In 1938, Marla’s grandmother Victoria Chambers had lived in this house. It had not occurred to him until now that for all Marla’s love of history, he’d never once seen any pictures of her own family members. Most of the photos around the house were newer black-and-whites that Marla had taken herself, except for this cluster near the steps. But for someone who loved old photos—and someone who claimed to be so devoted to her family—there was not one single snapshot of anyone from Marla’s family. In fact, Marla’s mother had just died when he met her. Yet she didn’t have a single photo or album of her parents. He racked his brain recalling the odd ways that Marla avoided having pictures taken of herself through the years. Wedding photos? Nope. They’d eloped. He recalled once taking a Polaroid; she turned her head and it didn’t come out at all.

From Cecile Cabot’s diaries, he remembered that Cecile and Esmé could not be painted or photographed. The best way not to be the subject of a photo was to be the photographer. The other night at the gala—had Marla had her photo taken? No. At the last minute, she’d pulled him into the photo, replacing her.

Laughing to himself, he realized how brilliant it had been. She was always behind the camera, never in front of it. Now he felt downright stupid. He’d been so taken with her when he’d met her. She’d been sophisticated. He’d been so desperate to hang on to her. He had asked her about her mother once, and she’d become weepy, so he never pushed it. Why didn’t I push her? Because she was a damsel in distress.

An unfamiliar noise startled him, and his heart raced. He was about to sneak back down to the basement when he heard a latch open and then something drop. It took him a minute to realize it was the mailman. He peered out into the living room to see a neat stack of mail with a rubber band sitting on the floor in front of the door, just below the mail slot.

In the foyer, he padded past the mail pile and up the stairs. He was committed now. If Marla came home, he’d be trapped upstairs with no way out. He walked by the back bedroom—the spare where he had stayed at the end of their marriage. The room had undergone a transformation. It was as though she had erased every inch of the room that Ben had ever touched. Even the bed had been repainted white. The curtains were blue, the rug navy blue, and the room was now wallpapered in a floral pattern so busy that it would have caused him many sleepless nights.

“Jesus,” he muttered out loud.