we’d never tell her. Keeping it a secret wouldn’t be … emotionally healthy.”
“Oh, man.” Eileen slapped her forehead. “That’s right, I forgot, we’ve got an emotional health expert in our midst.”
No. No. The trick didn’t go this way. These were supposed to be warm, bonding memories, not fight fodder. Murphy had to act, to save the show.
“Who do you think Winifred belonged to?” she asked.
“Winifred?” asked Claire, frowning.
“The doll upstairs. I mean, if it wasn’t theirs …”
“What’re you saying, Murph?” Claire asked irritably. “Boys can’t have dolls?”
“Of course they can,” said Murphy. “I only mean—”
“Who knows about the doll,” Eileen cut in. “About any of it? We don’t because Mom never told us anything.”
Murphy studied her fingertips, calloused from the rope work. True magician’s hands. She wanted to say, When do you tell me anything? She wanted to say that a house wasn’t their only family inheritance.
That wasn’t the point of Cayenne Castle, though. The point was to get along.
“Hey,” said Claire. “Do you hear that?”
Murphy looked up, at attention. She listened hard for a sound and then concluded, “I don’t hear anything.”
“Exactly,” Claire said, in a low, rapturous voice.
She scrambled over the cushions, ripping back one of Murphy’s carefully hung sheets. Murphy blinked, adjusting her eyes to the light Claire had let in. It was bright, no longer shrouded by rain.
Murphy stared, openmouthed, out the sitting room window.
The storm had stopped.
A grand finale befitting her magic act.
TWENTY-FIVE Eileen
Finally,” Claire murmured, one hand pressed to the window. “Finally.”
She looked, quite frankly, unhinged.
“Calm down,” Eileen said. “It just stopped. Even if it doesn’t start up again, they’ll need time to clear the roads. Probably black ice out there.”
Claire turned back from the glass, eyes infused with zeal. “You said the Caravan needed a few hours to rest. Well, it’s had plenty of those. If not, we walk to the diner and ask Cathy to call a mechanic.”
“On Christmas Eve?” Eileen snorted. “I guarantee you, no one’s gonna be open until the twenty-sixth, at least.”
“Well, what if they aren’t?” Claire was growing fervent. “We’ll get an appointment first thing on the twenty-sixth. Mom isn’t back from the cruise until late that night. We’ll have the van fixed and get home before she does.”
Annoyance crackled inside Eileen, electric and volatile. She wasn’t sure why she felt irritable. Claire had a point, didn’t she? They had to get home, and what was left for them here, at the house? Eileen had searched those boxes and found nothing. What was the point of staying? Claire was right. So why did that piss off Eileen?
You wanted things to change. The realization sliced through her mind. You wanted to find something, or someone. You still do. You’d be happy if Mark Enright showed up right here, right now.
It was messed up, Eileen knew, to want a murderer to appear, especially with two sisters around. Claire and Murphy had nothing to do with him. They’d just come along with Eileen as annoying stowaways. That was why they didn’t understand. They didn’t know why this trip had been important to her.
Admitting that Claire was right would be the same as admitting defeat. William J. Knutsen’s letter hadn’t meant anything in the end, and all that was waiting for Eileen in Emmet were day shifts at Safeway and nights spent spiking her bloodstream.
Or at least, that was all that had been waiting.
Eileen was still trying to process what had gone down between her and Claire in the parlor. She’d told Claire something big—half of a big thing, anyway. About what had happened that night at the junior art exhibit, only a month out from the day Eileen had found the letters.
People are horrible, Claire had told her. You know they were wrong.
Claire didn’t understand, though, because she hadn’t read the articles Eileen had, about how wildly talented high school artist Mark Enright had slaughtered his father in their family home.
His blood. Eileen’s veins.
It had been clear that night, when Eileen had read the word on the notecard: “psychopath.”
Was she really? The artistic finesse and the twisted soul—were those both traits she’d inherited from dear old dad? Eileen had told herself not to be ridiculous. She cried when dogs died in movies, and sick kids, too. She wasn’t devoid of empathy.
Still, the next time she’d sat at her desk to paint a still life, her paintbrush had hovered over the canvas, faltered, and failed.
It was crazy to say out loud, but she’d felt him. He’d been breathing down her neck, and