Mira knew Celine would jump, and, breathless, they had all watched her fall, her arms swanlike and delicate, a seamless line of honey hair and milk-white skin. Her body would appear right when they’d lost faith in her, when they decided to move on; that would be when she’d let her body go.

If a person could be defined by a singular instance, Mira would have described the moment she’d seen her jump. This was the girl from Mira’s childhood, daring and headstrong, but at the party, Celine had been so willing to conform in the hope of everyone’s approval. Mira tried to reconcile the woman she’d seen with the girl she’d known, but memory can shift in its recalling, making the past become not what one remembers but what one believes. Mira had always believed Celine jumped for the simple reason that she wanted to, but when she thought back she wondered how much of Celine’s actions had been meant only to prove to everyone she could.

Celine had asked Mira to stop by her room before the night was over, and while it was late, Mira decided to go find her. She walked back up the path to the house and, making her way inside, noticed how much the house had changed. Alden Jones had opted for a mix of antebellum and contemporary furnishings, giving the illusion of the era but with modern comforts. Flat-screen televisions mixed with antiques. Thick, velvet curtains darkened the windows. The main parlor had been converted to a check-in lounge, but because it was late in the evening and all the rooms in the house had been booked, no one manned the desk and the area was roped off. A sign marked the morning hours when the next attendant would be available along with a guest services number to call in the event of emergencies.

Mira passed a large white ballroom. Everything inside gleamed. White floors, white walls, all of it a blinding brilliance that refused to be ignored. Mira couldn’t remember this room from when she and Jesse had snuck in. Curious, she went to it, wanting to see what it had been made to be.

Along the walls were a series of portraits of the Woodsman family members. She tried to guess their names before checking the plaques below. Their eyes seemed to follow her as she walked throughout the room, her shoes making light clicking noises amidst the quiet. Mira walked to the center and stared up at the chandelier, its golden fixtures shining from the light. She stood across from the fireplace, above which hung a portrait larger than the rest of them, of Roman Woodsman. The man in the portrait was balding. Thick eyebrows overpowered his deep-set eyes. He had sunken, hollow cheeks, his skin a weathered texture. He sat upright in a chair, his posture rigid and his face straight ahead.