“It matters, Frank,” Emily said, taking a painful breath and forcing out the words. “He was a collector, like you. Those signs and prints in her house? They were all his.”

“She’s full of shit. They were Wally’s,” Quinn said.

“Know how her first husband died?” Emily said. “She pushed him off the deck of a cruise ship. Then she marries Wally. He’s not a collector at all. Just, what? Wealthy? And now I guess she’s in the market for an attorney to settle his estate. Someone who’d do anything to own all those fabulous magazine covers.” Frank’s cringe told her she was right.

“Shut up,” Quinn said. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.” She reared back, about to kick Emily again, when Frank grabbed her around the waist from behind. “Seriously?” Quinn said to him. “You have to know it’s too late to be having second thoughts. You’re up to your neck—”

“It’s not too late,” Emily said, struggling to sit up. “Frank?”

Frank looked lost. He’d always been so good at convincing himself that whatever he was up to, he was on the side of the angels, even when that meant representing a corporate pariah whose faulty engineering was killing people. But once upon a time he’d defended people who didn’t have any other options. That Frank had married Emily in a pin-striped suit. Maybe, just maybe, he was still in there.

“Frank, whatever deal you’ve made, you don’t have to—” Emily began.

“I told you the ride might get a little bumpy,” Quinn said, shaking free of Frank’s grasp. “You just have to hold on. Trust me.”

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” Frank said.

“What did you think was going to happen?” Emily said. “You’d set me up to be charged with murder and I’d roll over?” It might have worked, she realized, if it hadn’t been for Rafe Bartok. If he hadn’t realized what he’d gotten himself tangled up in and gotten greedy, Emily would have gone right on believing that it was Walter Newell she’d run into at closing time at the Java Connection, when in fact Walter Newell was long dead.

She thought back over what must have happened. Quinn and Frank had waited for a night when Becca was busy and Emily would have to go alone to meet a new client. Becca had gotten Quinn’s call. Her SOS. When Becca said no, they didn’t work Sunday nights, a man who identified himself as Ryan Melanson had called Becca, begging her to accommodate a new client who needed their help decluttering, and she needed it now. Plus she’d pay double. But that caller must have been Frank, claiming to be Ryan. Becca wouldn’t have been able to tell their voices apart.