Nora Voss photographs the bereaved. Eleven years of sitting in living rooms with widows and orphans and parents who've buried children, making portraits of people in the worst season of their lives. Most photographers won't touch the work. Nora can't stop.

Because roughly one session in twenty, her camera captures something that wasn't in the room.

A hand on a shoulder when the subject was alone. A shadow with no source. Fingers laced through a widow's hands. Forty-three files in a folder on her desktop labeled "errors." She has never told anyone.

Graham Tierney calls on a Wednesday in November. His wife Claire died three weeks ago. He wants a portrait in their home, a Victorian on Birch Lane where Claire played Chopin on a piano by the fireplace every evening for thirty-two years while Graham read in the wingback chair beside h ...