A sick, heavy feeling filled my stomach as I slid the photo back into its spot. Then I looked at the pictures surrounding it—Agatha laughing in front of a giraffe at the zoo, Agatha staring into the distance with the Chicago skyline behind her, Agatha in a floaty white dress standing before an ivy-covered brick wall, Agatha and two other girls sitting in the bleachers of a stadium, bundled up in warm clothes with coffee cups in their gloved hands. The other people in the photos wore clothes as nice as hers, and their hairstyles and makeup were just as expert and expensive looking, but they all faded in comparison to the shining brilliance of Agatha’s beauty. She was like an angel surrounded by mere mortals.

No way could I compete with her, I thought, not pausing to figure out in what way I thought she and I were competing.

I stuck the picture back in its spot, then took a slow lap around the room, pausing to touch the delicate, silky shirts that were thrown on the armchair or the floor, crumpled piles of shiny black fabric that must have been hundred-dollar yoga pants or sports bras. What struck me the most was that none of these clothes, or the ones in the photos, were at all similar to the staid, conservative style of clothing she wore now. The clothing I wore now.

It seemed almost like this room contained the real Agatha, her life essence, while the girl who sat by the window in the nursery was just the shell that had once held her.

Why hadn’t they let her stay in here?

And why hadn’t they straightened up?

The floral bedspread was bunched up on the bed, pushed to one side. The exposed sheets were rumpled, and the pillow was still askew. On the nightstand were a water glass from which the water had evaporated, leaving a light film on the inside surface; a disconnected phone charger; and a book left open on its flattened pages—The Scarlet Letter. Above it, on a small shelf, the line of stuffed animals had all fallen over.

I knew I should leave. I had a suspicion—more than that, really—that if Laura found me in this forbidden, forgotten room, it might fracture however much of her trust I’d managed to earn. But I wasn’t that worried. I could see the front driveway and I’d have plenty of time to get out if they came back.

And I had to admit that I was starved for a glimpse of real life. I wanted to be reminded, for a moment, of what it had been like before my world imploded.

I saw a door on the far side of the room that had a hook on it, a hook that overflowed with purses in various sizes, and my brain pricked up like a dog’s ears.

Her closet.

I just wanted to peek.