“And just so you know,” Quinn said, “I talked to Wally yesterday before I talked to your partner. He said he’d be getting home late and I thought, you know—” She choked up and smacked the steering wheel with the heel of her hand. “All I could think was that at long last I had a little window of opportunity, so I called you guys. I thought . . .”

Quinn went on, her voice rising, but Emily wasn’t listening. Walter Newell hadn’t come home last night, but his car had been involved in a hit-and-run. Emily’s car had been struck by a hit-and-run driver. Seemed like an odd coincidence.

16

THE EAST HARTWELL police station dominated one corner of a busy intersection opposite a brightly lit Burger King and was catty-corner to a dark veterans’ cemetery. Emily’s stomach rumbled as the smell of burgers and fries wafted over. It was past dinnertime, she hadn’t eaten, and she wasn’t about to eat anytime soon.

Quinn had stopped talking a few minutes before they arrived. The sky was black, too humid and overcast to see stars. The parking lot, in contrast, was brightly lit, with spotlights worthy of a sports stadium. Quinn pulled into a visitor parking spot and sat, chewing her lower lip, her knuckles white. She turned and gave Emily a tight smile before getting out of the car. Theirs was the only non-police car in the lot.

The police station looked old, its granite steps worn smooth leading up to a pair of grand pillars that flanked the front doors. But the façade was the only part of the original station that had been preserved. Beyond the doorway—Emily followed Quinn inside, blinking away the glare—the interior featured featureless white vinyl flooring and white walls, harshly lit by overhead fluorescent lighting set into a drop ceiling.

A uniformed officer sat at a desk behind the counter that divided the room. He was an older man with sagging jowls that quivered as he chewed a wad of gum and poked an index finger at a computer keyboard.

Quinn inhaled deeply and approached him. “Sir?”

The officer looked up. “Ma’am.” He took in both of them without a flicker of interest.

“We’re here to see Sergeant . . . Wait a minute, I wrote it down.” Quinn rummaged through her purse. She came up with a scrap of paper. “Stanley.”

“And you are?”

“Quinn Newell.”

“And Emily Harlow,” Emily said.

“IDs, please.”