Emily heard low voices, Mrs. Murphy’s and the man’s. Sounded as if they were arguing, probably weighing their options. They wouldn’t be eager to have the police back. There’d be no windfall from selling original old prints and returning their giclée copies to libraries from which the originals had been stolen. Emily hoped the loss was outweighed by the prospect of no charges, no trial, and no prison term.

Finally Emily heard footsteps. A car door slammed. Then another. A car engine turned over and tires sounded on the pavement.

Cautiously, Quinn released her grip on the door and inched away.

“She’s calling the police,” Emily said, though she was far from certain.

“Maybe,” Quinn said. “But I’m guessing not. They’ve got quite a big investment to protect.” She darted at Emily, reaching for the stun gun, but missed.

“You sound as if you know them,” Emily said. “They steal. You fence?” Emily backed away, running into the workbench.

Quinn kicked the stun gun from Emily’s grip and sent it skittering across the floor. Quinn lunged for it, grabbed it, and backed away. “So this knocks you out for a few hours?” Quinn looked at the stun gun, unimpressed. “Really?” She rushed at Emily, pinning her against a bank of shelving, poking the stun gun hard into her neck and pushing the trigger again and again and again.

All Emily felt was the cold metal of the prongs and a tickle of electricity, the stun gun’s feeble attempt at firing. She shuddered and screamed, then slid to the floor, stiffening and shaking as if she were having a seizure. Then she lay there on the cool concrete, eyes open, staring at the ceiling, going from rigid to slack. She let her head fall to one side, her mouth drop open. She had no idea if that was what actually would have happened if the gun had been fully charged, but she was banking on neither Quinn nor Frank knowing, either.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Frank raising the door. He came over to her and got down on one knee. Hovering, he grasped her wrist and felt her pulse. She knew her heart was pounding. She tried not to blink.

“She’s all right,” Quinn said. “And there’s no mark. We need to get her out of here before anyone comes back. Maybe the river this time?” When Frank didn’t respond, she said sharply, “Frank, listen to me. You’ll tell them that she was depressed. At her wits’ end about the murder investigation. Her reputation shot. Her business failing. I’ll say she shared her despair—”

“How can you be like this?” Frank said. “So cold. It’s as if she’s just . . .” Frank seemed at a loss, but Emily would have supplied the rest: an inconvenience.