Only to be disappointed. It hadn’t been the text she’d hoped for. Instead it was an email from one of her favorite suppliers, Mimi, who earned her living trawling antiques fairs and had sold Emma some incredible finds over the years. That jade-green beret with the flame-gold silk lining. The authentic flapper dress with pearls sewn into the black fabric, like stars in folds of night. Emma hadn’t yet confessed to Mimi that she’d had to close her shop—or that there might be a delay in paying her final invoice. So she was still offering her things, this time a collection of 1940s Bakelite bangles in citrus shades. Emma had touched her wrists, imagining the feel of them clinking together along her arm, lime green against burnt orange against sunshine yellow. She knew just how to polish them up, how to stack them asymmetrically for display. Then she’d snapped back to reality, closing down the photo Mimi had sent. Suddenly she’d felt cold and exhausted and had dragged herself to bed without even cleaning her teeth.

Next time she’d woken she’d felt the change in the building. A sense that the top part of the house was vividly awake. Usually at this hour there was just her dead-of-the-night worries and the yowls of the neighborhood tomcats. Now there was drama from above, a seductive diversion from her thoughts.

“I suppose she’s been a bit . . . short with me lately,” Steph was saying. “But she’s been stressed about her mocks, and this big tournament . . .”

“Have you noticed her acting unusually, Mr. Harlow?”

“Not really.” Paul’s voice had a squeezed quality to it. “But I admit I’ve been kind of distracted myself.”

“Any particular reason?”

“You know . . . work . . . life . . .”

Emma thought of how self-contained Paul often looked when jogging alone by the river, arms pumping at his sides. So different from when he was running loose-limbed with Freya, or laughing as they got into the car. But the same could be said for Steph, when caught unawares. Emma had several times glimpsed her entrenched in thought, blinking out of a reverie when her daughter or husband appeared.

Emma’s chin jerked when she heard Paul add, “Sweetheart . . . can I talk to the officers alone?”

He’d spoken so quickly she wasn’t sure she’d heard right. The answering silence felt leaden, even from a floor below.

“What?” Steph sounded shocked. “Why?”

“There’s something I need to discuss with them.”

“Then discuss it with me too!”

“Steph—”

“I’m your wife! Freya’s our daughter! This isn’t the time to—”

“I know.” Paul’s voice was wound even tighter. “Except . . . I need to.”

Emma imagined what was happening in the spell of quiet that followed. Paul reaching toward Steph, trying to placate her? Steph staring at him in confusion? She could only picture Steph in her suit and Paul in his dark running gear.