On Saturday, Michael arrived with a toolbox. He repaired the loose pantry panel, replaced the broken latch on the window, and installed a new lock on the back door.
When he finished, he stood in the middle of the kitchen.
“Anything else?”
Eleanor looked around.
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Take down the camera.”
Michael froze.
Eleanor pointed toward the small device near the bookshelf. It had been installed months earlier, supposedly to monitor the front door.
“I forgot that was there,” he said.
“I didn’t.”
He removed it immediately.
“Do you want me to throw it away?”
“No. Keep it.”
“Why?”
“So you remember what trust is not.”
Michael nodded and placed the camera in the trash.
Then he came to sit beside her.
They watched the late afternoon light move across the floorboards.
“I found something,” he said.
Eleanor looked at him.
“A box in the apartment. Dad’s things.”
Her hand paused over her teacup.
“Your father’s?”
“Photographs. A watch. Some letters. I thought you might want them.”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t have to decide today.”
Eleanor looked toward the blue chair.
“I found one of his letters.”
Michael went still.
