“Upstairs?” Emily said. “Or maybe in his office?”

Emily followed as Quinn drifted out of the kitchen, through a narrow pantry, through the dining room, and on to a wood-paneled study in the back of the house. This had to be Wally’s man cave. The Chesterfield sofa was tufted cordovan leather. Overhead lighting was hidden in a red-glass hanging dome with Budweiser written in gold letters across the rim. A wide flat-screen TV hung on one wall, while the other walls were hung with framed magazine covers. MAD. National Lampoon. Cracked. Creepy.

Quinn picked up a framed photo from the corner of a sleek blond mid-century modern desk. The picture looked like a selfie of Quinn and her husband, standing on a windy beach with waves breaking in the background. Quinn paused for a moment, staring at the photo. She inhaled a ragged breath, then removed the back of the frame and handed the snapshot to Emily.

So this was Walter Newell. He had dense dark hair that curled around his face, a mustache, and a goatee. He squinted at the camera and grinned. Quinn, tucked into his side, rested her head on his chest.

“I need to explain,” Quinn said, turning to face Emily. “I didn’t, you know, mean any of those things I said the other night. Because I’d never. Ever. You didn’t think—?”

“Of course not. It was the wine. I said things I didn’t mean, either. We were just being . . .” Emily searched for the right word. Silly wasn’t quite right. Because how silly was it, to dream up ways to get rid of your husband?

Quinn didn’t wait for Emily to finish the thought. “Okay, great. I just wanted to be sure we’re on the same page here. Because if something terrible has happened to Wally, something bad, like one of those things we talked about?” She gave Emily a long, hard look. “I wouldn’t want you to think—”

“It was just talk,” Emily said. Of course it was. Why would Quinn think otherwise? “Right?”

“And it was just between us.”

Emily got it. Quinn didn’t want her sharing what they’d talked about with the police. “Right.”

Quinn gave a weak smile. “Of course. That’s what I knew you’d say. Ryan swore up and down that you were absolutely trustworthy, but I’ve just met you the once, and I had to ask. And I didn’t want to ask in front of Fred.”

“Frank.”

“Whatever.”

Emily followed Quinn upstairs to the master suite at the far end of the upstairs hall. It was enormous, of course. The bed was unmade, piled high with pillows. Quinn picked up one of them, held it to her face, and inhaled. Her eyes misted over for a moment before she threw the pillow back down.