The Sullivan Sisters - Kathryn Ormsbee Page 0,23
She had to be wondering, like Claire, why Mom would lie about this. Why had she told them, all their lives, that they had no family?
These days Claire thought of Mom as plenty of things: frazzled, distant, out of touch. She’d never thought of her as a liar, though. Never malicious. So should Claire and Eileen have taken Mr. Knutsen’s letter to Mom directly? Was it right, keeping this a secret from her? Maybe, maybe not. It was pointless asking the question when Mom was currently worlds away, in the Bahamas.
Still, Claire’s words had an effect on Eileen. She stopped fiddling with the door and rose from her crouch.
Claire forgot sometimes how tall her sister was—a good six inches above her, supermodel height. She wondered where Eileen had gotten those good genes, and why the universe in its infinite irony had given them to her and not Claire. Eileen didn’t do herself justice with those black, baggy clothes and constant slouch.
Claire shook her head. Concentrate. She could judge Eileen’s fashion at a more convenient time.
Eileen, meantime, was frowning into the distance. “Where’s Murph?”
Claire looked around. In the heat of her fight with Eileen, she had released Murphy’s arm. Now her little sister was gone. She wasn’t on the porch or in the front yard.
“I GOT IT.”
The shout came from the back of the house.
Claire and Eileen exchanged wide-eyed looks before clambering toward the sound.
They had followed the deck around to a set of French doors. The left door was open, swinging in a sea-born breeze, and Murphy was nowhere in sight. Claire drew closer, trying to peer inside, but the house was utterly dark.
“Murphy!” It was getting harder to whisper her shouts.
Claire pulled out her phone and switched on its flashlight, directing the beam inside the house. She didn’t step inside, though. Somehow, she couldn’t.
It was Eileen who charged ahead, boots stomping across the old, hardwood floor.
“Murphy!” she bellowed into the house.
Cautiously, Claire followed Eileen, casting light in every direction, trying to calm her thudding heart.
“Murphy,” she squeaked. “Not funny!”
“Jesus,” Eileen said, snatching the phone from Claire. “This isn’t a rave.”
A protest bulged, then died in Claire’s throat. She was behaving frenetically, she knew, but how could she help it? She didn’t like dark, open spaces—the thought of who, or what, could be ahead, masked by shadows.
Eileen, by contrast, steadily shone the light ahead. There wasn’t a whiff of fear coming from her. That’s the way it had been growing up: Eileen was the one to remove spiders from the bathroom, the one to tell Claire that there was nothing in her closet at night save sweaters and shoes. She’d been the brave one. It seemed she still was.
“Murphy!” Eileen called again.
They passed through a narrow hallway that turned into a larger room—a kind of parlor. As the flashlight cut through the darkness, Claire took in the room piecemeal: a green velvet sofa, a mantle, crown molding, a grand piano, a pile of filing boxes.
Boxes. There were lots of those, stacked four high and many across, running along a wall.
Eileen stepped deeper into the room and slowly slid the beam upward, illuminating a grand staircase nearly as wide across as the parlor itself.
There, a few steps up, stood a motionless figure.
“AAAH!” Claire screeched.
“Fucking fuck!” Eileen added.
The figure, all purple and puffy, said, “Calm down, do you want the police to show up?”
“Murphy. Maureen. Sullivan.” Claire spat every one of her sister’s names.
In an instant she’d gone from terrified child to the worst maternal version of herself.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she barked, and had to stop herself from adding “young lady.”
“You keep asking that,” said Murphy, blithely hopping down the stairs. “Maybe you should spend more time asking yourself what you’re doing. You and Eileen waste time fighting. You weren’t getting anything done. Me, on the other hand—”
“Are a criminal!”
Claire’s whisper-shouts had completely lost their whisper.
“Whoa, whoa.” Murphy brought down her hands in a calming gesture. “Who’s breaking the law?”
“What do you think that is?” Claire shrieked, motioning toward the French doors. “That is literal breaking and entering.”
“No, it’s not.” Murphy grinned as wide as the Cheshire Cat.
Was there something wrong with this girl? Claire hadn’t paid much attention to Murphy lately … as in the past couple years. Had she hit her head at some point? Become feral from lack of parental oversight?
“How did you get in?” Claire demanded.
“Magicians. We’re good at locks.” Murphy beamed. “Ta-da.”
Claire put a hand to her head and whispered, “Oh my God.”
“It’s our