Madison and her friends remind me of myself in college. Eager. Skeptical. Passionate. Clueless.

Every day I thank the stars that smart phones weren’t around when I was their age. Assuming all photographic evidence hasn’t been shredded or burned, there are probably a few blurry Polaroids of me still around, long forgotten in boxes in attics—evidence of my immaturity and poor choices.

The unfortunate bangs and hairspray combination. A misguided attempt to emulate Debbie Harry’s style with a bottle of peroxide and the kitchen shears. The time I decided to make out with a bottle of Jaegermeister and a guy wearing black lipstick. Shockingly, this was a terrible combination. Or the phase when Winona Ryder from Beetlejuice was my goddess and fashion icon. Before that, my Hanson obsession.

Thinking about all of the awkward times has me feeling nostalgic. I wonder what ever happened to all the stuff from my childhood room. Lost in memories, I drift into the in-between space of now and then.

Conjuring up the details of my old bedroom, I flop on the pink comforter on my canopy bed. The decor is my mother’s decorator’s vision of what a teenage girl would love if she were also a fifty-year-old gay man with a Lily Pulitzer obsession. Palm Beach preppy meets antique New England colonial furniture. It’s the perfect space for a hip grandmother. I never thought I’d miss this room.

“We need your help.”

“Are you there?”

“Can you hear me?”

My normal silence is broken by too many people calling to me. Three people is a lot for someone who is used to being ignored.

Ducking my head under the floral needlepoint pillow, I try to muffle them. Of course this doesn’t work, because their voices are inside of my brain.

“I’m trying to sleep in,” I mumble into the soft down covering my face.

“Are you hiding?” Sam’s voice slips through the din of the other breathers.

With a grunt, I shove the pillow off of my head and sit up. Disgruntled teenager comes easy to me as I fling off the soft blanket that magically appeared and then stomp around the room. “I’m here. Can’t a girl take a nap without interruption?”

I forget sometimes they can’t really hear me.

My old bedroom disappears and instantly I’m back inside of the brownstone’s library.

“Now what?” I don’t hide my annoyance or my bedhead.

I expect Madison to be in the library, but she’s not here.

Everyone else is gathered in the room, looking stressed and anxious. Andrew stares out the bay window; Tate speaks into his phone, his voice low and menacing; Sam stares at her tarot cards; . Geoffrey paces the room while his security guard, Smith, taps his phone’s screen.

Something is wrong.

“Alice,” Sam says, “if you can hear me, we need your help. Madison is missing.”

“How do you know if she’s here without Madison being able to see her?” Andrew’s voice is sharp, harsh.

Sam ignores his doubt. “Uh, ghost girl, please give me a sign you hear me.”

I flip a card, randomly revealing the empress.

“She’s here,” Sam tells the men.

“Tell her we think Madison’s missing.”

I can hear them. Obviously. What do they want me to do? I can’t just find her in a big city. I’m not a bloodhound.

“We believe this has something to do with the black book.” Geoffrey stops his pacing a few feet away from me.

I reach out to brush the back of my hand against his. He doesn’t react to my touch.

Black book. Missing Madison.

“I’ll be back,” I tell the group even though they can’t hear me. “Stay here.”

Standing on the threshold of the summer house is an unfamiliar older woman in a black and white uniform. She’s not one of the regular housekeepers. I’ve never seen her before. On the other side of the threshold stands Stanford Bradford with a tight grip on Madison.

I loathe him on a visceral level.

“Mr. Bradford.” She doesn’t sound happy to see him, but her enormous glasses hide most of her face, making her look like a bug.

“Shall we, Madison?” He holds another thick envelope in his hand, which he hands to the woman.

“Please come inside.”

Whoever she is, she’s not working in my family’s best interest.

“Thank you, Phyllis.” Stanford subtly shoves Madison forward.

Phyllis blinks and sweeps her arm in a welcoming gesture. Like a robot. “Follow me. I’ll show you to the library.”

She walks with a slight limp in her left leg and I’m certain she’s wearing a wig. A disguise perhaps.

“This shouldn’t take long, but we don’t want to keep you.” Stanford enters the library, leaving Madison in the foyer with Phyllis.

I fight the urge to create a distraction so Madison can run away, but I doubt Stanford came here alone.

“If you need anything, please let me know,” Phyllis whispers to Madison and then gives her a wink.

“Madison,” Stanford calls to her, annoyed.

“Thank you,” Madison tells Phyllis.

Inside, Stanford studies the shelves. I perch on the edge of one of the sofas, watching him in disgust.

Madison smiles when she sees me. I give her a wink to let her know I’m here for her. Pointing at Mr. Bradford, I stick my tongue out and pretend to gag. Then I pantomime stabbing him in the back as I shadow him, imitating his posture and walk.

My antics lighten the mood and I’m relieved to see Madison smile. We’re going to be fine.

“Are you a fan of books, Mr. Bradford? Your son and I met in English class. Did you know that? Andrew loves reading.” Madison speaks to Mr. Bradford, but it sounds like she’s relaying information to me.

I point at Stanford with a question in my eyes. He’s here for the book.

Madison confirms this with a subtle nod.

Using my finger, I pretend to make myself vomit.

I have an idea and I need back up. With a nod to Madison, I disappear.

Back in the Society brownstone, I search for Geoffrey. Without Madison acting as an intermediary, this might be an epic failure. I find him in his office, books and papers scattered across his desk. He’s sitting in the old, leather desk chair, facing the window with his hands knotted behind his head. At first I think luck is on my side and he’s fallen asleep already, but then he spins the chair to face the doorway.

His dark eyes appear weary, tired. Dark circles create shadows above his cheekbones.

“Oh, Geoffrey.” I press my hand over my mouth.

He blinks and swipes the heels of his hands into the hollows of his eyes. “Alice. What happened to you, my love? I thought I’d have answers by now. Instead, another woman has gone missing. It’s all my fault.”

When his voice breaks, my heart cracks.

“It’s not too late,” I whisper.

He leans his head against the chair, and I sweep my hand over his soft hair. I swear he presses against my palm.

“Come with me. Help me.” I press my lips to his forehead.

“I don’t know what to do. I put all of my hope into this group. I’ve failed them. Like I failed you.” He closes his eyes and exhales.

“No, we’re not going to let them win. Not again.” Focusing all of my energy, I whisper against his lips, “Sleep, my love.”