She rinsed her mouth and splashed cold water on her face. Her tired eyes stared back at her from the mirror. She got in bed, trying not to notice her closet. Even more unsettling than a cluttered closet was one that was in the midst of becoming uncluttered. And speaking of unfinished business, she needed to alert Becca.

She got out her phone and started typing a text:

Need to talk. Murphy’s storage unit is

What was it? Emily settled on

complicated. Call if you’re up.

She waited for the notification TEXT DELIVERED. But nothing came. Becca must have her phone turned off. Probably for the night. Emily texted again.

Call me first thing.

She was about to shut down her phone when a text message pinged. Not Becca. Emily didn’t recognize the number, but it was her local area code.

PAYPAL: Mission Accomplished! xxx ooo So, what do you think? How soon? Please please please. Cheers!

That sounded like Quinn Newell. She must have deposited the advance payment into the Clutter Kickers account, wrapped it in hugs, and kept right on drinking. This was not the start of a professional relationship. But what had Emily expected when she’d undoubtedly overshared?

Emily closed her eyes and tried to block out exactly how many gory details of her personal life she’d revealed.

Emily texted back what she hoped sounded like a formal response:

As discussed, looking forward to working with you. More next week. Emily L. Harlow (Freeze-Frame Clutter Kickers)

“Here,” Frank said from the doorway. He was carrying her favorite mug, gray ceramic with purple irises painted on. “Nonalcoholic.”

The smell of hot cocoa wafted over. Emily set her phone on the bedside table. Frank hadn’t made cocoa for her in ages, maybe not since a blizzard a few winters ago after they’d shoveled three feet of snow from their driveway and scooped it from where the wind had packed it around their cars’ engine blocks. Why did one look at Frank’s crap make her forget how sweet and thoughtful he could be?

“Did you eat dinner?” Frank asked.

She hadn’t, which was why the wine had gone right to her head. Frank handed her the mug. “Drink. It will help you fall asleep,” he said.

Emily blew on it and took a sip. Then another. Did cocoa really help you sleep? Or was it another one of those things that people believed but turned out to be a canard? After all, wasn’t chocolate loaded with caffeine? Or was it like too much red wine—knocked you out and two hours later you were wide awake? Or maybe cocoa and chocolate were different things, chemically speaking. Or—

She stopped herself. Her brain was in overdrive, pinging from one inane thought to the next. She relaxed and inhaled. “Thank you. This is just what I needed,” she said.