”