Emily felt vindicated. “I’m sorry I took your head off,” she said. “It’s just that . . .” It was just that his crap made her see red. Which she knew. Which was why she shouldn’t have gone down into the basement in the first place. “Really, I’m sorry about missing the game.”

That’s when she realized he’d already disconnected the call.

5

FRANK’S Z4 WAS gone when Emily got home. A note on the kitchen counter read DON’T WAIT UP, CLIENT MEETING. Turnabout was fair play. At the bottom was a cartoon drawing of a bare foot with a heart-shaped frowny face drawn over the instep.

While she heated some leftover mac and cheese, Emily checked her email and the latest news headlines. After she ate, she went upstairs to her office, where she uploaded images for her closet-sorting video. She selected the ones she wanted to use, put them in order, and synced them to Scott Joplin’s “Pineapple Rag.” She ran the results, watching as her clothes took turns lying on the bed, then folding themselves or jumping into a garbage bag. She’d have to wait for the final image, her clothes arranged in a closet system of shelves and racks that she’d purchased but had yet to install.

Three hours after she’d started working on the video, she put together a title shot—her candle lit at full height, which she intended to bookend with the candle, shorter and blown out, at the end. That’s when she heard the front door slam. “Frank? Is that you?” she hollered.

Moments later he stood in her office doorway. He looked tired and drained. “Long meeting?” Emily asked.

Frank nodded and dropped his briefcase on the floor.

She pushed away from her computer and stood. “You know I didn’t mean to mess with your things.”

“I know that,” Frank said. “It wasn’t your fault. I should have been more careful about how I left them.” He pulled her into his arms and nuzzled her neck. He smelled of beer and cigar smoke. “I know I can be a jerk.” Emily choked up, sideswiped by tears that filled her eyes. Frank snagged a tissue from the box on her desk and handed it to her. “Just not too much of a jerk, too much of the time. Right?” He sat in her desk chair and pulled her into his lap, turned on the gooseneck desk lamp, and aimed the light at her foot. “Let me see. Has it gone Technicolor?” He eased off her Croc and ran his fingertips gently over her bruised instep. Emily shivered with pleasure. “Can you wiggle your toes?”

Emily wiggled her toes. “I’m okay. Really. How was your meeting?”

“Productive.” He smiled. “Ticked all the boxes. Want to hear the gory details?”

She didn’t. “You smell like cigar. Celebrating?”