Once you see a photograph of an apartment, that image becomes the reality—like the pictures of my clients’ children. It’s actually more important than the reality of what you see when you walk in the door. Viewing an apartment in person is similar to looking at your own reflection in the mirror. The information your brain takes in is malleable. Whereas pictures are fixed. They don’t shift as easily, because it’s one point of view. One moment in time. We tend to trust pictures.

Ian and his mother, Paula, followed me around, observing my work. Occasionally I allowed them to look through the viewfinder. Paula asked me questions as we went along. I explained how to create more space, higher ceilings, a sense of grandeur. It’s about the angle and the light. I was shooting from a kneeling position, corner to corner. And almost every shot included one of the mirrors hanging on the walls. “If you shoot a mirror from the right angle,” I said, “you can create another window, or a painting, or a room that looks twice as large.”

That evening, I sent Ian and Paula a few of the best shots. I had taken an attractive but drab apartment and turned it into a showpiece. My photographs could have appeared in any shelter magazine, and I say that with no hyperbole. With my lighting, that apartment transcended its limitations in terms of its size, scale, and design. I had created art. I had created an illusion.

On Friday evening I descended the exterior steps of the Straubs’ brownstone. Amelia had given me the combination to a small lockbox, which was mounted behind a hedge near the entrance to the garden apartment. Their front door key happened to be on a key chain with two other unmarked keys. I surmised one of the extra keys might unlock the garden apartment. I paused to see if I could detect any activity through the windows, but the lights were out and the shades were down. I had yet to ask the Straubs if anyone was living there.

I walked up the main steps and unlocked the Straubs’ front door. “Hello!” I called out. I was carrying two bags of groceries, which I brought to the kitchen and unpacked. I planned to make chicken Parmesan. The most mundane tasks, when performed in the Straubs’ kitchen, took on a magical quality.

Since the Straubs were out of town for two weeks, I’d planned four visits to their house, thinking I could safely spend a few hours each time. More than that might raise questions. I felt certain that Amelia and Fritz would be pleased for me to spend any amount of time in the house, but even so, it would be best to steer clear of gossip.