“You forget whose house you’re in.”

I didn’t.

I was reminded every time I walked under a camera.

Soon I noticed the door at the end of the second-floor corridor.

It had an old-fashioned keyhole but a new electronic sensor.

Celia called it Rosalind’s study.

After the funeral it had been locked, supposedly to preserve her belongings.

One rainy afternoon Pearl drew the same square and circle she had drawn on my résumé.