Back home, dusk softened the mansion into a place of shadow and soft light. I was behind the scenes when I heard Conley and Angel’s voices down the corridor, a softer exchange than I expected. I paused with a tray in my hands and listened: laughter, a memory being shared, then a low, darker sound that could have been anything. I told myself not to translate noises into betrayal. The house hummed with overlapping claims; my job was to archive them, not to melt into them.
Still, the vulnerability of visibility had a cost. On my way to the study I found an envelope on my desk—unmarked, heavy. Inside was a single photograph folded once. I recognized the vantage immediately: a discreet angle from the terrace, a flash captured in motion. Conley’s arm looped around Angel’s waist, his head tipped
