When I return to the living room, Margo is on the sofa, exactly where I left her. Her legs are crossed at the knee, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes fixed on Dad as he does his puzzle. He is so intent on it, that I wonder if the focus is a concerted effort to keep his mind sharp. He doesn’t look up when Margo leaves the sofa and joins me at the door.

“Not a great conversationalist,” she whispers as we move into the hall.

“What else is new?” I hitch my head toward the stairs. “There are boxes of photos in the attic. Look at them with me?”

I’m halfway up when I realize she is lower, slower, studying the family shots on the turret wall. “Funny,” she says when I join her, “you take one family picture, and it’s a novelty. The next year, you add a second and see how the kids have grown. By the next year, there are three pictures, and it’s become a routine. By the time you get four or five, you have a tradition. Family pictures are heirlooms, way more valuable than anything money can buy.”

“You have them.” I’d seen them myself, there on her living room mantel.

“Mine are candids, even selfies now. I hated these posed ones. Elizabeth took them.” She frowns at me. “Why was Elizabeth always the one who suggested it?”

“Was she?”

“Dad couldn’t have cared less. Mom liked them. Maybe she did it for Mom?” Margo climbs to another photo. “Annie smiles in every one. Was she that clueless?”

“She was innocent.”

“Did she not see that our parents were unhappy together?”

“Eventually. Obviously.” I lower my voice—not that there’s anyone around—but still. “Margo, did Mom say anything else the night she was drunk?”

“Not drunk,” Margo replies, rising another step to study the next picture, “just tipsy. If she’d been full-out drunk, I wouldn’t give as much credence to what she said.”

“Tipsy then. Was there anything else?”

“Like what?”

“Like … well, maybe about why she and Dad weren’t happy.”

“No. She was confessing, not analyzing. That’s your friend Chrissie asking.”

It isn’t. It’s me. But the instant passes. Continuing up the stairs, I head for the guest bedroom. I’ve barely unfolded the attic ladder when the warm air tumbles down.

“Whew,” says Margo from close behind. “Stuffy.”

“Yeah. But filled with goodies,” I sing as a lure and head up. The rain is steady on the roof, relegating the ocean to a distant roll. The smell of it blends well with the faint mustiness here. I don’t mind either today. They’re comforting in the sense of shelter.

Going straight to the box labeled Mallory’s Photographs, I open the flaps and lift as many prints as I can safely hold, then settle on the edge of Anne’s School Papers.