“What?” Eileen snorted. “Look, Murph, we’re not telling Mom about any of this.”
“When did we agree to that?” asked Claire.
“You were the one who suggested it,” Eileen challenged. “When we first got here, remember? Don’t get on your Harper Everly high horse now.”
“I didn’t say we’d never tell her. Keeping it a secret wouldn’t be … emotionally healthy.”
“Oh, man.” Eileen slapped her forehead. “That’s right, I forgot, we’ve got an emotional health expert in our midst.”
No. No. The trick didn’t go this way. These were supposed to be warm, bonding memories, not fight fodder. Murphy had to act, to save the show.
“Who do you think Winifred belonged to?” she asked.
“Winifred?” asked Claire, frowning.
“The doll upstairs. I mean, if it wasn’t theirs …”
“What’re you saying, Murph?” Claire asked irritably. “Boys can’t have dolls?”
“Of course they can,” said Murphy. “I only mean—”
“Who knows about the doll,” Eileen cut in. “About any of it? We don’t because Mom never told us anything.”
Murphy studied her fingertips, calloused from the rope work. True magician’s hands. She wanted to say, When do you tell me anything? She wanted to say that a house wasn’t their only family inheritance.
That wasn’t the point of Cayenne Castle, though. The point was to get along.
“Hey,” said Claire. “Do you hear that?”
Murphy looked up, at attention. She listened hard for a sound and then concluded, “I don’t hear anything.”
“Exactly,” Claire said, in a low, rapturous voice.
She scrambled over the cushions, ripping back one of Murphy’s carefully hung sheets. Murphy blinked, adjusting her eyes to the light Claire had let in. It was bright, no longer shrouded by rain.
Murphy stared, openmouthed, out the sitting room window.
The storm had stopped.
A grand finale befitting her magic act.
TWENTY-FIVE Eileen
Finally,” Claire murmured, one hand pressed to the window. “Finally.”
She looked, quite frankly, unhinged.
“Calm down,” Eileen said. “It just stopped. Even if it doesn’t start up again, they’ll need time to clear the roads. Probably black ice out there.”
Claire turned back from the glass, eyes infused with zeal. “You said the Caravan needed a few hours to rest. Well, it’s had plenty of those. If not, we walk to the diner and ask Cathy to call a mechanic.”
“On Christmas Eve?” Eileen snorted. “I guarantee you, no one’s gonna be open until the twenty-sixth, at least.”
“Well, what if they aren’t?” Claire was growing fervent. “We’ll get an appointment first thing on the twenty-sixth. Mom isn’t back from the cruise until late that night. We’ll have the van fixed and get home before she does.”
Annoyance crackled inside Eileen, electric and volatile. She wasn’t sure why she felt irritable. Claire had a point, didn’t she? They had to get home, and what was left for them here, at the house? Eileen had searched those boxes and found nothing. What was the point of staying? Claire was right. So why did that piss off Eileen?
You wanted things to change. The realization sliced through her mind. You wanted to find something, or someone. You still do. You’d be happy if Mark Enright showed up right here, right now.
It was messed up, Eileen knew, to want a murderer to appear, especially with two sisters around. Claire and Murphy had nothing to do with him. They’d just come along with Eileen as annoying stowaways. That was why they didn’t understand. They didn’t know why this trip had been important to her.
Admitting that Claire was right would be the same as admitting defeat. William J. Knutsen’s letter hadn’t meant anything in the end, and all that was waiting for Eileen in Emmet were day shifts at Safeway and nights spent spiking her bloodstream.
Or at least, that was all that had been waiting.
Eileen was still trying to process what had gone down between her and Claire in the parlor. She’d told Claire something big—half of a big thing, anyway. About what had happened that night at the junior art exhibit, only a month out from the day Eileen had found the letters.
People are horrible, Claire had told her. You know they were wrong.
Claire didn’t understand, though, because she hadn’t read the articles Eileen had, about how wildly talented high school artist Mark Enright had slaughtered his father in their family home.
His blood. Eileen’s veins.
It had been clear that night, when Eileen had read the word on the notecard: “psychopath.”
Was she really? The artistic finesse and the twisted soul—were those both traits she’d inherited from dear old dad? Eileen had told herself not to be ridiculous. She cried when dogs died in movies, and sick kids, too. She wasn’t devoid of empathy.
Still, the next time she’d sat at her desk to paint a still life, her paintbrush had hovered over the canvas, faltered, and failed.
It was crazy to say out loud, but she’d felt him. He’d been breathing down her neck, and it had been his hand, not hers, holding the brush. Mark Enright had seized her until painting—this sacred, lifelong passion of Eileen’s—wasn’t hers anymore. It was his. Part of the sordid past contained in those letters.
She’d tried again and again to draw in charcoal, pencil, pastel. No medium had been left to her. Every last one was contaminated, because she was their poisoned root.
So Eileen had stopped trying. She hadn’t drawn anymore. She’d closed her portfolio, set it aside for good. She’d let the art school deadlines pass over her like distant planes, bound for destinations she’d never see.
If she tried to explain that to Claire, it would involve telling the secret. And Eileen had been close to doing just that when Murphy had shown up.
Would she really have told Claire about Mark Enright?
Would it have made a difference?
Then there was the other secret—the one Claire had confessed. Eileen couldn’t understand why the hell her sister would apply to an arts fellowship on her behalf. And Eileen had made it. They wanted to interview her.
Did that matter anymore?
Could it matter, if she let it?
Could she go home and face the question?
No.
That was it: She wasn’t ready to go home.
That’s why she wanted to wipe that hopeful smile off Claire’s face. Why she wished the skies would open back up and let out freezing rain for the next ten days.
She didn’t want to go home.
“Let’s go to the diner!” shouted Murphy, who’d unfortunately caught Claire’s enthusiasm. “It’s still sort of light outside. We can walk there—it’s not too far—and get some real food.”
“There’s real food in the pantry,” Eileen countered.
Murphy gagged. “Maggot food.”
“Because that bag was opened, and you don’t know for how long. The Pringles and Pop-Tarts were totally fine. Anything in a closed container will be.”
Murphy waved Eileen off. “Easy for you to say. You didn’t get a mouthful of bugs.”
“You just want cheese curds.”
Murphy gave Eileen a look that said duh, before asking, “How is this a bad plan? We get food, we get someone to fix the van, if it needs it. Then we go home.”
“It’s still icy out there.” Eileen motioned to the window. “And it won’t be light for long.”
It was true. The deep orange sun was already slipping behind the horizon of the bluff.
“I’ve got a better idea,” she added. “Let’s get a good night’s sleep. Then we’ll leave first thing in the morning.”
“We don’t know if the diner will be open Christmas Day,” said Claire.
“We don’t know if it’s open Christmas Eve night,” argued Eileen, grateful that her desperate points made sense. “I mean, we could
have checked the hours, but someone smashed their phone.”
Claire narrowed her eyes. “Someone else doesn’t believe in phones.”
“Another someone can’t afford one,” groused Murphy.
“Whatever,” said Eileen. “Point is, it’s not a good idea to go out. We don’t know if the storm’s let up for good, and we’ve walked this hill before—it’s steep. Covered in ice? We could break our goddamn backs.”
Claire peered at Eileen. “I don’t get it. Why don’t you want to get out of this place?”
“I do. I just want us to be safe.”
“Bullshit,” said Claire, shocking Eileen with both the curse and the insight. “What’s up with you?”
The electric crackles intensified, popping inside Eileen. “Nothing’s up. We just don’t need diner food when there’s plenty of stuff in the pantry. And we don’t even need a goddamn mechanic, okay? The van was never broken.”
She’d said the words in anger, in a rush. She hadn’t considered. Now it was too late, and they were out, circling the thin, linen walls of Cayenne Castle.
Claire blanched, staring at Eileen. “Excuse me?”
Eileen licked her lips. “I meant, it’s the Caravan. It’s always a little broken, so it never really is.”
“No,” Claire said slowly.” That’s not what you meant.”
Eileen had hoped Claire would let it go. She always saw the big picture, though, in the end.
“You told us the van was dead,” Claire continued. “You said it needed rest.”
She’d been found out. So why not drive the nail through this coffin fully? Eileen set her jaw. “Okay, fine. I lied about the van. Is that what you want to hear? I lied because, if I hadn’t, you would have forced us to go home. Just like you forced your way on the trip and forced yourself behind the wheel. Because you have to be in control of fucking everything. It has to fit into Claire’s perfect master plan. Only I’m not in your plan, and this trip wasn’t about you. It was for me. But you couldn’t possibly understand that, could you?”
“Oh my God.” The full truth had come to Claire, contorting every muscle of her face. She got to her feet, and when her head collided with a blanket, she ripped it down, ignoring Murphy’s squeak as she tossed it aside.
“Wow, Eileen. I’m the control freak, huh? I’m not the one who basically held her sisters hostage when we had a perfectly working van down the road. So maybe look in the mirror.”
Eileen snorted. “Yeah, whatever.”
“That’s your best comeback? Well, here’s mine: You get your wish. Clearly, you never wanted me or Murphy on this trip. It’s for you, right? So have it. Enjoy Christmas in this godforsaken house, all alone. Murphy and I are leaving.”
“W-w-what?” sputtered Murphy.
Claire didn’t wait around. She was out of the castle, out of the room. Then locks were turning, and she was out of the house. By the time Eileen had fought her way free of blankets, Claire was halfway down the front steps.
“What the hell are you doing?” she shouted after her, clomping onto the porch.
Claire wheeled around. “What do you think? I’m going to the diner, and I’m calling a cab. Because I’d rather blow my money on a freaking cab ride home than stay in this house.”
“It’s my van. I’m allowed to lie about it however much I want!”
Eileen knew she was acting batshit, but there was no way back from this place. She and Claire had dug their trenches. It was battle time.
“Yeah, keep your van.” Claire threw out her arms. “You stick around here, Leenie, as long as you want. Whatever you’re waiting for, searching for, it’s creepy. I’m not here for it, and neither is Murphy.”
Murphy was hanging at Eileen’s side, eyes wide. “I … I … ,” she stammered, patting inexplicably at her purple puffer coat.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with you, Eileen,” Claire said, “but figure it out, okay? I paid the expenses for your trip, and all you’ve done is look through those boxes for … what? What?”
Sparks showered in Eileen’s chest, igniting, exploding.
“Don’t you dare,” she said, through gritted teeth. Salt-gorged wind was biting her face and tears stinging her eyes. She stomped down the porch steps until she was a foot from Claire. “You paid expenses because that’s the only way you could come on this trip. You wanted to know what you’d inherited and how many Chanel purses you could buy with the proceeds. Which, spoiler alert, you won’t get till Murphy’s eighteen and we can sell the house.”
Claire tried to speak over her, but Eileen talked the loudest. “So stop being a self-righteous pain in my ass. No one asked you to come here. Or to apply to a fellowship on my behalf. Or to lecture me, when you’ve got enough goddamn problems of your own.”
“What problems?” Claire near-shrieked. “What problems do I have? Obviously it’s something big and bad, for you to move out of our room and pretend I don’t exist.”
Eileen scoffed. “You stopped talking to me. Because you thought you were better. With your makeup. And your designer necklaces. And your fucking Harper Everly videos. With your whole perfect life, all planned out. You wanna know your problem, Claire? You’re a self-righteous bitch.”
“It’s…” Claire seemed to be searching for words, but nothing came out. How could she fight what she knew to be true?
Then the uncertainty in her face disappeared.
“Fine,” she spat, and Eileen felt the heat of her breath. “If that’s what you think of me, fine. Better to be a bitch than a burned-out drunk like you.”
“You guys!” Murphy cried, at their backs. “Guys, stop.”
“Murphy, shut up!” Claire shrieked. “You don’t know anything about this!”
“But you—”
“MURPH, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, NOT NOW!” Eileen shouted, whirling around.
Immediately, she regretted it. Murphy shrank toward the house, looking small and terrified, like a hunted rabbit.
“Come on,” Claire called to her. “We’re leaving.”
But Murphy was shaking her head. “I’m not going anywhere. Not with either of you.”
She turned and ran into the house.
“Great,” Claire threw a hand at Eileen. “Great job.”
“Seriously?” Eileen laughed darkly. “That’s my fault?”
They locked eyes, and in one moment Eileen saw everything: pillow fights and late-night talks, confessions and reveals, sing-alongs and inside jokes, poolside chats in summertime, cafeteria lunches, and Cayenne Castle, and every moment they’d shared. She saw all that in Claire’s cold, blue stare.
The visions vanished. Claire had turned away, walking fast across wet gravel, headed for the road that led down the bluff to Rockport and, beyond it, a place far away from Eileen. Her messy bun bobbed in the fading light as she tugged her peacoat around her waist. She slipped once, nearly wiping out, but caught her balance and walked on vehemently until she’d descended so far down the road the horizon had eaten her up, and there was no remaining trace of Claire Sullivan.
TWENTY-SIX Claire
The damp air stuck to Claire’s cheeks, drawing out a shiver. She hadn’t thought to go back in the house for her scarf, hat, or gloves. She hadn’t thought to drag Murphy out, insisting she come along. She hadn’t thought, period. She’d been too angry for thinking.
Eileen had lied. She’d deliberately put them in danger, stranding them in a strange town. This entire time, the Caravan had been fine. They could have escaped before the storm hit and been safely in Emmet for Christmas. Instead, Eileen had kept them holed up in that house … for what? What could she have possibly hoped to find in those boxes?
Claire had come on this trip on impulse, a desperate whim that a golden moment awaited her. She’d assumed, wrongly, that Eileen had come for an equally rudderless purpose. Only now it was clear that in this new, inverted reality, Claire had been plan-less and Eileen had been the intentional one.
Claire had caught Eileen asleep
, with a box in her lap. She’d seen the wistful way Eileen had glanced, midconversation, to the stacked parlor wall. She’d heard her say, “We could find some answers here, if we stick around.”
Eileen was a confirmed liar; she’d probably lied about the boxes, too. For all Claire knew, William J. Knutsen had given Eileen a detailed map and instructions for uncovering rare jewels. A selfish secret Eileen had kept to herself.
And Eileen had called Claire a self-righteous bitch.
What a small stone to throw, when Eileen lived in a glass palace. She was the garage-dwelling Settler who hadn’t bothered pursuing her art and instead continued a dead-end job at Safeway, living at home. She was the teenage alcoholic.
Did Eileen really think Claire hadn’t noticed?
She had seen the bottle-shaped paper bags Eileen brought home, had passed her in the hall enough times to catch the sharp stench of whiskey. She’d witnessed Eileen staggering to the bathroom late at night, watched as she’d trudged, bedraggled, into the kitchen in the morning with obvious hangovers.
It’s bad, Claire had thought to herself. But it’s a phase. She’s being an angsty teen, hanging out with a Settler crowd.
Claire hadn’t spoken up, because what would be the point? Eileen would only yell, telling Claire to mind her own goddamn business. So Claire had, preemptively, done just that. She’d zipped her lips when she could’ve talked. She’d turned a blind eye when she could’ve stared. Until tonight, when so much rage had collected inside her that the words had shot out like bullets, aimed to kill: Better to be a bitch than a burned-out drunk like you.
Claire walked the slick path down the bluff, warding off guilt. Why should she feel bad for what she’d said? For all Eileen’s lying, maybe she deserved a good slap of truth to the face.
Claire had nearly reached the base of the long, sloped hill when she lost her footing, rubber soles skidding across a patch of ice, and this time she couldn’t right herself. Her legs gave out beneath her, and she was airborne for one alarming second. Then her back hit the asphalt in a whump. Pain screamed through Claire as she pulled in her limbs and, wincing, sat up.
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