I should have said something. I should have articulated that memory is not neutral; that the silk robe, the box, the photograph propped on the shelf—they were mine now. But instead I made myself go downstairs. I had work to do. I had to be both invisible and indispensable.
That afternoon Angel asked to meet with me. She found me in the conservatory where I was arranging flowers for the evening. She approached like someone genuinely curious, eyes bright.
“Uriah,” she said, “may I help?”
Her voice was warm and open and it threw me off balance. I had braced for confrontation, or for a pointed question about the nature of my relationship with Conley. Instead she reached out to touch a stem and hesitated.
“You know,” she said quietly, “when I left, I worried this house would forget me. I ne
