Any minute, he’d drill down and ask Emily exactly where she’d gone after she left Quinn’s house. She couldn’t pretend that she hadn’t stopped in the Square for coffee or that her unpleasant encounter with a man who could have been Walter Newell hadn’t happened. She tried to imagine Frank’s advice—beyond Don’t lie, probably something on the order of Pull a Hail Mary.

Instead of answering Stanley’s question, Emily said, “I’m really sorry, you’re going to have to excuse me. I desperately need to use the ladies’ room. Do you mind? Just tell me where it is and I’ll come right back.”

Quinn shot her a terrified look that said, Don’t leave me alone. Emily mouthed the word Sorry.

Stanley looked annoyed. “Up one flight.” He pointed to a door at the opposite end of the floor. “Turn right. Down the corridor. It’ll come up on your right.” He looked at his watch. “Why don’t you meet us in the lobby when you’re done?”

Emily resisted the urge to break into a run as she made her way across to the stairwell. She heard Stanley ask Quinn, “Were you and your husband having any kind of problems?”

“I . . . we . . . What are you trying to get me to say?” Quinn’s voice spiraled up. Emily felt guilty about leaving Quinn alone with Stanley, but she had to get out of there before she found herself in his cross hairs.

“I’m just trying to ascertain—” The rest of Stanley’s words were cut off as the door to the stairwell closed behind Emily.

17

EMILY CHECKED UNDER the doors to the two stalls in the women’s room. No feet. She took out her phone. Four bars. It was nearly ten o’clock. She called Frank. Pick up, pick up, pick up.

He answered on the fourth ring. “Where are you?” he said.

“I’m still at the police station.”

“Have they found him?”

“No. I need—” Emily froze at the sound of footsteps in the hall.

“Emily, if they—”

“Shhh. Stop. Just listen.” Emily cupped her hand over the phone and lowered her voice. “Quinn’s husband’s car. It was in a hit-and-run at about ten o’clock last night in the Square.”

“Isn’t that where you . . .” Frank said. “Wait a minute. Are you saying he’s the jerk you spilled coffee on last night at the coffee shop?”

“He spilled coffee on me,” Emily corrected.

“But how is that even possible?”

“Quite a coincidence, huh?”

“Maybe.” A long pause. “Or maybe not. What if he was in the house? Heard you take my call and knew where you were going?”