At the top is a full-length mirror. I imagine a handful of girls reflected back at me—checking their outfits one last time before breakfast, their chapter meetings, or maybe even a date with Jay Kemp.

There are two hallways with doors down either side of the landing. I hear humming and the whirring of a hair dryer, a one-sided phone conversation, and canned sitcom laughter.

“Most of the girls are in class, but Katie’s this way.” Trudy gestures to the hallway on the right.

We pass an open door. Inside are two twin beds. The drawers underneath brim with cotton underwear and stiff, colorful T-shirts. There’s a dream catcher above one bed, a poster of Audrey Hepburn above the other—Breakfast at Tiffany’s attire, blowing blue bubble gum. But Trudy continues walking.

She stops in front of a closed door. Soft gray light shines through the crack above the floorboard, but there’s no indication anyone’s inside.

“Katie, honey.” Trudy knocks stiffly. “There are some people here to see you.” A muffled sound between a sigh and a hiccup. Trudy knocks again, and when there’s no answer, she arches an eyebrow at us.

“We can escort her down to the station or we can talk to her here,” I say.

Trudy takes a long moment, getting the shape of me, whether or not I’m serious and whether or not she should insist I come back with a warrant.

I can see every true crime TV show she’s watched and cozy mystery she’s read flash under her eyelids, while she tries to remember if there’s a protocol for this. What happens if she refuses? Aiding and abetting, she thinks, but then—that can’t be right. Obstruction, but she doesn’t even know why we’re here.

She withdraws a key ring from her pocket.

“I don’t like to open the doors without the girls’ permission, but since this is an emergency…” She lets the word dangle. We say nothing.

Knocks again. “All right Katie, I’m coming in.” A pause. No movement inside. She slips the key in the lock.

Katie’s room is bright. The lights are off, but the drawn white curtains at the far end do little to prevent the day from streaming through. String bulbs drape from the ceiling. There’s a white-lattice bedside table with matching cream lamps, fresh hydrangeas in a Mason jar, everything soft and delicate, more pillows and blankets than any one person could ever need, a purple rug on top of thin cream-colored carpet. It’s dream-chic, like something out of an Anthropologie catalog. The desks on opposite sides of the wall are littered with photographs and sheets of notepaper, a book held open by a stuffed owl, a porcelain bowl overflowing with loose change, lacy bras hanging off the knobs.