“Friend of yours?” Emily said. Quinn glared at her. “I guess you knew her husband. Charles Murphy? Antique maps, sold at auction? You helped them out, didn’t you? Did she know you were going to dump your husband’s body in her storage unit?”

“Let me in!” Mrs. Murphy’s voice came from outside.

Emily shouted, “Ruth! Call the police. It’s Emily. I’m trapped.” But her final words were drowned out by Mrs. Murphy banging on the door from the other side.

Quinn glared at Emily, but she couldn’t hold the door shut and muzzle her at the same time. The door rattled as Frank and Quinn held it shut. They didn’t notice Emily crab-walking inch by inch backward to her gear bag.

“What are you doing in there?” This time it was a man’s voice. Sounded older. Probably the white-haired Mr. Murphy. “Open the door. Now!”

The man must have taken over trying to raise the door, because Quinn and Frank were struggling to keep it shut. Emily reached her gear bag and rummaged around inside. She found her stun gun, then painfully rose to her feet. She held it out in front of her and advanced toward Quinn.

“What’s that supposed to be?” Quinn said, eyeing the stun gun, straining to keep the door down.

“Frank?” Emily said. “Why don’t you explain?”

“It’s a stun gun,” Frank said.

“Looks like a toy,” Quinn said.

“It’s not a toy,” Frank said. “But trust me, she’d never use it.”

Emily put her thumb on the trigger switch. “You don’t think so?” She took a step toward Quinn and Quinn shrank back. “It’s painful, but don’t worry. It won’t kill you. But it’ll knock you out cold for an hour or two.”

Quinn kicked out at Emily, aiming for the stun gun. But she couldn’t reach it and hold the door at the same time.

“Mrs. Murphy,” Emily shouted. “I’m in trouble. Call the police. Do it now!”

“Emily? Is that you?” Mrs. Murphy asked. “Open the door. This is my unit. I have a right to be inside.”

Emily caught a look passing between Frank and Quinn, his questioning, hers a headshake. Emily could only hope that Mrs. Murphy was as surprised as anyone when Walter Newell’s body turned up in her storage unit. The woman was greedy, happy to delude herself if it meant turning a profit. But she was more amoral than evil.

“I know what you’ve been up to,” Emily shouted. “Stealing and counterfeiting. Selling fakes. But you really don’t want to be charged as an accessory to murder.”

Silence from outside.

Emily went on. “I can help you, once I get out of here. But you have to call the police. Tell them to come. Now.”