You've heard of these groups - the secretive ones that only the crème de la crème are invited into, the ones outsiders speculate about for centuries - I'm the second in my family invited to attend, but to them, I'm fresh meat. New blood. New money, too. They think they'll elbow past me, that I'm here for their amusement, for them to walk all over, they'll find out soon enough that I'm not. I may look like one of them, with my designer bags and clothes straight from the Parisian runways, but I'm not. I'm here for answers, to take revenge for blood spilled on their centuries-old Persian rugs. I transferred here in search for answers about what happened to my older brother, who hightailed out of here, and my friend who seemingly disappeared into thin air. I certainly wasn't here for the attention of the star hockey player, regardless of how much he willed my eyes his way. I wasn't here for his scrutiny or his judgment or to read into his mysterious aura. I was here for the society, because only they held the answers I needed. That was, until I found out that in order to get those answers, I needed to to go through him. He's saying if I want in, I have to play by their rules, follow their lead. It's a game I'm willing to play. I may be the second person I know of to be invited into their society, but I'll be the first to make it out intact.

When someone tells you who you are, do you believe them? The first question the cops asked me was if anything out of the ordinary happened to me lately. When I woke up this morning in the room of a mental institution I couldn’t remember a thing – not my name nor how I got there. Not how I left or how I ended up in that interrogation room. The only thing I knew came from the contents inside my bag. A wallet, a student ID, a key that opened an unknown door, and two notebooks. They tell me my name. It matches my IDs. They tell me my story. I shut my eyes and try to piece it together, but can’t. They tell me why they picked me up in the first place. They thought I was my sister. My brain stays stuck there. I try to rewind and fast-forward, as if my memories were on a videotape, but it’s no use. I can’t recall having a sister. They put me back in the car and drop me off in front of a mansion they call The Manor and I discover what the mysterious key in my backpack opens the front door, and just as quickly wish I’d never unlocked it at all.

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