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street. A wave of dizziness rolled over me.
    “Stop. Wait. I don’t know if I can do this, Matilda.”
    “Do what, Cassie?” She turned to face me, the red flowers framing her face, setting
     off her red hair.
    “This, whatever
this
is.”
    She laughed. “Why don’t you find out what
this
is and then make up your mind—how about that?”
    I stood still, my palms soaked in sweat. I resisted wiping them on my dress.
    “You can say no, Cassie. I’m only offering. Ready?” She seemed bemused more than impatient.
    “Yes,” I said, and I was. Enough equivocating. I shut off my reluctant mind, or rather,
     I opened it.
    Matilda led. I followed. My eyes were drawn back to the ivy-covered mansion and its
     riotous garden. April in New Orleans meant vines and flowers in full bloom. Magnolia
     trees blossomed so quickly it was like they had thrown on ornate ’50s bathing caps
     overnight. I had never seen a garden this lush, green and vivid.
    “Who lives there?” I asked.
    “That’s the Mansion. Only members are allowed inside.”
    I counted a dozen dormers, ornate ironwork suspended over the windows like lace bangs.
     The turret was topped with a white crown. Though it was all white, it had an eerie
     feel, like it was haunted, but perhaps by very attractive ghosts.
    After we reached the coach house and Matilda entered yet another security code, we
     passed through a big red door and were inside. I was hit by a blast of air-conditioning.
     If the exterior was nondescript and blocky, the coach house interior was a study in
     mid-century minimalism. The windows were small, but the walls high and white. On them
     hung several stunning floor-to-ceiling paintings of vivid reds and pinks, dotted with
     yellows and blues. Tea candles flickered on the windowsills, giving the place the
     atmosphere of an expensive spa. I relaxed my shoulders, which had been hunched up
     to my ears. Nothing bad could happen in a place like this, I thought. It was so pristine.
     At the end of the room stood a set of doors that must have been ten feet tall. A young
     woman with a sharp black bob and black thick-rimmed glasses stood up from her desk
     and greeted Matilda.
    “The Committee will be here shortly,” she said, rushing around the desk to grab the
     groceries and flowers from Matilda’s hands.
    “Thanks, Danica. Danica, this is Cassie.”
    Committee? Was I interrupting a meeting? I felt my heart fall into my stomach.
    “So nice to finally meet you,” Danica said. Matilda gave her a stern look.
    What did she mean by
finally
?
    Danica hit a button below her desk and a door opened behind her, exposing a small
     brightly lit room lined in walnut, with a round plush pink rug in the center.
    “My office,” Matilda said. “Come in.”
    It was a cozy space, facing a lush courtyard, with a glimpse of the street just visible
     beyond the gate. From her office window I could also see the side door of the imposing
     Mansion next door, a maid in uniform sweeping the steps. I took a seat in a wide black
     armchair, the kind that makes you feel like you’re being cradled in King Kong’s palm.
    “Do you know why you’re here, Cassie?” Matilda asked.
    “No, I don’t. Yes. No, sorry. I don’t know.” I wanted to cry.
    Matilda took a seat behind her desk, rested her chin in her hands and waited for me
     to finish. The silence was painful.
    “You’re here because you read something in Pauline’s journal that compelled you to
     get in touch with me, is that right?”
    “I think so. Yes,” I said. I looked around the room for another door, one that could
     lead me to the courtyard and away from this place.
    “What is it that you think compelled you?”
    “It wasn’t just the book,” I blurted out. Through the window I noticed a couple of
     women entering the courtyard gate.
    “What was it, then?”
    I thought of my couple, their arms entwined. I thought of the notebook, of Pauline
     backing towards the bed, and the man—
    “It