it because Harper Everly had said selfless acts were good for one’s self-esteem. Really, Claire had been selfish to be selfless.
So she wasn’t expecting a thank-you. In fact, she was ready for Eileen to yell at her that this was none of her business and how dare she interfere.
Time passed, but Eileen didn’t speak.
“I’m sorry,” Claire said, at a loss for anything else. “I’m … sorry.”
The light in Eileen’s eyes suddenly burst, intensifying tenfold. A supernova, set in sockets.
She said, “Do you remember my junior art exhibit?”
Claire did. Even though she and Eileen had fallen out by then, Claire had attended the show, blending into the crowd of adults and students gathered in the high school gym. Every May, on the Saturday before graduation, upperclassmen at Emmet High were invited to display their works of art. It was typical fare: angsty poem board pastiches and decent self-portraits and the occasional out-of-the-box venture, like modeling clay–based “interactive art.” Claire hadn’t come for the other students, though. She’d wanted to see what Eileen had on display, and she hadn’t been disappointed.
There had been five pieces, propped on rusted school easels. The most prominent was an oil-based painting on canvas—a portrait of three figures, their limbs disproportionate and their faces elongated, grotesque. They put Claire in mind of vampires, or ghosts, or a hybrid of the two. They were upsetting to see, but they were beautiful, crafted with deft precision.
Eileen had labeled the painting THE UNHOLY TRINITY.
And Claire had been proud of her, even then.
“I remember,” Claire said.
Eileen nodded. “Yeah, so. Afterward, there were comment cards. This great idea Ms. Medina had, for people who stopped by to leave anonymous notes about how our artwork ‘spoke’ to them. I think her head was in the right place, but, like, shitty idea, huh?”
Claire hadn’t known about the cards.
“I read my comments. And a lot of them? They were saying how disturbed I was. Not the paintings, me. They said, ‘This girl is super unstable.’ Or, ‘Way too bizarre for me.’ One of them? They called me a psychopath. ‘Eileen paints like a total psychopath.’ ”
“Leenie,” said Claire. “It was high school. People are horrible. You know they were wrong.”
“Do I?”
There was a strange look on Eileen’s face. Claire had to look away as she said, “I don’t see what the issue is.”
“No,” said Eileen. “You wouldn’t.”
There was a pause, and Claire panicked, afraid this was over and Eileen was shutting down.
Then Eileen spoke again. “Did you know Mark Enright was a painter?”
Claire was thrown by the question. “I … remember Cathy saying something like that. What has that got to do with anything?”
“YOU. GUYS.”
The parlor echoed with sudden sneaker squeaks. Murphy was barreling into the room, beaming.
Thoughts had been circling densely in Claire’s head. Now they scattered.
“I have something to show you,” Murphy said breathlessly. “Come on. Come on. Stop fighting, or whatever. Come and see.”
Annoyance plucked Claire’s chest. If Murphy could read a room, she’d see that Claire and Eileen were the furthest away from a fight as they had been in two long years. She had shattered the moment, oblivious as she squawked on.
“Please? Come with me; I made us a surprise.”
Claire looked to Eileen, and her heart sank to find that she was already on her feet.
“Okay, Murph,” Eileen said. “If we see, will you lower the volume?”
“No promises.” Murphy smirked and fled from the room.
Irritably, Claire followed her out into the foyer. Murphy landed on the threshold of a sitting room, bouncing on the balls of her feet. Then Claire saw what her sister had to shout and bounce about:
The room was a fortress of blankets and sheets, tied to curtain rods, swung over couches, fastened to floor lamps.
Memory hit Claire, a brass-knuckled punch, as Murphy announced, “Welcome to the castle.”
TWENTY-FOUR Murphy
Cayenne Castle.” Eileen breathed the words out like a curse.
“You remember it, right?” Murphy looked earnestly between Claire and Eileen with the unspoken plea, Be amazed. Notice. See.
She’d known nothing good was happening when she’d peeked into the parlor and seen them there, sitting close, talking low. She was tired of them fighting, and it was Christmas Eve. Here was her trick: She’d pull back the curtain, reminding them of the past, and they would be amazed. They’d remember Cayenne Castle and the way they used to spend time, lazy stretches of hanging out together. No fights, no silences, and no closed doors. Murphy was going to remind them of everything the Sullivan sisters had been. It would be her