The Sullivan Sisters - Kathryn Ormsbee Page 0,27
Eileen, drawing the frame back to her chest. She was wearing a weird expression. Almost like she was … scared? But that couldn’t be right. Eileen didn’t get scared about anything.
The expression faded as Eileen shrugged and added, “We’re not here for a history lesson.”
At that moment Murphy’s stomach growled. Only, it was bigger than a growl. More like a roar.
“Shit, Murph,” said Eileen, arching a brow.
“I told you I was hungry.”
She really was, and now that Murphy was thinking about food, an undeniable, ravenous hunger took over. A body wasn’t meant to stay up through the night, she guessed, with only Dr Pepper for nourishment.
As though confessing, Claire said, “I’m kind of hungry too.”
“What time is it, anyway?” said Eileen.
Claire pulled out her phone. “Almost six. That’s early enough for some places to start serving breakfast, right? Starbucks opens at four on weekdays.”
“You would know that,” said Eileen.
Murphy winced, expecting a fight, but it seemed Claire was too busy with her phone. She tapped at the screen, brow creased, and after a few moments resurfaced to say, “Here’s a place. A diner. They opened at five. It’s only”—she checked the screen—“a two-minute drive from here.”
Eileen shrugged. “So we’re doing this?”
“Why not, I guess,” said Claire. “I’m not riding three hours home on an empty stomach.”
“You know you’re treating though, right?” Eileen smirked.
Claire rolled her eyes and said nothing as she pushed past Eileen and headed downstairs.
“Is there a website menu?” Murphy called, following them to the first floor. “Does it say they have cheese curds?”
“A two-minute drive, Murph,” Eileen said. “We’ll find out soon enough.”
The sisters reached the parlor, where Murphy realized she was still holding The Three Musketeers. She set it on a sideboard and joined her sisters at the French doors. That’s where Claire stopped, fists on hips, and asked, “What do we do about this?”
“How do you mean?” asked Murphy.
Claire narrowed her eyes. “I mean, if you broke in, there’s no good way to lock up.”
Murphy snorted. “I don’t think you understand the concept of picking a lock.”
“Why does it matter?” Eileen said, looking bored.
“It matters,” said Claire, “because if Murphy could sneak in, then anyone could.”
“And the chances of that are … ?”
“Doesn’t matter what the chances are. It’s possible, and I’m not risking anyone’s safety.”
“Stop using that as an excuse,” groaned Murphy.
Then, because she could see where this was headed, she did the unthinkable. She broke the code of magicians: She revealed the how of her trick.
“What’s that?” Claire asked, squinting at the small object Murphy had removed from her coat pocket.
It was, in fact, a latchkey.
“I found it under the doormat,” Murphy explained.
“You didn’t break in?” said Eileen. “You used a fucking key?”
They really had to rub it in, didn’t they?
“Yeah, whatever.” Murphy pushed past them, out to the porch.
“Then what was all that ‘magician’ talk?” Claire demanded shrilly.
Eileen, by contrast, was grinning. “Nice,” she said, nudging Murphy’s shoulder.
That mollified Murphy a little. Eileen hardly noticed anything Murphy did, let alone called it “nice.”
“You are ridiculous,” Claire told Murphy, joining the sisters outside. “Why didn’t you tell us the truth to begin with?”
Because it wouldn’t be magical. That’s what Murphy wanted to say but didn’t. It would sound too silly aloud, even if it was true. She closed the double doors and, using her key, locked the dead bolt from the outside.
“There,” she said, turning haughtily to Claire. “We’re safe. And we didn’t even break the law. Feel better?”
Claire muttered something about how they had still, technically, broken in. Murphy rolled her eyes, secretly grateful Claire hadn’t demanded to have the key. That would’ve been such a Claire thing to do. Anyway, Murphy had to concentrate on her goal. It was a resolution that had been forming throughout her house tour: She was going to use this stuff—the road trip, the house, the diner. They were the wand, the top hat, and the glitter in her magician’s toolbox.
Murphy wasn’t naive. She knew that, sooner or later, Eileen would leave the garage for her own place, and Claire would head to college, and Murphy would remain behind.
She had nice memories of Claire and Eileen from when they were younger. Memories like Cayenne Castle. She wanted more of those to hold on to when they left home.
Operation Memory Making—from here on out, that was Murphy’s task. One that required magic to the highest degree.
“Come on,” Eileen said, with the house secure. “Let’s get some food.”
The sisters clambered down the back porch, rounding the house.
And that’s