The Sullivan Sisters

by Kathryn Ormsbee

  She was wrong, though.

  At that moment Eileen was going outside to check the mail.

  Claire, curled up with her phone, was looking at the Yale admissions portal.

  And there was a dead body in Murphy’s room.

  DECEMBER TWENTY-FIFTH

  TWENTY-EIGHT Eileen

  In the dream Eileen was younger. Twelve, maybe thirteen. Claire was there too, only she’d remained the same—seventeen, with a perfectly painted face and messy bun. Murphy was only a baby, dressed in a pink cotton onesie. She was strapped into a car seat, which was odd, because they weren’t in a car; they were standing on the shore. Eileen turned to see her mother by her side, wearing an uncommonly calm expression.

  “I want you to take it in,” Leslie Sullivan told Eileen. “Sink your toes into the sand, enjoy it.”

  Eileen did. She walked along the water’s edge. Houses dotted the shore with prominent gables colored like the sea: teal and white and deep blue.

  And then, red.

  The sun shone upon the nearest house, cutting through wind and rain, illuminating the redness of its walls, which only grew redder. Because the red wasn’t dried paint, but liquid, pouring out between the wooden slats, leaking from the windows, pooling beneath the doors.

  “Oh no,” said Eileen, though it wasn’t a shock to her.

  Somehow, she’d expected the blood. She’d known this was coming, because she knew this place. She’d been here before.

  * * *

  Eileen woke.

  The air was frigid, and her rapid breaths emerged as clouds in the pale light of dawn. She felt around her body, grasping at soft sheets.

  Then the memory returned. She’d stalked away from her fight with Claire, furious, and made her way upstairs to the bedroom at the end of the hall. She hadn’t been in the mood to suffer Murphy’s whining or to face her own guilt for yelling at the kid. Not in the mood to do anything without the aid of alcohol. The ache for it had been crawling up her throat, weakening her joints.

  Claire had been savage. She’d cut into Eileen’s deepest, most hidden artery with surgical precision. Then she’d walked away.

  Of course Claire had known.

  Eileen had thought she’d been careful, sneaking the bottles into the house, imbibing only in the garage. Until Claire had called her out on the trip up I-5, Eileen had assumed that Claire was the same as Mom: unaware.

  Even then, Eileen had thought the drunk driving—okay, that’s what it had been—was her first slip. A single misstep. She’d clung to the belief that Claire didn’t suspect the extent of the problem.

  Was Eileen that far gone?

  Claire had known, and she’d kept quiet. She’d been sharpening her blade, waiting for the moment to plunge it in deep, and twist.

  A burned-out drunk like you.

  With so much blood lost, Eileen hadn’t had the willpower to do anything but sleep. She’d taken herself to this bedroom and shut herself inside, and for the first time in three days, she’d slept in a bed. She hadn’t minded the cold last night, or the dark. Now, though, fresh from a malevolent dream, she felt differently about both.

  Her spine was stiff, and she couldn’t feel her feet. Her nose, irreparably frozen, felt blue. Her mind was stuck on a word: “drunk.” Synonym to the one she wouldn’t accept.

  Alcoholic.

  She’d been telling herself it wasn’t true. She’d tried hard to believe the lie that she was fine. Under control. She couldn’t do that anymore. Her present need for whiskey was overwhelming—a desperation to wash away growing fears with an antiseptic burn.

  But the flask was empty. Relief wasn’t coming. Left defenseless, those undeniable fears crawled into Eileen—spiders seeking a shadowy home in her heart. She thought of the letters in the linen closet. Of a bloodied piano, a lifeless body at the base of the stairs. Of painted canvases and a scribbled-on notecard reading, Eileen paints like a total psychopath.

  “Shut up,” she told the arachnid thoughts.

  She lifted her eyes from the sheets, only to meet a lifeless pair of baby blues.

  The doll.

  Why had she chosen the room with the doll?

  It stood on the dresser directly across from Eileen. One white hand was raised, fingers sealed and thumb apart, like it was pleading with Eileen, begging for spare change. Or it was reaching for her. For a grip. On her neck.

  “Fuck that,” Eileen said, throwing off the sheets and scrambling across the bed. To get to the door, she had to turn her back to the doll, and in that sickening moment, cold adrenaline launched through her veins. She slammed the door behind her, gripping the knob, breathing hard.

  Now that she was standing, Eileen could feel an urgent pressure from her bladder. She decided to head downstairs and use the bathroom there, then settle by the fireside, next to Murphy.

  Guilt dug its finely sharpened talons into Eileen.

  Murph, for the love of God, not now.

  She’d seen hurt swell in Murphy, drawing down the angles of her face. She hadn’t meant to be cruel. She’d had another sister on her mind, and Murphy could be so infuriatingly naive, a believer only in magic and made-up royal titles.

  Still, Eileen shouldn’t have yelled. She’d apologize when Murphy woke up, and then they’d leave this house. They’d drive the Caravan home, and Eileen would face whatever wrath Claire had stored up for her in Emmet. That’s the way it would go. The inheritance and Mark Enright—she’d think about those ugly things at a later date. After Christmas.

  Eileen descended the grand staircase, shivering as she went. Her leather jacket was no match for the winter cold in the parlor. The fire had gone out, or maybe Murphy hadn’t lit it. Eileen noted her on the couch, covered completely by blankets. She passed by, turning into the foyer and the adjacent bathroom.

  When she was through and washing her hands, she looked to the bathroom mirror. Past her back, through the open door, she saw the ruins of Cayenne Castle in the sitting room. Eileen shut off the tap, wiping her hands on her jeans and turning to the blanket-strewn mess. She walked into the room, and as she did, she entered the past. December twenty-firsts from years ago were present here, circling Eileen’s memory in a carousel mist: Murphy’s bad quarter tricks and ginger ale tea parties, and the grand fanfare her sisters had made when Eileen had hung her painting on the mantle. The memories came to life in the light of a half moon.

  Eileen’s gaze roved the torn castle walls and pillow thrones until her eye caught on something—a manila folder, half-obscured beneath the leg of the open storage couch. Eileen could guess what had happened: In Murphy’s construction process, pulling sheets from the chest, the folder had slipped out from inside. Or maybe it had been on the floor to begin with and been knocked into sight. Whatever the reason, Eileen saw it now.

  She crouched, claiming the folder and undoing its fastener. Then she tilted it downward, spilling its contents.

  A spray of photographs fell to the floor.

  Eileen picked up the topmost photo, a glossy 3x5. At first, she didn’t understand what she was looking at. Once she did, she couldn’t believe it.

  She threw the photo down and picked up another, and another.

  The shots were candids, taken some distance away from the subjects—across the street, through a window, from a modest height. The subjects were Claire, Murphy, and Eileen. Claire in line at the post office, tapping on her phone. Murphy standing in her school bus line at Emmet Middle. Eileen outside Safeway, loading groceries into a customer’s trunk.

  More shots, varied in angles but the same in general content: the Sullivan sisters, living their daily lives, unaware of the lens that captured them.

  Eileen dropped the last of the photos. She felt exposed, stripped naked before a pair of leering eyes. She felt scared, like a child awoken at night. There was no adult here to turn on the light, open Eileen’s closet, and tell her the monster wasn’t inside. She was alone in these castle ruins with the reality that someone had been watching he
r.

  What had Mr. Knutsen told her, in his office?

  Do you know, he found out about you by way of private investigator.

  This was how Patrick had discovered them, known they were his nieces. He’d had a stranger track them down and take photographs.

  Only then did Eileen remember the nightmare, with its the walk along the coast, and the beach house turned blood red.

  In an instant it became clear.

  She was inside the red house.

  She had been here before.

  That unexplained trip to the coast, the day of flavornado. Their mother had brought them here. To Rockport. How had Eileen not seen that? The truth was obvious. Mom had brought them, as what? A failed attempt to explain?

  As she stared at the scattered photos, Eileen noticed the clipping—a cut-out bit of newspaper. She picked it up, turning it over from a butchered article to the true piece of importance: The Unholy Trinity. Her unholy trinity, paired with the caption, “Local young artist Eileen Sullivan displays work at Emmet High Arts Show.”

  Her painting. Her heart. Cut out.

  “Leenie?”

  Eileen shouted, turning so fast from her crouch that she fell to the ground. She stared at the ghostly figure standing over her.

  It was Claire. She was breathing fast, and she’d brought in the cold from the open front door. A cut ran along her left cheek, ending in a deep bruise beneath the eye.

  “W-what the hell?” Eileen choked out.

  “I had an accident,” Claire said, touching a hand to her face. “I was running back.”

  Eileen looked to the photographs, and this time so did Claire. She drew closer, kneeling beside Eileen and picking one up.

  “Jeez,” she said, three photos in.

  “It’s messed up,” Eileen said. “Knutsen said Patrick used a PI. It makes me feel … naked, kind of. Unsafe.”

  Claire looked up and said, “Where’s Murphy?”

  “In the parlor, sleeping.”

  Casting down the photos, Claire swept out of the room. Eileen couldn’t follow, though. For the moment she couldn’t move.

  Seconds later, Claire shouted, “EILEEN!”

  That’s when the feeling returned to Eileen’s legs, along with a warm and nauseating fear. Using the couch, she heaved herself to her feet. When she reached the parlor, she found Claire throwing blankets and pillows aside, revealing a bare couch. No Murphy there.

  “But she was …” Eileen shook her head. “I don’t—”

  “She’s gone.” Claire’s voice was ice. “Weren’t you keeping an eye on her?”

  “Wasn’t I—you’re the one who left the goddamn house!”

  Claire was shaking her head, fast. “Doesn’t matter.”

  Eileen called, “Murphy? MURPH.”

  She looked to the grand staircase, the piano, the windows, the hearth. No sign of her sister. How long had she been gone?

  And what if those photographs weren’t the work of Patrick Enright’s PI?

  What if they’d been taken by … Mark?

  And if he’d been able to follow them, stalk them, without their knowing it, then who was to say he couldn’t be doing the same exact thing now?

  Eileen opened the cabinet doors of the sideboard. She was in search of a hiding place, somewhere Murphy could have contorted herself. She had stowed away on the ride here. Maybe this was another one of her weird-humored tricks.

  There was no Murphy inside.

  There was, however, a scrap of paper on the floor, nearby. Eileen’s gaze hooked on the name—a bold subtitle that read, JOHN ENRIGHT.

  John.

  Dad.

  Queasily, Eileen grabbed the paper, reading the text:

  John Enright, age 24, passed away on January 20, 2004, in Boston, Massachusetts. An aspiring environmental attorney and first-year law student at Suffolk University, John was an active participant in his community, an esteemed intern at Rowe and Lundergrun, and was training for his first Boston Marathon at the time of his passing. He is survived by his brothers, Mark and Patrick. Visitation to be held at 12:00 p.m. on January 25, 2004, at Hayworth Memorial Home.

  “What,” Eileen breathed. “What the hell is this.”

  She raised the paper to an approaching Claire, who snatched it, looked over its contents, stopped, and met Eileen’s gaze with wide eyes.

  “That’s not Dad,” said Eileen. “That’s … not Dad. He died here. In Oregon. In 2006. He wasn’t a fucking law student.”

  Claire licked her lips. “Leenie, there’s something I found out. Something Kerry told me.”

  “Kerry who?”

  “The sheriff. She said … Leenie, Mark isn’t Mark Enright. Mark is Dad.”

  Eileen stared at Claire. “Excuse me?”

  “Dad—our dad, John Sullivan—was Mark Enright. He changed both his names.”

  Eileen continued to stare. “I don’t … that doesn’t …”

  “Kerry said it was the mom who did the killings, not Mark. She was messed up. It was her, not Dad. She said—”

  Eileen raised her hands to her head. “Stop. Fucking stop.”

  Her brain was on fire. The photographs. This obit. The sheriff. There were too many thoughts in her head competing for attention. And Murphy was lost. They’d lost their sister. They didn’t have time for this.

  Eileen turned and screamed Murphy’s name again—a frantic, lilting echo. She felt the dread coming on hard, jabbing into her spine from behind like a living, breathing presence.

  And then she was sure of it. She heard breath.

  Claire saw first. Her eyes caught on something behind Eileen, and she raised a hand to her mouth.

  Slowly, Eileen turned to the foyer and the figure standing there: a grown adult carrying a limp, prone Murphy. Eileen was so startled, she didn’t register the face, the anything of the figure.

  Then she looked again, closer, and said, “Mom?”

  TWENTY-NINE Claire

  Oh my God,” said Claire.

  The words emerged as a sob, and as they did, Claire realized how much fear had been pent up in her bones, to the point of fracture. Her mind spun, dipping in and out of questions. How was her mother here? How was Leslie Sullivan not on a beach three thousand miles away?

  “What … what …” The choked word wouldn’t form itself into a sentence. Claire gave up the effort and, instead, cupped her hands over her mouth.

  “She’s all right,” Mom said, nodding to the daughter in her arms. “She’d fallen asleep on the beach.”

  Murphy, who Claire now saw was awake, gave a groggy half nod.

  “Yeah,” she croaked. “I’m cool.”

  “She’s cold, though,” said Mom. “Is there something to warm her up?”

  Eileen jolted to attention. “Yeah. There are lots of blankets in the other room.”

  “I’ll get them,” Claire blurted, suddenly needing this above anything else: to take action.

  She propelled herself from the parlor, darting into the sitting room, where Murphy had constructed Cayenne Castle. She grabbed blankets and sheets with abandon, decimating Murphy’s construction and turning the castle to ruins. Then, with the blankets piled high, she returned to the parlor.

  Eileen was crouched by the hearth, crumpling the contents of an open filing box and throwing the papers under new logs, striking a match. Soon, the kindling was alight, and the fire grew. Leslie had laid out Murphy on the couch, and Claire made quick work of burying her in blankets, encasing her ribs, ankles, thighs.

  “There’s a kettle in the kitchen,” Claire said, remembering. “I’ll heat up water.”

  She dashed from the room again, because it was better to keep moving than to sit with panic-stricken thoughts.

  Mom was here. She was here. She’d found out their secret, and she’d found them at the worst possible time, with Murphy lost and Claire a mess. And what came next?

  Claire didn’t want to think. Instead, she grabbed the cast-iron kettle from the stove and filled it w
ith water. She turned a knob on the range and then stared, nonplussed, at the cold burner.

  “God,” she groaned, when she realized: no electricity. If she’d stopped to think—the thing she most wanted not to do—she would have realized that.

  Claire set down the kettle and breathed in deep. She turned back toward the parlor, exhaled, and resolved to face what awaited her in there.

  “No power,” she mumbled, as she returned to the couch.

  “I’m o-okay,” said Murphy, peeking her face over the mountainous pile of quilts. Her chattering teeth told a different story. Murphy’s neck was stark white and her nose and cheeks flushed red. How long had she been out on the coast? Had it been since Claire had abandoned her?

  “I’m so sorry.” Claire barely got out the whisper, and she couldn’t look at Murphy as she said it. She definitely couldn’t look at Mom, who was sitting by the couch, one hand resting at Murphy’s side.

  “For what?” asked Murphy. “Earlier? You were just being Claire.”

  Claire didn’t think Murphy meant for the words to hurt her, but they did—more than any insult ever could.

  Just being Claire. Just insisting on perfection, blowing up, running away from her sisters, her life, herself, for something better in the future.

  Yes. That was her.

  Eileen had finished stoking the fire and joined them by the couch. She stood at a distance from Mom, hands on hips, jaw firm.

  “Elephant in the room,” she said. “Mom, what the hell are you doing here?”

  Eileen was trying to sound unaffected, sure of herself. Claire knew, though: Eileen was at as much of a loss as Claire was. This was too surreal.

  “I’m … sure you didn’t expect me.”

  As Mom spoke, Claire studied her mother. She seemed small sitting there, cross-legged on the carpet, with her fine blond hair shrouding her face and her shoulders carved into a slump. Claire had never thought of her mother as a commanding presence, but she hadn’t thought of her as small, either. Small, or scared, or uncertain, or—at one time—young.