As if on cue, Emily’s foot throbbed. She reached down to rub it, and when she straightened, Quinn was looking across at her. She had a pale intensity about her, repressed rage that Emily sometimes saw when she unexpectedly caught her own reflection in a mirror.

Emily shivered and took another drink. Quinn topped off Emily’s glass and her own.

“Seriously,” Quinn said, “how would you like to be married to a guy who goes to auctions and flea markets and brings home”—she grimaced—“would you believe, prosthetic limbs? He’s got a complete collection. Arms. Legs. Lefts. Rights. Even some fingers. So creepy.”

“Mine’s into rotting church pews,” Emily said. “And horror comics.”

“Autographed Dwight D. Eisenhower bobblehead dolls,” Quinn said. “Preserved piranha fish and morpho butterflies.”

“Star Wars action figures.” Emily raised her glass. “Original! Still in their boxes!”

Quinn said, “And his idea of a romantic evening? Binge-watching Antiques Roadshow.” She lifted her own glass.

“Yours, too?” Emily clinked and took another drink. “At least your husband’s stuff’s right out in the open. He’s not hiding it from you.”

“How do I know what he’s got hidden?” Quinn tilted her head back and emptied her glass. Wiped her arm across her mouth. “Yours has a secret stash?”

“Define secret.” Did the basement count as a secret stash if Frank thought Emily would never go down there? “I know where it is, but I try not to look. Today I met a widow whose husband left her a jam-packed storage unit that she knew nothing about until the rental bill showed up a year after he died.” She reached into her pants pocket, pulled out the key, and flashed it at Quinn. “Turns out it’s packed to the gills with old books and prints.”

“Shhh.” Quinn put her finger to her lips. “Please don’t tell Wally.”

“And you know what storage company he’s been using? Inner Peace Storage. Poor thing, she was far more serene before she knew about that storage unit. And when she finds out what’s in it, she’ll be a complete wreck.”

“What’s wrong with their old books and prints?” Quinn asked, leaning close.

Emily stopped herself from answering. The wine was talking. She wished she could put the words back in her mouth as she tried to slip the key back into her pocket. But she missed, and the key dropped onto the concrete floor. When she bent to pick it up, blood rushed to her head. As she staggered sideways, she managed to kick the key under a chest of drawers.

Quinn put out a hand and Emily grabbed it to steady herself. When the dizziness passed and Emily straightened, Quinn scooped up the key for her and dropped it into Emily’s gear bag.