EMILY HATED IT when Frank drove her car, but once he’d settled behind the wheel, she couldn’t very well pry him loose. Soon she was clutching the armrest as Frank accelerated down the street, downshifted around a corner, ran a yellow light, and blew past a twenty-five-mile-an-hour speed limit sign. Traffic was snarled, as usual, in the Square. Still, Frank passed a slow-moving car on the right and honked at a parked car that tried to pull out in front of him. In a lull when they were waiting at a red light, Emily managed to text Quinn, saying she was on her way.

Once they were out of the Square, Frank put on another burst of speed. At last the car swerved around a corner and into Mandarin Cliffs and slowed as Emily directed him to Quinn Newell’s house.

No police cars were parked out front.

“They must have come and gone,” Frank said.

“Maybe her husband’s back”—Emily checked her phone—“and she just hasn’t had a chance to let me know.” She got out of the car. A blanket of moist heat assaulted her.

Frank got out, shaded his eyes, and gazed across at the house. “This is quite a heap. Hope he got her to sign a prenup.”

He could be such an asshole. And typical Frank, he assumed it was the husband’s money. What made it more annoying was that he was probably right. “Are you here to help or to snark?” Emily asked. “Because if you say something like that when we’re in there with her, I’ll kneecap you.”

She started across the perfectly manicured front lawn. When she reached the front door, she rang the bell. “Quinn!”

When there was no answer, she turned to tell Frank that she was going to go around back. That’s when she realized Frank was still at the curb, crouched behind her car and examining . . . something. She returned to see what. A broken taillight.

“What happened?” He squinted across at her. “You back into something?”

“Not that I remember.”

He ran his hand across the car’s rear bumper. “Then it looks like something backed into—”

“Emily?” They both turned around at the querulous voice. Quinn stood at the front door, holding the calico cat.

“What’s her name again?” Frank said under his breath as they approached the house.

“Newell,” Emily whispered back. “Quinn Newell.”

Close up, Emily could see that Quinn looked exhausted, her face puffy, cheeks white. The bruise was slightly faded but still livid. Her yoga pants and top might have been the same ones she’d been wearing Sunday night.

“What happened?” Emily said. “Where are the police?”

Quinn just stood there, staring at Frank like he was curdled milk. “Who is this?”

“My husband,” Emily said.

“This is Frank?” Quinn seemed surprised.

“Huh?” Frank said, and shot Emily a questioning look.