Emily broke down in tears.

In bed that night, Emily tried not to let the panic that bubbled in her stomach overwhelm her. Frank was right. She never should have trusted the police. She never should have spoken with them alone. And the worst part was, she’d known better. Her only sin had been to find Walter Newell’s body, and how the hell had he ended up in the Murphys’ storage unit, anyway? There had to be some link between the Newells and the Murphys—a link other than Emily.

Emily turned on her phone and googled Walter Newell. The item that caught her eye was nearly three years old, a wedding announcement in the Boston Globe that had featured a shot of the couple standing side by side and grinning. In those days, Quinn had been channeling a Kristen Stewart vibe, with shoulder-length platinum-blond hair, ironed straight, a dark inverse-skunk stripe lining the center part. Her face was pale and her eyes were smudged with kohl.

Emily stared at the picture of the groom. She tried to overlay the features of this smiling hipster on either the face she’d glimpsed behind yellow aviator glasses at the coffee shop, or the port-wine-stained face of the dead man. Frustrated, she turned her attention to the announcement below the photo.

Amanda Quinn and Walter Halsey Newell were married May 11 at Four Seasons Hotel in Boston.

Amanda? The name lacked the panache of Quinn.

The bride is an associate at T. E. Kalmus Fine Art and Auctions. She was previously married to the late Michael Safstrom.

Huh? Not only had Quinn been married before, she’d been widowed before. And so much for that bullshit about Quinn being a desperate spinster, her biological clock ticking when she’d met Wally. Or that she’d been clueless about her husband’s collections. She’d worked for an auction house.

Walter Newell, according to the announcement, was a graduate of Boston University and a real estate developer. Another line that caught Emily’s eye: “The groom’s father is a vice chairman of the Newell Group, the global investment banking firm.”

Even Emily had heard of the Newell Group. They’d been involved in developing Boston’s Seaport District.

Emily rechecked the search results for more information. She tried Walter Newell and various permutations of Quinn. Amanda Quinn. Amanda Safstrom. Quinn Safstrom. Quinn Newell. But all she came up with was some charitable giving in Quinn’s name and a raft of real estate transactions in Walter’s. They’d kept a low public profile.

That would soon change.

She turned on the television and tuned to Boston 35. A chef was basting chicken parts with barbecue sauce on a cooking show. It was another twenty minutes before the ten o’clock news. Emily dozed off as the chef grilled husk-wrapped corn on the cob. She opened her eyes when she heard the fanfare that preceded a news bulletin.