So far, nothing to account for the crash she’d heard. She’d nearly reached the far wall when she spotted what looked like a gold-painted, person-sized harp. On closer inspection she recognized it as a piano frame. Too small to have come from a grand piano, it was still formidable. Even she could appreciate the gracefully arched frame that was dotted with large and small crater-like holes. Along one edge, the letters MUSKEGON MICH were embossed. Poor thing was a long way from home. It was leaning against a utility table, the floor around it littered with broken glass and china. She tried to shift it, but it was too heavy for her to manage on her own. Frank could deal with it when he got home. Or not. It wasn’t her problem.

Emily climbed the stairs and returned to the kitchen. Sitting on the counter in the drying rack was a blue plastic salad spinner. Frank must have picked it up for her. He’d even washed it. She put the lid on and gave it a whirl. She felt a pang of guilt. If Frank could bag her a salad spinner, the least she could do was sweep up the mess in the basement. It would take only a minute.

Emily went back with a broom, a dustpan, and a paper bag. Crouching beside the piano frame, she reached across and began to sweep up the pieces. It was a mixture of glass and china, maybe a vase and some wineglasses. She dumped a load into the bag, then crouch-walked farther in. Sneezed. Swept up more pieces. Added them to the bag.

She was straining forward, pressing her shoulder against the utility table, trying to reach the last shards, when the bulkhead opened. Light streamed in, along with a welcome breeze. Emily glanced up to see Frank silhouetted in the opening. He came down the stairs, his fair hair a nimbus of light, ducking to clear the threshold. He peered into an oversized brown portfolio. She recognized that covetous look. He’d scored.

“Hey, Frank,” Emily said.

Startled, he looked up from the portfolio and squinted in her direction. “Emily?”

“What did you get?”

“What are you doing down here?” he said, closing the portfolio and fastening it shut. Emily recognized the dodge. Maybe he’d overpaid.

She stood. Or tried to, but lost her balance and staggered back. She dropped the bag and reached out for the utility table to steady herself. That’s all it took. The table cracked and buckled. In slow motion, the piano frame that had been resting against it toppled sideways. Emily threw her arms over her head and crouched, cringing at the sound of more breakage, followed by a deafening version of the same discordant reverb she’d heard from upstairs.

When the dust settled, Emily looked up. Frank was staring in stunned silence. Finally he said, “Bloody hell. Are you okay?”