“POOR THING. MY heart goes out to her,” Becca said later as she and Emily stood on the sidewalk in front of Mrs. Murphy’s house. “She’s grieving, of course. Stuck in denial for over a year. Anger’s supposed to come next. I think even she realizes that, at some level, all this rage is a step forward. Maybe that’s why she didn’t end up telling us to take a hike.”

Emily opened her car door and tossed the document tube across to the passenger seat. She’d been surprised, too, that at the end of their meeting, Mrs. Murphy wanted to continue to work with them. She was already talking about investigating what was in the storage unit and returning anything that hadn’t been acquired on the up-and-up. Before they’d left, Mrs. Murphy placed a call to Inner Peace Storage. She barely managed to explain the situation before breaking down again.

Becca had taken over. She told the manager that, by the way, climate control in the unit had failed some time ago. “There’s mold and mildew. Very toxic. Disastrous for the valuable books and prints that were being stored there. Not exactly the conditions that your advertising promises.” That sped up the discussion.

In the end, the manager had promised to investigate and arrange for a time when they could meet him there, as soon as possible, and he’d break open the unit. It might even be as soon as tomorrow.

Becca’s gaze shifted to the Murphys’ untidy front lawn. “What is it about men and their secrets?” she said. “Don’t you think you’d know if Frank had a jam-packed storage unit hidden somewhere?”

Emily laughed. Why would Frank need a storage unit, with the way he’d been expanding his “collection” into their basement, attic, and garage?

“A lot of people keep secrets from their spouses,” Becca said. “Little ones. Big ones.”

If Frank did have a secret storage space, then Emily, like Mrs. Murphy, would have no way of knowing about it. She and Frank kept their finances separate. Frank’s personal bills went to his law office. And for all the overtime Frank spent there and all the sporting events he attended or watched on TV with his buddies, he could easily have had an entire second life.

“No one expects to drop dead,” Becca said. “Indigestion the day before? That was probably the start of a heart attack.”

“Still,” Emily said, “it would be nice if he’d cleaned up after himself before he checked out. He’s left her with a big mess to figure out.” She started to get into her car.

“Hang on,” Becca said. She looked at her watch. “I need to get back. By now the kiddos are probably painting the kitchen walls with peanut butter. But give me a quick update on our other new client. How’d it go?”

“Quinn Newell,” Emily said.