Thank you, thank you, she said to herself. For the car. For the pizza. She warmed the slices he’d left her. As the microwave hummed, the kitchen filled with the irresistible smell. Standing at the sink, she wolfed down a slice. Salt. Fat. Heaven.

She grabbed the second slice, along with a napkin this time, and took it to the table to eat. An icy Coke would have been perfect, but she’d stopped buying soft drinks when Frank got so addicted to diet soda that they were buying it by the case and their dentist said his teeth were dissolving. She got up and went to the sink, ran some water into her cupped palm, and drank it.

The house felt empty and silent. Emily went upstairs and changed into a cotton nightgown, opened the bedroom windows as wide as possible, and turned on both the attic fan and the TV. Red Sox against the Dodgers in Los Angeles were tied at 1–1 in extra innings.

Usually a televised baseball game put her right to sleep. But tonight she kept listening for Frank. Thinking about Quinn not staying up and waiting for Wally to come home the night before.

Between innings, she kicked off the top sheet and closed her eyes. An announcer droned, “Do not take Cialis if you take nitrates for chest pain . . .” It felt as if it had been days ago that she’d hurried off to Inner Peace Storage to return that map, only to find herself locked out. Could it have been only earlier today that she and Becca had given Mrs. Murphy the disquieting news that someone had changed the lock? And once that fire had been put out, Quinn had called with the news that the police were on her doorstep.

At least Frank was getting Emily’s car fixed. A manager would break open the storage unit tomorrow. And her mother was coming to give her expert opinion of exactly what Mr. Murphy had been up to with his so-called collecting.

But for every question that was being resolved, Emily had another that remained a mystery. Where was Walter Newell? Had he been the man she’d run into at the Java Connection? Why had he abandoned his car at the town wharf?

Wheels within wheels, she thought as she watched the Red Sox first baseman strike out.

18

TUESDAY

OVERNIGHT THE HUMIDITY rose, and by the time Emily got up on Tuesday morning, she felt as if she’d been sleeping on wet sheets. The sun was hidden behind a haze of dark clouds, and the temperature was already in the eighties. Too bad a meeting with the manager of Inner Peace Storage required at least a work uniform. She ironed pants and a matching Polo shirt, wishing she could wear a loose shift instead. Her foot felt better, the swelling down, but it seemed wiser to stick with Crocs for one more day.