“October sixth,” Blythe interrupts. “The anniversary of the day Lillian Archwell went missing.”

  Something in my gut tingles as I gaze at the girl in the picture. Her face is starting to change, to sink into something else. Then I see it. Death. The familiar grin is plastered over the girl’s soft smile, overshadowing the warmth in her eyes.

  “Lillian was my grandmother’s sister,” Rory says reverently. “Grandmother Adeline didn’t talk much about her. It seemed like it always made her sad.”

  “I can see why,” Veró says. “Did they ever find her?”

  “I . . . I . . .” Rory stammers. “I don’t know . . . I always thought she had just died young. No one ever said that she disappeared . . . Adeline must’ve hung on to this paper for all those years.”

  “If this was your grandma’s paper, then how did it wind up in here?” I ask.

  “It’s with the rest of the Lilies stuff,” Rory explains. My blank look cues her to reveal more. “The Lilies Society was named after Lillian. In memory of her, I guess.”

  “Oh . . .” I say, “. . . uh . . .” I don’t quite know how to respond. I can tell Rory’s moving through some kind of feeling, but her face is too pinched for me to read it. Maybe she’s inherited some family grief. Or maybe what she just told us was supposed to be secret. Maybe it’s both. I study her profile and wonder if she was the one who decided not to invite me to join the Lilies. If Grandma Simmons helped start the secret society, then she must have known Lillian Archwell. I shudder a little, wondering what else I don’t know about my grandma’s history at Archwell Academy.

  “And now Charlotte is missing,” Veró says. “And the last time anyone saw her—”

  “—was the same day that Lillian disappeared,” Blythe finishes the thought, then keeps reading. “‘With no sign of foul play, the students of Archwell Academy are left to wonder how one of their own might disappear without a trace. Evelyn Smith, a close friend of Ms. Archwell’s, commented, “We love her dearly and we miss her every day.”’”

  I look back down at the picture of Lillian. Death is still looking back at me. I suppose I should thank Rory for excluding me from the Lilies. I don’t want to be a part of this legacy.

  “First, Lillian,” Blythe says. “Now, Charlotte. I don’t get it. Girls don’t just vanish out of thin—”

  Brrrrriiiiinnnnnggg!

  Before she can say anything else, the closet is flooded with a shrill noise. I turn and face the alarm clock on the shelf, still set to midnight. It’s vibrating. A very literal reminder that time will never stand still, not even in infinity. Its little hammer device strikes the alarm bells at a deafening decibel. I reach out and hold the clock still, pausing the little hammer, which silences the alarm.

  “Sheesh,” Blythe says. “Didn’t expect that.”

  Brrrrriiiiinngg! Brrrrriiiiinngg!

  Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!

  Brrrrriiiiinnnnnggg!

  The closet erupts with the wails of every alarm clock in the collection. We start to scramble. All of us trying to make the noise stop. Rory punches a 1950s-looking flip clock again and again but it keeps screaming. Veró is busy trying to locate the old-school gears of every clock within her reach, but her hands are shaking too hard. The closet is just too loud. Blythe bangs another clock with alarm bells on top against the shelf to try to break it, but it just creates a loud repetitive Clink! Clink!

  Twelve o’clock. Midnight. The last time I saw my roommate. My last moment with Charlotte. My brain took me elsewhere, to somewhere dark and unknown. Somewhere I don’t want the others to see. Whether or not I have Rory’s approval, I have to interrupt the loop. I have to keep the others from finding out what I did.

  Brrrrriiiiinngg! Brrrrriiiiinngg! Brrrrriiiiinngg! Brrrrriiiiinngg!

  The sound rattles my mind and the memory that I’ve kept at bay for so long comes roaring back. Everything red and black. The cold floor. The red box. Charlotte’s hair spread across the tiles. How red her blood was against the delicate corner of her mouth.

  Bong!

  The grandfather clock joins the chorus.

  Bong!

  But my mind is elsewhere.

  Bong!

  Shaking Charlotte’s rigid body.

  Bong!

  Thrashing her.

  The closet door flies open.

  It’s time to do it again, Drew, Death whispers to me. And it’s almost your turn.

  At first, the terror of what happened twisted everything up. I barely recognized their faces. Adeline and Evelyn became ghoulish, barely shadows of their former selves.

  But when I learned how the loop worked—when I finally understood that memories decay just like everything else—it started to all make sense. After that, reliving the horrors of that night didn’t scare me anymore. They just made me angry . . . and that anger made me do things.

  There were limits to what I could do, of course, but the safety of the closet became a means of playing with time’s fringes. I started to arrange things. First, the diary. Then, the pipe from its hiding place in Adeline’s bedside table. When I lived the memory again, I found another one in the same spot. An exact replica. How strange it was to return to my closet and find that the one I’d stolen was still safely tucked away. I tried to keep anything that would eventually reveal the truth. But time has a funny way of erasing people’s stories. Well, some people’s. And it didn’t make an exception for me.

  But even so, there’s hope.

  Some people have a gift: an ability to see beyond the boundaries. A capacity to unlock what is deeply true.

  Others are too afraid to really look. To see themselves for what they are. They’re too afraid of what time will do to them . . .

  13

  Rory

  I hate the sound of alarm bells, the collective blare of the closet’s hundred clocks. I try to block it out by pressing my pinkies against each ear drum. It’s something I used to do as a kid. When things got too scary, when I was alone in here for too long, I would plug my ears and spin around and around. I spun so fast that the corners of the closet would soften into a continuous, curved line. The four walls around me would become a circle. Then, when I could feel I was about to fall, I would stop in my tracks, crouch down, and shut my eyes tight. Being off-balance was a great distraction, as long as I was still in control.

  When I realize the clocks in the closet have finally silenced themselves, I remove my fingers from my ears and find that a new noise has replaced the alarms. A low, growing hum is creeping in from the open closet door. Voices and laughter mingle with a strain of music threading throughout the chatter. Piano, guitar, and a woman’s twangy vibrato keep four-four time.

  I can’t forget you. I’ve got these memories of you.

  It’s an old country song. An unusual choice for a party, but it’s definitely memorable . . . Memorable enough that I don’t have to leave the closet to know where the loop has led us this time.

  Veró is the closest to the door. Slowly, she takes one step beyond the closet’s threshold. I watch her head swivel, processing the scene. Then she turns back to the rest of us cowering in the dim.

  “It’s different,” she stage whispers. It’s the only way she can be heard over the hum of the crowd. “We’re in the same spot but . . . it’s all different.”

  “What do you mean?” Blythe says.

  “Come look.”

  We follow Veró out of the closet. The door unceremoniously snaps closed behind us. No going back now . . . but at least I know what’s coming. I remember being here.

  The closet has ejected us into the same spot on the library mezzanine. But this time, the wrought-iron railings are looped with flower garlands and banners in the school colors. Outside, the sky is a deep blue-black, but the library is ablaze with the glow of iron chandeliers and votive candles in glass jars. I look down from the balcony onto the banquet tables where the candles are laid. Each one is decked out with forest-green tablecloths, fresh lilies, and black-eyed Susans. Between the tables is a sea of girls, each in their Founder’s Night whites. It’s a flood of ivory gowns, eggshell cocktail dresses, and pantsuits the color of snow. It’s Founder’s Night exactly as it happened three days ago. But it’s a new memory altogether.

  I check the clock above the circulation desk. 9:12 P.M. OCT 6.

  The party is in full swing.

  “Shit,” Blythe breathes.

  “It’s weird,” Drew says, leaning closer to the railing. “I half expected to come out of the closet and have it be . . . I don’t know . . . either back where we started at five o’clock or—”

  “Midnight,” Veró says. “All of those alarms were set to midnight . . .”

  I nod. I understand the thinking, but I don’t mention to the others that I knew better. The song playing over the buzz of the crowd already told me what time it was. The singer’s lilting tone makes me shudder.

  She’s whining, almost begging. I resist the urge to plug my ears again. I’ve heard enough begging in my lifetime. Every year at initiation, there are girls who have bad trips. Every year, there are girls who want my help escaping from their memories. But I can’t help them. Once sand hits your bloodstream, you are at its mercy. All you can do is ride it out.

  I take a deep breath and try to tap back into what it means to be Rory Archwell. But that song. This place. This memory, again. I’m not in control, no matter how hard I try. And that scares the hell out of me.

  “It’s my memory this time.” Blythe’s voice is battering, the sound of a trapped bird’s wings against a windowpane. “It’s mine. I know it.” She backs away from the railing, resting the weight of her body against the closed closet door. Before she starts to crumble all the way, I grab her hand and squeeze it tight. I feel the stones of her Lilies ring press sharply against my palm, imprinting a tiny infinity symbol into my skin.

  “It could just as easily be mine,” I say. “Seriously . . . it might even be possible that . . .”

  “That what?” Drew asks.

  I look at Blythe and then down at the swirl of girls in white. “Blythe’s and my worst memories. They . . . might overlap.” The others look a bit confused by my suggestion, but I don’t get into the details. I probably shouldn’t have said anything. I press on before anyone can ask any questions. “We won’t know until we get deeper into the loop and let the memory run its course.” I try to sound convincing. If the others sense that I’m scared, this whole thing might go off the rails.

  “What about trying to shift things?” Veró asks. “I think it’s worth it if it means we can all break out of this cycle.”

  Oh boy. I was afraid of this, but I guess I was expecting it. “Trust me,” I say. “I know how this works. I can get us out of here. But we all have to agree to stick to the original plan, okay?”

  Saying “I know how this works” is only a half-truth, but the others seem to at least half believe me. They nod in agreement, hesitantly.

  There’s a fine line between a half-truth and a lie. But I’ve learned from my mother that even lies have a purpose. She taught me that Lilies need to lie.

  The night before I was initiated, she called me into her office. The room was dark except for the desk lamp. Its low glow bounced off her nails as she drummed them against the mahogany desk. I knew about the Lilies Society already, but she’d called me there to tell me one more secret. The secret behind their name, the lie that started everything. When she told me, she kept her face in shadow, so I kept my eyes on her hands instead and pretended like I didn’t have any questions. After she finished telling me she said, “Archwell was founded to keep girls safe and help them get ahead. As an Archwell woman, you stay a step ahead, even if that means stretching the truth. Understand?”

  “Yes,” I said, trying not to shiver.

  “You’ll be leading the Lilies someday,” she said. “Just like I did and my mother before me.”

  Now it’s on me to step up and lead. If I don’t, then someone is going to try to change what happened on Friday night. They’ll keep tripping wires, resetting the loop over and over, until infinity collapses in on all of us.

  “Listen, we should just get moving and try to get through this as best we can,” Drew says. “Let’s at least see what we’re dealing with, right? Blythe, you good to go down there?”

  “What about our clothes?” Blythe asks. “If things have to play out as they really happened, we’ll be out of place in the memory. Won’t the loop reset once someone notices we’re in our day clothes?”

  “Oof, good point,” Drew says.

  I glance around at all four of our outfits. They are midterm chic but they are not right for Founder’s Night. In blue, black, and brown, someone will spot us right away. But Lilies can always find ways to hide in plain sight.

  I take a closer look at Blythe’s ruffled collar. “Your blouse is white. You can probably get away with that if you keep it low-key and try not to draw attention.”

  Looking down at my clothes, I make the executive decision to slip off my Archwell blazer and lay it on the bookshelf behind me. “This dress is off-white but I think it’s passable for now.”

  Veró takes off her black hoodie to reveal her white collared shirt with little black astrology symbols stitched into a design. “This work?” she asks.

  I nod.

  Drew takes off their uniform blazer and their long-sleeved oxford shirt. Underneath they are wearing a plain white tee. I can see the outline of their binder beneath the thin cotton weave of the shirt, but I don’t say anything. At least it’s white. Hopefully, if we stay mostly out of sight, no one will notice.

  We edge over to the stairs and down to the library’s main level. The music switches to something slightly less ancient: Frank Ocean. The chatter in the room grows louder. Laughter bounces off the vaulted stone ceiling.

  At the bottom of the spiral staircase, two sophomores are sucking face in front of the emergency exit. I don’t know their names, but I recognize one of them from Ms. Faulkner’s theatre club. The other one is wearing a white spaghetti-strap maxi dress with a slit up to her thigh. I can tell from the way the fabric shines in the red light from the exit sign that the dress is real silk.

  “Don’t mind us.” Veró smirks as we creep past them.

  “Carry on,” Drew chirps. As soon as we’re out of earshot of the couple, they mumble, “If I have to relive someone’s worst memory, at least it’s a gay worst memory.”

  Veró laughs but Blythe doesn’t. She has other things on her mind. I’m willing to bet we’re worried about the same thing: How will the others react when they see the Lilies initiation? Who will they blame when they watch what happens to Charlotte? I try to ignore the feeling that’s winding its way around my chest. I push ahead of the group and lead us onward.

  We round the corner of bookshelves and find ourselves at the edge of the main atrium. The temporary stage and podium are to our right. The stage is encircled with flower arrangements, each carefully crafted into Archwell As. Next to it is the Alumni Association table, where about thirty or so older women, also in white, are cackling over their champagne flutes. Their diamond rings sparkle in the low light, each a tiny infinity. I recognize some of the women from my mother’s board meetings and donor meet and greets. Ms. Attmore, Class of ’75. Ms. Williams, Class of ’81. Ms. Livingston, Class of ’01.

  “We better move,” I murmur to the others. “When the alumni get drunk, they like to give advice.”

  I try to be strategic with our moves, skirting around the edge of the crowd. We wind up over by the tables reserved for the class of 2025. I keep my gaze lowered, careful not to make eye contact with anyone. I can’t have any of the juniors recognizing me. Instead, I focus on the dresses: a beaded flapper style with fringe, a long-sleeved wrap dress with a midi skirt, a sequined asymmetrical style with an off-the-shoulder cut.

  Then in the crowd, I hear someone say it. Their voice is lower than the room’s chatter, but I still hear it clear as a bell. “Ut sacram memoriam.”

  I lift my gaze in time to see someone pull on a dark green robe over their lacy minidress. From this distance, I can’t quite make out who it is, but I know it has to be either Shelby or Courtney. Both of them are Lilies. Both wore identical lace minidresses to Founder’s Night: an unintentional but minor fashion snafu.

  The gathering will begin soon. I remember Friday’s initiation started at ten o’clock.

  Before I can follow the girl in the Lilies robe, she’s gone. I stop in my tracks, scanning the expanse of candles and beauties.

  “Where are we going exactly?” Veró hisses in my ear over the noise of the crowd. “Should we be following you or Blythe? Whose memory is this?”

  “Not sure yet,” I lie again. “Just be patient. We need to be careful and make sure we don’t derail anything.”

  Someone knocks against a nearby table and there’s the sound of broken glass and the smell of spilled champagne. A lone lily falls to the floor and is trampled. A group of nearby freshmen breaks into laughter.

  Then I hear the words again, this time louder. “Ut sacram memoriam.”

  I crane my neck and search the crowd for another girl in a green robe. I know where we need to be. The others just can’t know it yet. If I can just hold on to the secret for a few more moments . . .

  Someone bumps into me from behind and I wince, ready for the loop to suck me out of time and rearrange me back into the closet. But nothing happens. I look over my shoulder and find Drew and Blythe looking even more shabby than I realized in their barely passable Founder’s Night whites.

  “Where did Veró go?” I ask, anxiety straining my voice.

  Drew says nothing. Blythe’s eyes bounce around the crowd. “Maybe she saw something she wanted to check out,” she says.

  Shit. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I’m supposed to lead them. I’m supposed to stay in control. Losing Veró is a liability. If she tries to find Charlotte, tries to shift the memory, the loop will definitely reject it. And what then? We’ll end up right back where we started but in a much worse position: one where infinite memory starts to erode the mind, as the Lilies say.