They’d been seriously burned helping Nancy Moore downsize. She’d had a home and not one but four storage units loaded with brand-new purchases she’d made over at least a decade of buying from the Shopping Channel. The items that stuck in Emily’s mind included a floor cleaner called the Whizz Mop (two of them), a pressure cooker that doubled as a steam iron, a massive juicer still in a box promising “whisper quiet nutrition,” two treadmills, and a StairMaster. Plus enough handbags and scarves to stock a Marshalls. Mrs. Moore’s daughter thought the picture-taking would help her mother let go, and it did. But the storage units turned out to be bigger than they’d expected and crammed fuller than anyone would have thought possible. When they billed Mrs. Moore for the unbudgeted hours, she refused to pay, and they had to eat the difference.

“Don’t worry,” Emily said. “I’ll check it out tomorrow. Thoroughly. I’ll write up an estimate for you to review.” As she spoke she realized that tomorrow she was supposed to go to a PawSox game with Frank and his college buddies. She’d have to tell him that she couldn’t go. After their fight, he’d assume her bagging it was some kind of passive-aggressive payback. And maybe it was. He’d been an asshole. But the truth was Emily never looked forward to hanging out with Frank’s odious law partner, Ryan Melanson, and the rest of their gang, overgrown frat boys who reeked of self-confidence and greeted each other with high fives. By the third inning they’d be shit-faced and squinty-eyed.

Becca started the car but then sat there, staring at the house and chewing on her lower lip, her hands resting on the wheel. “Did it strike you as odd that Mrs. Murphy didn’t seem all that curious about what was in that storage unit? I mean, wouldn’t you want to know?”

Emily laughed. “Seriously? If it were Frank’s storage unit? I’d pay double if you promised to nuke everything in it, sight unseen.”

Becca didn’t laugh. “Are you sure everything’s okay?”

Emily forced a smile. “Don’t worry. When it’s not, you’ll be the first to know.”

Emily dreaded telling Frank that she had to bail on the ball game. On the drive back to the Park ’n’ Ride, she decided it would be less fraught if she did it by phone. Becca let her off at her car. She got in, started the engine, and drummed her fingers on the dash while she waited for the AC to kick in. Then she dialed Frank’s cell. He picked up after the fourth ring.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” she said back.

She was trying to figure out what to say next when he broke the silence with “I got your note. Thanks.”