When I stepped through the door, a little sigh floated up out of me like a helium balloon. What a closet. It was about the size of my old bedroom, and the walls were lined with racks full of skirts, dresses, shirts, jeans, sweaters, and coats. The floor underneath the racks was stacked high with shoeboxes, each with a Polaroid picture on the front showing the shoes inside. Like the rest of the bedroom, it was a disaster—clothes tossed everywhere. My mom would have had a conniption fit if I’d treated my clothes like this, and that’s not even taking into account how much all of it probably cost. I couldn’t stop myself from picking up the most expensive-looking items and draping them over the tufted ottoman in the center of the room. There was some indescribable quality about the fabric, the stitching, the sleeves, and the hemlines that telegraphed how costly it all was.

Without meaning to, I moved to the nearest shelf, which was piled high with hats in countless materials and colors. My fingers grabbed a white straw fedora with a black velvet band, and I slipped it on my head. Then I picked up a pair of sunglasses—vintage Ray-Bans, by the look of them—and put those on.

I stared at myself in the mirror. My hair, in its choppy short layers that I hated (thank you, emergency room haircut), actually looked almost cute sticking out from under the hat’s narrow brim. For a second, I pictured myself in one of those photos with Agatha, along with the other well-dressed, perfectly made-up girls.

Oh, right, Margot. Totally. That’s what Agatha would do if she woke up—invite you on vacation.

I glanced at my reflection and felt ridiculous. My hands were like lead weights as I replaced the hat and sunglasses.

Then I wandered back out to the vanity. The boat picture had fallen out of its position, so I wedged it into place.

I looked over the surface of the desk and saw a spiral-bound notebook, like a journal, monogrammed with a silver-foiled A on the front cover.

Every muscle in my body resisted as I reached toward it. This was none of my business. This had nothing to do with me. It was a horrible violation of Agatha’s privacy . . .

But I flipped it open anyway.

What I saw made me shrink back.

There was a lot of writing on the page—it was almost covered. But the penmanship was scrawling, unsteady. Words were randomly capitalized and repeated. It was the work of a person not in their right mind.

And the words on the page:

The Moral Sense of the world world world is Reflected in the Individual SOUL, and Only with the greatest CARE can we avoid avoid the Descent into the DARKEST and Most Vile tendencies of human Nature.