“So,” Mrs. Murphy said, taking a breath and straightening her back. “Murph’s things.” She smoothed her skirt. “I haven’t been able to deal with any of it. Between the will and insurance, changing credit cards and bank accounts, seems like I’m constantly arguing with someone, trying to straighten things out. It wears you down, talking to bureaucrats whose goal is to get you off the phone as fast as possible.” She heaved a sigh. “Well, at least that’s mostly sorted. Now there’s this. I’ve put it off and put it off, but it’s time for me to deal with it. But there’s so much stuff. I tried doing it myself, but I pick up one thing and try to decide what to do with it, and then another thing catches my eye and there’s a memory . . .” She hiccuped. “It’s exhausting. And where will it all go? We have no children, so . . .” Her voice trailed off. Emily could imagine herself in Mrs. Murphy’s shoes—childless, widowed, and staring helplessly into the abyss that was Frank’s basement. “So I called you. I thought, if only I had help, and I had some way to remember the things that were his. Know what I mean? The picture-taking seemed like just the ticket. Then I might be able to get through it. Or at least make a start.”

“If you invite us in to help you,” Becca said, “how and what we do will be entirely up to you. We can stop whenever you’ve had enough. Because this is your life. Your home. Your memories. Once we see what’s here, we can give you a pretty good idea of how long it will take, from start to finish. But you make the rules. You feel as if you’ve had enough? All you have to do is say stop and we’ll stop.”

Mrs. Murphy took that in. She pursed her lips and nodded.

“So, let’s have a look, shall we?” Becca shifted to her brisk, take-charge voice and Emily felt herself relax.

Mrs. Murphy led the way down a hallway, past a bedroom and a bath, to a closed door. She pushed it open, then stepped aside so Becca and Emily could go in first. The room smelled of dust, old paper, and, yes, a hint even now of cigar. At its center was a massive oak desk, its top piled with mail and a drift of auction catalogues. Sotheby’s in Boston. T. E. Kalmus in Hyannis. The return address on an unopened envelope to Dr. Charles Murphy, DMD, was the American Dental Society.

“Okay if I take some pictures?” Emily asked.

“Be my guest,” Mrs. Murphy said.