She wondered what Clive would look like today if he were alive. Would age have been as harsh to him, or would it treat him kindly, as it had Eleanor? It was difficult to pair them together sometimes: Clive, who was forever frozen in his mid-forties, with dark hair and a bright smile; and Eleanor, silver and well into her sixties, though no less enchanting than the younger version of herself seated at the edge of the picnic table in the same photo. She stared at Clive with what appeared to be pure, unadulterated adoration. If Morgan could only be sure of one thing, it was the fact that if Eleanor really did kill Clive, she deserved a slow clap for her acting abilities.

In an hour, she had the whole album scanned and saved onto her computer, with each original photo returned to its designated sleeve.

Morgan cracked open the next album. It was wrapped in green leather. The smell of old books wafted toward her. The musky, woody, vanilla-y scent that reminded her a little of perusing a library. Not that she could remember the last time she’d engaged in that kind of behavior. Talking with Hudson the other day reminded her how much she missed the escapism books offered. The answers, the conclusions. Real life didn’t offer any of that.

The photos in the green album showed rolling emerald hills, heavy rain-filled storm clouds, and the Reynolds clan all wearing slickers as they explored what appeared to be the ruins of an old stone castle.

Morgan flipped through the pages slowly, feeling a foreign longing for a home she’d never been to. Her fingers traced the letters of a wooden sign: Welcome to Dublin. FÁILTE ROIMH DUBLIN. Her lips stumbled over the letters, her tongue tying itself into a knot.

The ache in her chest spread. To her stomach, her shoulders, down her forearms. Her hands shook as she struggled to turn the pages, allowing herself the brief and false nostalgia of placing her childhood self at the pub table between Carlisle and Cora as they snacked on fish and chips. Running down a hillside beside Bennett. Hands cupped as she fed a baby lamb. Getting her face painted at a festival with David. Arm in arm with the Reynolds children as they posed for a photo with a raven-haired boy and girl. She slid the photo out of its sleeve and read the note on the back. Written in Eleanor’s cursive was: With cousins Saoirse and Cillian (Uncle Gerry).

So they had family over in Ireland. Cousins, at least. Must be Clive’s side, she thought. Reynolds. That was an Irish name, wasn’t it? And then she remembered the coat of arms she’d seen above the fireplace: two mirrored tigers, a sword separating them, and the name Reynolds underneath in gothic lettering. How she’d admired it for its symmetry.