“You can count on that. Please, take my advice,” Frank said, his voice bullying. “When they come back asking questions, take a time-out until you have someone with you. It’s like when you get bad news from a doctor. You need someone with you to hear and translate and be your witness.” Quinn folded her arms and closed her eyes, and Frank softened his tone. “You’re going to be stressed. It’s only natural. But don’t talk to them alone. Call a friend or, better still, an attorney. Because—”

A tear trickled down Quinn’s cheek.

“Enough!” Emily said. “Just stop. Can’t you see she’s upset enough without your haranguing her?” She turned to Quinn. “You have to excuse Frank. He spent time—or should I say served time—working as a public defender. He’s used to viewing the justice system as lose-lose for the average citizen. Always adversarial. Always worst-case.”

“Sometimes,” Frank said, “you think everything is fine and it turns out to be worst-case, and you’ve basically dug yourself a hole and climbed into it.”

Just then a phone rang, a marimba playing a minor scale. It wasn’t Emily’s—her ringtone was crickets. Quinn slipped from her stool and picked up a cell phone from the counter. She glanced at the readout. Swallowed. “It’s them again.” She gave Frank a frightened look. “East Hartwell PD.”

The phone rang once more before Quinn thumbed to answer it and put it to her ear. “Hello?” A pause. “Yes, that’s me.” A longer pause as she turned to face the wall. “Uh-huh. Okay . . . um-hmm . . .” She carried the phone into the next room.

“I’m sorry if I came on too strong,” Frank said to Emily. “People can be so oblivious, especially when they’re upset. She needs to know what she’s up against.”

“You can’t blame her for being upset.” Emily drifted toward the doorway, trying in vain to overhear Quinn’s conversation.

“Believe me, I get that. I’m just not sure she understands how the real world—” Frank broke off when Quinn came back into the kitchen.

She was clutching the phone and she’d gone even paler. “They found Wally’s car.”

15

FRANK LOOKED STUNNED. “Just his car?” he asked Quinn. Emily winced. He could be colossally insensitive.

“They found it,” Quinn said, “in the commuter parking lot at the town wharf. They’re going to start looking for him.” She sounded like an automaton. “They want me to bring them—” She clasped her hand over her mouth and took a moment, then swallowed and squared her shoulders. “They want a photograph and something with his scent.” She looked around, as if what she needed were close at hand.

“Maybe something he recently wore?” Emily suggested.

“Yes. Of course. That would be the thing.” But still Quinn stood there, frozen.

“And a recent photograph?” Frank said, tipping his head toward Emily.