It was nearly six o’clock when Emily parked and got out of her car. She took in the house. Make that château, clad in beige stucco and figured stone. Its grand entrance featured massive double doors, flanked by rectangular columns that—Emily stepped back as she looked up—stretched all the way to the roof. A tower room in the front corner had windows all around. The house dwarfed its neighbors. Mandarin Cliffs was, after all, still New England, where conspicuous consumption was considered wretched excess. These people must not be New Englanders.

Emily found two peppermint Altoids in the bottom of her purse. She scraped off the fuzz and popped them in her mouth. Then she ran her fingers through her hair and smoothed her T-shirt. She wished she’d worn something less . . . servile. Though wasn’t she providing a service not all that less menial than cleaning toilets and mowing lawns? Slapping her name on a business card and calling herself a professional organizer didn’t make her work any less sweaty.

If Becca had been here, she’d have given Emily a dope slap. What was it about other people’s wealth that was so toxic to Emily’s self-esteem? Now, that was something that needed to be shaken out, smoothed, assessed, and tossed away. Emily reminded herself that what she liked about her new career was that success was tangible. No test was needed.

She grabbed her gear bag from the car and went up to the front door. Pressed the heel of her hand firmly against the doorbell and waited, standing straight, chest out.

Young or old? Quinn was one of those names that had recently become popular, along with Sophie and Olivia. From the house, and from the fact that Ryan Melanson III had referred this client to them, Emily expected Quinn to be manicured, blond, and impeccably dressed.

Wrong on all counts. The woman who came to the door was a thirty-something brunette, her shoulder-length hair held back loosely with a banana clip. The clothes—black yoga pants with a black racerback tank—were not impressive, though they were probably Lululemon. If she was one of Ryan’s conquests, she was an outlier in terms of looks. Not that she wasn’t attractive, she just wasn’t flashy. Well within the bounds of average. Maybe the money made the difference.

Emily winced. It was bitchy and unfair of her to judge. She knew nothing about this woman, and had only experienced Ryan at his most reptilian.

The woman blinked at Emily bleary-eyed, as if she’d just woken up. “Are you from Clutter Fuckers?”

Something about the way the word rolled off the woman’s tongue cracked Emily up. “Clutter Kickers,” she managed to say.

“Oh dear.” The woman put her hand to her forehead and squinted at Emily. “I’m so sorry. What did I call it?”