that Eileen cared about lying to Claire. They weren’t close, not anymore, and Claire wasn’t exactly forthcoming about her own life. So, it wasn’t the lying that made Eileen feel bad. It was the lying about drinking. Eileen knew it was gross. Gross, like the times she’d called in favors at Safeway, asking Asher to grab a bottle from Liquor Mart. Gross, like how she’d begun to think whiskey made a great pairing with her morning Pop-Tart. Gross, like the times she’d passed out in her room on the floor, tears dried on her face and vomit crusting her lips. Gross, like drinking and driving with her sisters in the van. Gross, like the letters she’d found in the linen closet. The letters that had started it all.
Documents.
What were inside those boxes at 2270 Laramie? A whole wall stacked with them. Maybe they contained nothing important. Or maybe they held the definitive answer Eileen had craved for two long years.
The trouble was keeping her sisters from finding out that answer. Claire seemed more interested in what the house was worth, and Murphy … well, who knew what the hell had brought her along. It might not be too difficult, keeping them off the scent. They couldn’t know. Couldn’t. The thought of them finding out the secret—they would never look at Eileen the same way. It was why she hadn’t told them in the first place.
It was why she’d started drinking.
Eileen wanted, more than anything, to take another swig. But doing that in front of Claire and Murphy was one gross step too far. Sure, maybe she’d drank and driven last night. Drinking in the open, though? For her sisters to see? Not that. Instead, Eileen dug into her other pocket, removed a piece of Dubble Bubble, and popped it in her mouth. She chewed into the hard, pink nugget, watching with sordid satisfaction as Claire occasionally wobbled and slid on the slick road, thanks to her tractionless shoes.
Maybe Eileen was imagining things, but it seemed colder than it had been before—as though, against nature, the temperature was plummeting with sunrise. She pulled her jacket tighter and tugged her beanie till it nearly covered her eyes. No cars passed them as they walked down Shoreline. The street was quiet, house windows dark. The wind was damp, sticky with salt. The sound of breaking waves was ever-present.
Only when they reached their first intersection did Eileen spy signs of human life: a brick post office and, beside it, a playground. Stop signs, storefronts, and then cars. A truck rumbled past them, followed by a sedan. They were in the land of the living, and Honey Street was ahead.
“There it is,” said Claire, pointing, and sure enough, catty-corner to them was a squat restaurant with big windows and a light-up sign that read RAMSEY’S DINER.
The building looked as though it hadn’t been renovated since 1950, and as the sisters crossed the street, the words “E. coli” and “hepatitis” came, unbidden, to Eileen’s mind. There were, at least, several cars in the parking lot. This early in the morning that had to mean the place was decently popular.
“Or it’s the only restaurant in town,” Eileen muttered, as Claire opened the door and a jingling bell announced their presence.
The diner was retro, with checkered tile and a glittery Formica countertop encircling the open kitchen. It was maybe a quarter full, with a few people sitting in booths, others at the counter. From the speakers, a familiar Christmas tune played, and Eileen had to laugh a little. It didn’t matter where in Oregon Eileen went, Mariah Carey would find her, and all that woman wanted for Christmas was her.
Taking in more of the scene, Eileen noticed a figure to her right, dressed in a collared khaki button-up, a gold star affixed to the left breast pocket. Eileen inched forward to better make out the woman’s features: beige-skinned and plump, with dark eyes, and a black braid emerging from beneath her wide-brimmed hat. She was reading the paper over a cup of coffee.
Claire had taken note of the woman too, and looked suddenly terrified; Eileen could practically see the tension fissuring her skin. What was there to be tense about, though? This was the town sheriff, not clairvoyant. This lady couldn’t possibly know that the three of them had trespassed. All they had to do was remain chill, and Eileen had perfected that art a while back. She was chill as fuck.