The Sullivan Sisters - Kathryn Ormsbee Page 0,55

“I’m starving.”

Claire glanced at the box of Pop-Tarts on the coffee table. There had to be more where that had come from.

“Come on,” she said, getting to her feet. “Let’s look in the kitchen.”

“Okay, cool,” said Murphy, sounding inexplicably relieved.

When they set foot in the kitchen, Claire understood why: This room was creepy. There was only one window, small and frosted, over the sink, which cast the surroundings in an ominous gloom. The checkered tile floor was old, thirties style, as were the wooden counters. The appliances weren’t new either; Claire’s guess was that the fridge had been around since Reagan’s presidency. Murphy approached it so quickly, Claire didn’t have the chance to warn her.

“Bleugh,” Murphy said, upon flinging open the door. She threw an arm over her nose, covering a gag.

“I wouldn’t trust anything in there,” Claire said.

“No kidding,” Murphy said, but she remained standing in front of the darkened fridge, taking in its contents: a carton of milk, myriad jars of pickles, dressings, and condiments. There were Styrofoam takeout boxes crammed onto the bottom shelf, and Claire shuddered to think how long they’d been there.

She frowned, thinking it through. Whose job was that? A postmortem fridge clean-out. Who dumped out the food of a recluse once he’d died? Who had even found Patrick Enright’s body? And why had his burial been closed off from the public? She’d had endless questions when she’d first read the letter from William J. Knutsen—too many to ask, or have answered, so she’d temporarily stuffed them inside. Now, though, Claire’s mind was wandering. Why had Patrick left this home to nieces he’d never met? Maybe, if Claire had directly asked Cathy at Ramsey’s Diner, she would have had an answer even to that.

Thinking of the diner caused Claire’s stomach to growl again. She wished she’d eaten that yogurt parfait. But yesterday morning she’d thought they were going to get out of this town. That had been before the skies had opened up and belched out a freak storm, and before she’d lost all faith and dashed her phone against the wall. A lot had changed in twenty-four hours’ time.

The scent of rot was tickling Claire’s nose. She shook herself from her thoughts.

“Murphy, close it already,” she ordered, crossing to a wooden door that was very helpfully marked PANTRY.

When she opened it, she gaped in wonder. Here was the Holy Grail. How had Eileen kept this a secret? More importantly, how had she seen its contents and only taken away a box of Pop-Tarts? On the shelves before Claire were bags of potato chips, hazelnuts, chocolate chips; there were boxes of crackers and cereal, and additional Pop-Tarts. It was a sight so heavenly, it almost made Claire forget the legion of articles she’d read on why gluten was bad for you.

“Yeah!” Murphy cried from behind her. “The mother lode!”

She pushed Claire aside and grabbed the chocolate chips, flinging off the clothespin that had been sealing the half-full bag. Murphy dug in and shoved a handful of morsels into her mouth.

“Mmmm,” she groaned. “Claire, try.”

Claire looked at the bag, wavering. Semisweet chocolate was junk food, but it wasn’t glutenous.

Murphy seemed to become aware of Claire’s inner battle. “Do it,” she whispered salaciously. “C’mon, just a few.”

She held out the bag, and the chocolate scent wafted into Claire’s face. She could no longer resist. She took a handful of chips and popped them into her mouth, then embraced the earth-shattering sensation that followed: sweet, chocolatey goodness exploding on her tongue. The chips weren’t even stale. She surveyed the rest of the pantry, on a hunt for treasure.

“What’s up?”

Claire turned to find Eileen standing behind them. Her eyeliner had smeared, turning her face raccoonlike. The messiness made her appear younger. Gentler. Claire almost smiled at the sight.

“Breakfast,” she said, nodding to Murphy’s chocolate chips.

Murphy obligingly offered the bag.

“Eh,” Eileen said. “I’m feeling savory.”

Reaching over Murphy’s head, she pulled down a can of Pringles.

“More for me,” Murphy said, shoving in another handful of chocolate.

This time, a strange expression followed. Murphy’s nose lifted, her eyebrows lowered, and her mouth flattened. She made a choking sound.

“Murph?” Claire said, cautiously.

Murphy opened her mouth wide, and a torrent of chocolate chips burst forth, scattering onto the floor.

“Holy shit,” Eileen yelped, jumping back. “Murphy, what the hell?”

“Oh God,” Murphy wailed, pushing past them. “Oh God, oh God.”

Claire watched, bewildered, as Murphy yanked on the kitchen tap and splashed water into her mouth with clumsy abandon.

What was wrong?

What was wrong … with the chocolate?

She