I knew she would work it out. I used to follow her, a shadow that she never saw. I knew she bought a hot dog and a coffee for the homeless man on the footbridge every day, and reported the bins when they were full. I knew she cared.

I didn’t mean to use her and didn’t intend for anyone to die, not even him.

All I wanted was to see inside the places that were shut off from us. All I wanted was to touch the velvet chairs and smell the lilies in frosted vases and bask in the cerise lighting—to know how it felt to be on the other side.

But that couldn’t, wouldn’t, happen. I knew that all along because of everything my mother told me about how the world worked—how there were people like them and people like us. And how we weren’t welcome.

You see, to unlock the door you needed someone on the inside. That was the secret they didn’t tell you. You didn’t get in of your own accord, no matter how hard you tried. You had to get someone to open the door for you.

I could have read every self-help book, painted the most exquisite art, and all for nothing because I didn’t know that one simple little truth.

Once I knew it, everything fell into place.

---

Ladies and gentlemen, let it be known that I, Holly Waite, am finally inside the Montague Club.

And it’s every bit as sumptuous and bittersweet as I imagined it would be.

---