handful of memories of her father. He’d passed when she was three. She didn’t even remember the funeral, and she wondered sometimes how her mind could have failed to hold on to something as big as that. What it held on to instead was him by her bedside, reading Harold and the Purple Crayon. And another memory, when she’d skinned a knee and come in the house sobbing, and he’d stuck a Band-Aid on the damage before handing her a Reese’s cup, saying, “These make the pain go away.”
He’d been a good father, Claire was certain of that. He’d just been gone for so long. Occasionally, when she told people her dad was dead, they got a serious look on their face and said, “I’m sorry.” When that happened, Claire felt guilty, because she was sad that her dad had died young. But the truth was, she didn’t think about him most days. She didn’t miss him, exactly, because there were so few memories of him to miss.
She’d made do without a dad, just like she’d made do without much of a mom. Like she’d made do without an older sister, once Eileen had abandoned her for the garage bedroom two years ago. She’d made her own new family, with Harper Everly as its head and fellow online Harperettes as siblings. She’d more than made do. She’d excelled.
But now, what was waiting for her at home? A rejection from Yale and an unanswered text from Ainsley St. John.
Claire was scared to be here. She didn’t like recklessness, not knowing what came next. But maybe she was supposed to work through this fear. Maybe that was part of the golden moment. Maybe she could give this one more try.
Claire narrowed her eyes at Eileen. “You don’t plan on taking anything?”
Eileen raised two fingers in a mock salute. “Scout’s honor.”
This wasn’t how Excellers behaved. They played by the rules, worked hard, and got their just reward. But then, Claire had done all that work, and there was no reward to be had. No Ivy League for her, and no breathless romance with Ainsley. No escape from Emmet.
They were already here, inside the house, the worst of the damage done. As long as they didn’t steal, they wouldn’t be breaking additional laws.
Maybe they could stay. For an hour. Two, tops.
“Look at her, Leenie,” said Murphy. “I can tell: You’ve got her convinced.”
TWELVE Murphy
Murphy had never set foot in a house this big, not even when she’d made friends with Zoe Colvis in fifth grade and been out to her pool party in Chester Heights, the one nice neighborhood in Emmet. There, bedrooms had their own bathrooms and the kitchens had fancy spigots over the stoves, and there were, of course, in-ground pools.
But even Zoe’s house hadn’t been this. Her place had been so new that the trees in the front yard were saplings supported by wooden stakes. The house on Laramie Court was ancient. Murphy could tell by the crystal doorknobs and giant staircase. She’d seen houses like this on TV, in movies set in the 1800s and shows about rich teenage vampires. Maybe that’s why, walking around, she felt she was on a Hollywood set, and at any minute a director might call, “Cut!”
One day I’ll know what that’s like, Murphy thought. When I have my own Netflix magic series.
“WHOA!”
Murphy staggered, knocked clean out of her thoughts. Light had flooded the room where she and her sisters stood.
“How about that,” said Eileen, hand resting on the light switch. “These still work.”
Claire looked aghast. “What are you doing? Leenie, turn those off!”
“Why?”
“Someone could see!”
“The place is deserted. It’s on top of a goddamn cliff.”
“Exactly. Someone could see the lights from below.”
“Like I said, paranoid.” Eileen yawned, squinting above their heads at the parlor’s brass chandelier.
Loaded, thought Murphy. That’s what Uncle Patrick had been. Zoe Colvis sure hadn’t had a chandelier.
With the parlor illuminated, Murphy took in the scene in gulps, staring first at the shiny black grand piano, then a circle of plush sofas and chairs, then the artwork on the wall—oil paintings of farmland landscapes. It was impressive, but Murphy wanted more.
She ran from the room, up the grand staircase—the route she’d wanted to take before her sisters had interrupted. With electricity at her command, there was no stopping her. Murphy flicked light switches as she passed them, running up the stairs and then down an arcing hallway. She popped into one room and took a look: a four-poster bed, grated fireplace,