Quinn opened the refrigerator and took out a bottle of prosecco. She grabbed a pair of balloon-shaped wineglasses that were hanging upside down from an overhead rack, filled them with prosecco, and offered one to Emily.

Emily hesitated.

“What, you don’t like prosecco?”

“It’s not that,” Emily said. Actually, Emily and Frank drank prosecco whenever they had something to celebrate. It was cheap, reliable, and it was also Emily’s beverage of choice on the rare occasion when she threw herself a pity party.

“You’re not supposed to drink on the job?” Quinn said with a sly smile.

No drinking on the job was another of Becca and Emily’s rules. Plus, that was an enormous glass Quinn was waving about, and prosecco went straight to Emily’s head. Especially on an empty stomach. Her stomach gurgled, reminding her that lunch had been hours ago.

“You probably aren’t supposed to work weekends or after five, either. And yet here you are.” Quinn held out a glass to Emily. “Come on. In for a penny, in for a pound.”

Emily couldn’t help smiling. In for a penny . . . that was an expression her mother often trotted out when she tempted Emily with a six-hundred-calorie slice of her world-class cheese pie. Emily dropped her gear bag on the terra-cotta tile floor and took the glass.

Quinn raised her own glass in a toast. “Cheers!”

Emily held up her glass. The bubbles glistened. “What are we celebrating?”

“Me. Calling Clutter”—Quinn’s gaze rested on Emily’s T-shirt—“Kickers for help. Finally.” She took a sip and waited for Emily to do the same. The wine was ice-cold and not too dry. “Here’s to taking care of business.” She clinked Emily’s glass, drank some more, and carried her glass and the bottle out the kitchen door and into a garage. Emily took one more small sip of prosecco, then picked up her gear bag and followed Quinn.

The garage, like the rest of the house, was oversized. It had four bays. Nearest to the kitchen door was an empty bay where Emily presumed the absent Wally parked his Ferrari, or whatever muscle car he drove. In the next spot sat a sporty red Miata convertible. Probably Quinn’s. Marking the boundary between these two bays was a row of orange traffic cones.

“Those cones?” Quinn said. “He’s afraid I’m going to sideswipe his precious car. What does your husband drive?”

“A BMW Z4,” Emily said

“I knew it. And he’d die before he’d let someone else drive it. Am I right?”

Of course she was right.