DETECTIVE MORAN’S CAR looked like your average black full-sized sedan, but inside it was equipped with a computer and scanner, and a metal grille separated the front seat from the back. Moran had let Mrs. Murphy and Becca and Lila leave, and driven Emily to the open storage unit, where he parked, then got out of the car and walked off, leaving her in the car alone. Emily tried to let herself out, but there was only a metal plate where a door handle should have been. “Hey!” she shouted. She could just make out Moran inside the unit, talking to someone in a dark uniform. Pointing in her direction.

Emily found the window control on the armrest and tried pushing it. Pulling it. But the window didn’t budge. She banged on the glass. Leaned with all her strength against the door. There was no getting out.

She tried to stay calm as she got out her phone but she fumbled, entering her password wrong twice before getting in. Finally she managed to call Frank. The call was connecting when Moran pulled open the car door and Emily tumbled out into spitting rain, dropping her phone on the ground.

Moran picked up her phone, wiped it on his pants leg, and glanced at it before handing it back to her. Emily could hear Frank’s voice message, Can’t take your call right now. She touched the red circle to end the call. For now she was on her own.

“Sorry. That took longer than I expected,” Moran said. “Are you okay?” He reached into the front seat for an umbrella, raised it, and held it over her. “I needed to make sure I could bring you in.”

Emily took a breath and steadied herself. Her heart hammered as she walked past what turned out to be a coroner’s van, backed up to the door of the unit. Moran raised yellow crime-scene tape, but only let Emily come inside just past it.

That smell again. Emily gagged.

“Just give us a minute,” Moran said to two technicians working inside the unit. The two men stood and stepped away from the body of a man lying on his back on a thick plastic tarp.

Emily forced herself to look. The man was tall and muscular. The face was pale, not gray like Moran’s photograph, and down one side was a deep red stain.

She felt Moran watching her, waiting for her to react. She said, “I don’t recognize this man. I don’t know him.”

“But?” Moran said. He folded his arms and waited.

“But he could be the husband of one of my clients. That man—the husband—he went to an auction Sunday night and he’s been missing ever since. The East Hartwell police found his car in the commuter lot at the town wharf.”

“The wharf,” Moran said, turning his gaze in that direction.