That had been true of Claire’s business, a dainty jewelry shop she’d set up at fourteen using only her phone and cheap supplies from Michael’s. Since that time she’d made good money—more than she could ever make at a minimum wage job like Eileen’s or Mom’s. Thousands of dollars and counting, which she was saving up for college. Thus far, she’d been a success.
All that success … to what end?
What was the point of a modestly successful Etsy shop if its profits had nowhere to go? Of succeeding as a budding entrepreneur if, in the end, you failed at the one thing that mattered most?
Ahead at the counter a woman with two screaming toddlers was screaming herself, telling a beleaguered worker how a post-Christmas delivery was “unacceptable.”
An Unenlightened Settler, indeed.
Claire’s eyes drifted from the drama to the limp, green tinsel garlands draped on the walls. Overhead, a near-dead fluorescent flickered. Behind Claire a man hacked a phlegmy cough. If hell was real, then it was a post office on December twenty-second.
Normally, Claire didn’t spend much time here. She had a system: pack and weigh mailers at home, print labels from the family computer, and ship packages weekly, on mailing day—a simple drop-off with no waiting, no hassle. Yesterday, though, on printing day, she’d discovered the printer was out of black ink.
Claire had her suspicions. She was sure Murphy was to blame. Excellers didn’t blame, though; they rose above. So here she was, rising above in the ninth circle of hell.
“Delusional,” she whispered again.
Delusional to come here today.
To think these bubble mailers of twenty-dollar infinity bracelets and threader earrings could one day save her.
To presume she could get in to Yale.
To imagine a life outside her dumpy town.
This didn’t feel like rising above. It felt like sinking down.
Down.
Down.
Claire had to focus. Her thoughts were spiraling, getting her nowhere. She opened her phone again, tapping on a familiar text thread labeled “Ainsley Internet.”
Claire knew her full name now: Ainsley St. John. Seven months ago, when the two of them had first met on an online Harper Everly group, she’d simply been username “AinsAGoGo.” She and Claire had connected over—what else?—their love for Harper Everly, both of them self-professed “Harperettes.”
Ainsley had commented on a post of Claire’s about good consignment shops in the Portland area.
I lived in Portland for fourteen years! Hopefully, these gems are still there:
Then Ainsley had listed those gems, and she and Claire had got to talking, tangent turning to tangent, and posts leading to DMs. That was how it had begun. They’d discovered their shared obsession with thrifting, The Great British Baking Show, and Bette Midler. They’d talked about growing up in Oregon, and how Claire was living in Nowheresville and Ainsley’s family had moved cross-country to Cleveland, which, according to her, wasn’t much livelier. They’d discovered they were both stressing about the SATs, and then they’d shared with each other that they were gay.
And that had been it. Claire, accustomed to crushing on unavailable girls at Emmet Middle and High, finally had a crush that could go somewhere. Sure, she and Ainsley had met on the Internet, but didn’t most people these days? And when no one at her high school was out, and simple statistics gave Claire slim odds for finding love in real life, meeting Ainsley felt … meant to be.
Ainsley was an Exceller, like her, bound for the same fate. They’d compared notes on the schools they meant to apply to, and when Ainsley had announced she was going to risk it by applying early action to Yale, Claire had decided she would too.
Delusional.
Temporary madness.
Claire had known how near-impossible it was to get into the Ivy League. Before meeting Ainsley, she’d planned on applying to state schools in big cities closer to home: PSU, UW, Cal State LA. Schools where she could get a scholarship, but she could also get out. Into a progressive city where she could be herself. Where she wouldn’t be a queer fish in a small, straight pond.
She wanted a new start. A haven.
A New Haven.
She hadn’t considered the East Coast before. It had seemed far-fetched. Ainsley had made it seem possible, though, and the more she and Claire had chatted, the more Claire had believed it was possible. Why not go all out, and take the risk? Yale could give her everything a big city could.
She’d thought she was being brave, not irrational. This was what Harper had promised: “Take the right steps, and your life will fall into place.” Claire had taken the right steps, from building a lucrative small business to working her butt off in school to slaying her SATs to bolstering her résumé with weekends at the soup kitchen. She only got five hours max of sleep per night, but that was how Excellers lived. Ainsley understood that in a way no one else had—a way that Eileen, for instance, never could.
And though, over the months of texting, Ainsley and Claire had remained in decidedly nonromantic territory, Claire felt sure Ainsley was thinking the same thing she was: Once they got to New Haven and met for the first time, sparks would fly.
So, okay, Ainsley had been posting for the last month about her girlfriend, Bri—selfies of the two of them in front of concert venues and food trucks. But that was only a momentary setback. A senior year fling. It’d be over by the time college began.
Claire had been holding on for that late August day when she’d show up on campus and say to herself, “All the work, it’s paid off.” She’d be getting an education and her first girlfriend, and she’d finally be free from the toxic stagnation that was Emmet, Oregon. She wouldn’t be dealing with sisters who asked annoying questions or gave her two years of the silent treatment. She wouldn’t be bitter about a Mom too busy with work to take Claire on college visits. Those bad parts of life would be over for good.
That had been the plan. Life had been all buoyant hopes and adrenaline, even throughout the nerve-wracking autumn months. When her spirits faltered, Claire told herself that Yale was going to happen. It had to, because she’d put in the work. She hadn’t lost faith.
Not until a week ago when she’d read her online rejection and ten minutes later gotten a text from Ainsley saying, YALE, BABY!
Claire hadn’t responded, because what was there to say?
A week later, she still couldn’t reply.
And what was she even doing, looking at the text?
Claire pocketed her phone.
“Delusional,” she said a third time.
Maybe she was.
Maybe college wasn’t happening, and Ainsley was another dream girl, out of reach, but the wait in this post office line had given Claire time to think. She’d made a decision: She would die before staying in Emmet another year.
In fact, she’d do a lot of desperate things.
SIX Murphy
Digging a grave was more difficult than the Internet made it seem. And this wasn’t even a regular grave.
Murphy had meant to get two feet down, but now she’d be happy to make it six inches. She looked to the sealed Tupperware container in which Siegfried lay wrapped in a holiday-printed napkin.
“Wanna pull a Lazarus for me?” she asked. “It’d make this easier.”
Siegfried remained dead.
He wasn’t the performer Murphy aspired to be. He was just a turtle who deserved better, and there was no magic trick that would bring him forth from his napkin burial shroud.
Murphy jabbed at the cold, hard earth. Maybe this would be easier if she had an actual shovel, instead of a garden spade. Maybe it’d be better if it were summer, and the ground weren’t caked in frost.
Maybe this wouldn’t be happening if she’d remembered to feed Siegfried like a good, responsible person.
When it came to choosing a burial site, Murphy had decided against her own yard. Neighbors might see and ask questions. Instead, she’d taken Siegfried of
f-site, walking a few street corners down to a place where no one would be: Morris Park. Here, a few yards into the tree line, down a loose gravel path, was a thick copse of evergreen trees.
Murphy figured it was symbolic: evergreen, the way Siegfried would remain evergreen … in her heart?
Yeah. Poignant. Siegfried deserved freaking poignancy.
The grave-digging was taking so long, though. Murphy had been here over half an hour and had hacked out only the barest outline of a square. It was getting dark. Dusk rested on the trees, and cold slithered beneath Murphy’s puffer coat, prickling gooseflesh from her skin.
It was silent.
Too silent.
In the summer the park was filled with joggers, barbecuers, yelling kids. Families gathered here for the Fourth of July, celebrating past midnight with sparklers and Bud Lights. In December, the park was a different place. A deserted chunk of icy ground.
Shadows gathered around the spruces and pines, forming deepening pockets of darkness where unknown figures could hide. Murphy hadn’t considered safety before. She’d only been thinking that the park was the nearest deserted, concealed plot of land.
Murderers and kidnappers probably thought that too.
Murphy staggered to her feet, wiping the dirty spade on her jean leg and picking up Siegfried’s coffin.
“Later,” she said. “When there’s more light.”
She set out from the copse in a nervous jog, keeping to the path, following it to the parking lot.
If someone were to kidnap her out here, Murphy wondered, how long would it take Eileen and Claire to notice? Hours? Days? Until Mom returned from the cruise?
Even then, they’d probably get over it fast. Mom had two whole other daughters. Claire and Eileen had each other for sisters. Murphy wasn’t essential.
I’m the spare tire of the family, Murphy thought, crossing the parking lot. No one notices me when I’m around. Who would notice if I were gone?
The lot was empty. There were no cars here. No one to see if gloved hands reached out, wrapped around Murphy’s mouth, and dragged her into the gathering shadows. A shudder drove through her spine like a metal stake.
It was a bad idea to dig out here.
A very bad idea.
In this deserted place Murphy’s jokes were pallid, powerless things. Her illusions were silly tricks, learned from library books titled Magic for All and The Art of the Con. Murphy wasn’t meant for deserted places. A magician couldn’t perform without a lively audience. Murphy was going to find that crowd eventually. It would require years of work to make it on stage, but she had what it took. The drama club advisor, Ms. Stubbs, had even confided in Murphy that she was the most talented kid in the group. One day Murphy would make it big.
In the meantime, though, she had to be careful about not getting randomly murdered. What a waste of fourteen years—the book reading, diagram studying, rope-trick solving—that’d be.
As Murphy headed for the poorly lit street, it began to mist. Raindrops stuck to her gloves. They lived for a second, visible droplets, before seeping into black knit. Murphy tucked her hands into her coat, where her turtle’s coffin sat snug between her ribcage and the coat zipper. She patted the Tupperware and sighed.
“Siegfried,” she said, “this is one screwy Christmas.”
DECEMBER TWENTY-THIRD
SEVEN Eileen
It was two in the morning and Eileen was eating a day-old donut, leftover from her most recent Safeway shift. She chewed while sprawled on her frameless mattress, raining sugar flakes on the wrinkled sheets. Her own private blizzard. And people said it barely snowed in the Willamette Valley.
It was pretty in a way, this everyday snowstorm. Two years ago Eileen would have chosen Titanium White and Pewter Gray from her acrylic set to do the scene justice.
Beside her rested a manila folder filled with several important-looking documents, which Mr. Knutsen had asked Eileen to look over carefully. The only document Eileen cared about was the paper with the address:
2270 Laramie Court, Rockport, OR
Patrick Enright’s house. Her inheritance. The way Mr. Knutsen had explained it, the house would truly be Eileen’s once Murphy turned eighteen. That’s when she and her sisters could jointly decide what to do: keep the house, or sell it. Until then, Patrick Enright had left behind enough money for Mr. Knutsen to manage the estate.
Mr. Knutsen had descended into legalese after that—mumbo jumbo about capital gains and property taxes. Eileen had stopped listening. She’d heard what mattered most.
Maybe it was the donut sugar blasting through her veins or the fading buzz of two shots’ worth of Jack Daniel’s. Maybe it was Christmas delirium, but there, on her bed, Eileen Sullivan was hatching a plan. Mr. Knutsen had scheduled a follow-up appointment with her, for after the holidays, but Eileen wasn’t one for appointments. Or waiting.
What she had was tonight. And tonight? She was going to Rockport.
She couldn’t shake what Mr. Knutsen had said, right before she’d left his office:
“Who knows what he’s kept locked away in there.”
“Sorry,” Eileen had said. “What?”
Mr. Knutsen had patted his sides and chuckled. “Patrick … well, he’s been the oddest of my clients, by far. Do you know, he found out about you by way of a private investigator? The PI’s findings brought Patrick down here, where he sought out my services. I’ve never had such a client: insisting on secrecy, informing me of his impending death—and I believed it, the man looked like hell. Directing me to not breathe a word to your mother and only send the letters out to you girls individually, when you were eighteen. Funeral? None. And a private burial. No relations or friends to speak of. Quite the eccentric.”
“Yeah, reminds me of someone.”
Eileen had been thinking of herself.
“As I was saying,” Mr. Knutsen had said, “it’s a mystery what’s in that house. Documents, photographs, antiques, maybe. Could be piles of junk. But he’s shut it all up. No estate sale. Left it waiting for you girls.”
On her bed, Eileen squinted in thought.
Documents.
Why would Mr. Knutsen have used that word? Not “knickknacks,” not “possessions.” He’d distinctly said “documents.”
Documents could mean answers.
Hadn’t Eileen’s troubles begun with documents? With the letters she’d found in the linen closet two years ago?
Documents could mean change.
The word pumped through Eileen’s heart, filling the ventricles, rushing in from veins and out through arteries: Ch-change, ch-change, ch-change.
She’d known the secret for two years. It had messed with Eileen’s head, fucking up everything—her art, her life at home, her will to do anything but drink in this drafty garage.
All because Eileen believed the secret to be true.
But what if.
What if Eileen didn’t have all the facts?
Patrick Enright. Her uncle. He had to have known the secret too.
And there were documents.
What if those documents told a different story from the ones she’d read?
Eileen hadn’t considered the possibility before. Now she craved it: a diary entry. A written confession. A letter to Eileen herself, left for her to discover—an inheritance of a different kind.
That was another thing: She’d inherited a house. So, best-case scenario, she got an answer to the question that had eaten her alive for two years. Worst-case? She was richer than she’d been a week ago. Either way, things were looking up.
This was ch-change, ch-change, ch-change.
It was after two o’clock when Eileen got up and filled a backpack with supplies: a blanket, socks, a thermal shirt, a refillable water bottle, Dubble Bubble, her flask of Jack Daniel’s, and lastly, the manila folder Mr. Knutsen had given her.
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse, and that was when Eileen crept out of the house.
Eileen owned a 1
989 Dodge Caravan. It was equipped with wood paneling, a red interior, and a finicky alternator. Eileen hated the Caravan with her whole heart. It sucked that you could work hard for three years and in the end all you could afford was something you hated with your whole heart. In fact, Eileen considered this reality the running theme of her life.
For the Caravan’s engine to start up, you had to turn the key in the ignition just so. Eileen had mostly mastered the trick of it, but every once in a while she had to try a second or third time through a primordial sputtering under the hood. Tonight she needed stealth on her side, so with one hand she crossed her fingers and with the other she turned the key.
The engine started.
Her lucky night.
Eileen drew her seat belt snug across her chest and shifted the van into drive.
This was it. She was leaving.
Fuck Emmet.
Fuck everything.
But first—one deep, long breath.
THUMP.
The sound came from the passenger window. On instinct, Eileen shrieked.
Then she saw who it was.
Claire.
Before Eileen could reach for the lock, Claire had climbed inside. She settled into the passenger seat, primly crossing her legs and facing Eileen.
“Get out,” Eileen ordered.
“No,” Claire replied. She jangled a foot, clad in a gold glitter Keds shoe. It sparkled up at Eileen. Actually sparkled. “What are you doing? Running away from home?”
“I’m an adult,” said Eileen. “It’s not running away, it’s leaving.”
“Sure.”
“Get out of my car.”
“If you’re road tripping, I’m coming with.”
“Why do you—”
Claire leaned in, revealing the painted contours of her cheeks. “Okay, Leenie, think. Think super hard. Who does the chores in the house?”
“No one. That’s why it’s a shithole.”
“Who does. The chores.”
The Sullivan Sisters Page 3