It wasn’t until the next morning that we were called into the shrine room. The space was heavy with people: all the girls were there, plus every staffer I recognized, and a few severe-looking adults I didn’t, who I think now must have been board members or similar. Sarah kept fiddling, twitching, squeezing her left thumb with her right fist as if it were a lever. Magda whispered incessantly to Colin. Harriet kept her back to us; Nisha couldn’t help but stare. Only Shastri Dominique looked calm, easy, her face empty, her hands gathered loosely in her lap.

We were told that Serena was missing. To the best knowledge of the Center, she hadn’t been seen for two days. She hadn’t taken a cab, she hadn’t appeared anywhere in town, or used a credit card, or made a call. We were asked to come forward with any information we might have. We were asked to think about the last time we’d seen her, what she had said, what she was wearing, or carrying. Her father was on a Greek island for the summer and couldn’t be reached.

About Luke they said nothing. At the time I thought this was a good sign. Now I suppose they just didn’t want to build a bridge between them.

But, wait: “Her father?” I whispered to Laurel. Gone, she’d said. Had I assumed? “What does she mean?” We hadn’t spoken much since that night; we had kept our distance, like thieves. There was too much to say. We couldn’t say anything.

Laurel laughed. It came out thin and shrill, and smelling like gin. People looked at us. “Did she tell you the story about the creamery?” she said. “Or the one about the houseboat?” She didn’t wait for me to answer. “The truth is that her father is alive and well and remarried to a nice wealthy woman named Karen, and they live in Los Angeles in a huge mansion, and they give the Center millions so Serena can keep coming no matter what she does, and so she can have the run of the place,” Laurel said. “How do you think she gets everything she wants? Why do you think she never gets in trouble? Why do you think they leave us alone? It’s because her dear old daddy basically owns it all. This whole program, Special Teen Retreat? It’s all for her. Her daddy bought it. He invented it.”

It was the banality of this explanation that hurt me the most.

“Poor Olivia,” Laurel said. “What will you do with your little comb now?”

My stomach twisted. She must have come across it that night she’d drunkenly gone through all my clothes. “I was just borrowing it,” I said.

“I knew it,” Laurel said, walking away from me. “From the beginning. I knew you were going to ruin everything.”