She nervously glanced at a photo on the shelf of the author. Essie wore a blue evening gown with embroidered birds on the shoulder. Her round glasses had lenses as dark as licorice, and her trademark patterned silk scarf was tied around her sharp black bob. Tangerine orange was her preferred lip color. She once attended all the best parties and award ceremonies, and her fans voted in droves for her to win the global Constellation Writing Prize ten years ago.

And then, on the eve of the Constellation after-party, Essie vanished.

Post-award interviews were canceled, and journalists were left hanging. Speculation raged—was she ill, what had happened, where was she? As the months ticked by, her fans clung to the hope she might emerge from hiding to grace a local bookshop or appear on TV. But Essie hadn’t been seen in public for a decade.

Liv always wondered how and why things changed so dramatically for the author. Why would someone with the world at their feet cut themselves off from society? Now that would make a great story.

Unable to resist the lure of the manuscript, Liv sat down cross-legged on the carpet and began to read the first chapter. She’d always had a vivid imagination, allowing her to slip into books and become one with the characters. The room and the photographs faded away.

Aware of nothing else but the story, Liv kept on turning the pages.

Georgia swallowed her worries away as she strode into the airport. Old-fashioned fans rattled on the ceiling and did little to circulate the stifling heat. It was a tiny place with a dusty track for a runway and two propeller planes on standby. She gripped the handle of her battered leather suitcase, full of trepidation. She’d traveled the world, and been on many adventures, but this time her throat was scratchy and her anxiety was rising. “I’m not sure where I’m going, or what I need to do,” she said aloud. “Is there anyone who can help me?”

“Olivia. What on earth are you doing?” a woman’s voice said.

Liv’s bookish world snapped away and her cheeks flooded with color. Essie was the only person who used her full name. How long had she been standing in the doorway?

Liv frantically gathered the pages of the manuscript together before realizing they weren’t numbered. Questions rumbled in her head about what she’d just read. Where was the warmth and fun in the story? Where was Georgia’s usual quick wit and confidence?

Her eyes crept fearfully toward Essie’s beige Tory Burch pumps, up her slim black trousers and silk blouse, before reaching the patterned Hermès scarf in her hair and her narrowed eyes. “Essie, I’m so sorry,” she spluttered. “I started to read and couldn’t stop.”