it had been his hand, not hers, holding the brush. Mark Enright had seized her until painting—this sacred, lifelong passion of Eileen’s—wasn’t hers anymore. It was his. Part of the sordid past contained in those letters.
She’d tried again and again to draw in charcoal, pencil, pastel. No medium had been left to her. Every last one was contaminated, because she was their poisoned root.
So Eileen had stopped trying. She hadn’t drawn anymore. She’d closed her portfolio, set it aside for good. She’d let the art school deadlines pass over her like distant planes, bound for destinations she’d never see.
If she tried to explain that to Claire, it would involve telling the secret. And Eileen had been close to doing just that when Murphy had shown up.
Would she really have told Claire about Mark Enright?
Would it have made a difference?
Then there was the other secret—the one Claire had confessed. Eileen couldn’t understand why the hell her sister would apply to an arts fellowship on her behalf. And Eileen had made it. They wanted to interview her.
Did that matter anymore?
Could it matter, if she let it?
Could she go home and face the question?
No.
That was it: She wasn’t ready to go home.
That’s why she wanted to wipe that hopeful smile off Claire’s face. Why she wished the skies would open back up and let out freezing rain for the next ten days.
She didn’t want to go home.
“Let’s go to the diner!” shouted Murphy, who’d unfortunately caught Claire’s enthusiasm. “It’s still sort of light outside. We can walk there—it’s not too far—and get some real food.”
“There’s real food in the pantry,” Eileen countered.
Murphy gagged. “Maggot food.”
“Because that bag was opened, and you don’t know for how long. The Pringles and Pop-Tarts were totally fine. Anything in a closed container will be.”
Murphy waved Eileen off. “Easy for you to say. You didn’t get a mouthful of bugs.”
“You just want cheese curds.”
Murphy gave Eileen a look that said duh, before asking, “How is this a bad plan? We get food, we get someone to fix the van, if it needs it. Then we go home.”
“It’s still icy out there.” Eileen motioned to the window. “And it won’t be light for long.”
It was true. The deep orange sun was already slipping behind the horizon of the bluff.
“I’ve got a better idea,” she added. “Let’s get a good night’s sleep. Then we’ll leave first thing in the morning.”
“We don’t know if the diner will be open Christmas Day,” said Claire.
“We don’t know if it’s open Christmas Eve night,” argued Eileen, grateful that her desperate points made sense. “I mean, we could have checked the hours, but someone smashed their phone.”
Claire narrowed her eyes. “Someone else doesn’t believe in phones.”
“Whatever,” said Eileen. “Point is, it’s not a good idea to go out. We don’t know if the storm’s let up for good, and we’ve walked this hill before—it’s steep. Covered in ice? We could break our goddamn backs.”
Claire peered at Eileen. “I don’t get it. Why don’t you want to get out of this place?”
“I do. I just want us to be safe.”
“Bullshit,” said Claire, shocking Eileen with both the curse and the insight. “What’s up with you?”
The electric crackles intensified, popping inside Eileen. “Nothing’s up. We just don’t need diner food when there’s plenty of stuff in the pantry. And we don’t even need a goddamn mechanic, okay? The van was never broken.”
She’d said the words in anger, in a rush. She hadn’t considered. Now it was too late, and they were out, circling the thin, linen walls of Cayenne Castle.
Claire blanched, staring at Eileen. “Excuse me?”
Eileen licked her lips. “I meant, it’s the Caravan. It’s always a little broken, so it never really is.”
“No,” Claire said slowly.” That’s not what you meant.”
Eileen had hoped Claire would let it go. She always saw the big picture, though, in the end.
“You told us the van was dead,” Claire continued. “You said it needed rest.”
She’d been found out. So why not drive the nail through this coffin fully? Eileen set her jaw. “Okay, fine. I lied about the van. Is that what you want to hear? I lied because, if I hadn’t, you would have forced us to go home. Just like you forced your way on the trip and forced yourself behind the wheel. Because you have to be in control of fucking everything. It has to fit into Claire’s perfect master plan. Only I’m not in your plan, and this trip wasn’t