that led down the bluff to Rockport and, beyond it, a place far away from Eileen. Her messy bun bobbed in the fading light as she tugged her peacoat around her waist. She slipped once, nearly wiping out, but caught her balance and walked on vehemently until she’d descended so far down the road the horizon had eaten her up, and there was no remaining trace of Claire Sullivan.
TWENTY-SIX Claire
The damp air stuck to Claire’s cheeks, drawing out a shiver. She hadn’t thought to go back in the house for her scarf, hat, or gloves. She hadn’t thought to drag Murphy out, insisting she come along. She hadn’t thought, period. She’d been too angry for thinking.
Eileen had lied. She’d deliberately put them in danger, stranding them in a strange town. This entire time, the Caravan had been fine. They could have escaped before the storm hit and been safely in Emmet for Christmas. Instead, Eileen had kept them holed up in that house … for what? What could she have possibly hoped to find in those boxes?
Claire had come on this trip on impulse, a desperate whim that a golden moment awaited her. She’d assumed, wrongly, that Eileen had come for an equally rudderless purpose. Only now it was clear that in this new, inverted reality, Claire had been plan-less and Eileen had been the intentional one.
Claire had caught Eileen asleep, with a box in her lap. She’d seen the wistful way Eileen had glanced, midconversation, to the stacked parlor wall. She’d heard her say, “We could find some answers here, if we stick around.”
Eileen was a confirmed liar; she’d probably lied about the boxes, too. For all Claire knew, William J. Knutsen had given Eileen a detailed map and instructions for uncovering rare jewels. A selfish secret Eileen had kept to herself.
And Eileen had called Claire a self-righteous bitch.
What a small stone to throw, when Eileen lived in a glass palace. She was the garage-dwelling Settler who hadn’t bothered pursuing her art and instead continued a dead-end job at Safeway, living at home. She was the teenage alcoholic.
Did Eileen really think Claire hadn’t noticed?
She had seen the bottle-shaped paper bags Eileen brought home, had passed her in the hall enough times to catch the sharp stench of whiskey. She’d witnessed Eileen staggering to the bathroom late at night, watched as she’d trudged, bedraggled, into the kitchen in the morning with obvious hangovers.
It’s bad, Claire had thought to herself. But it’s a phase. She’s being an angsty teen, hanging out with a Settler crowd.
Claire hadn’t spoken up, because what would be the point? Eileen would only yell, telling Claire to mind her own goddamn business. So Claire had, preemptively, done just that. She’d zipped her lips when she could’ve talked. She’d turned a blind eye when she could’ve stared. Until tonight, when so much rage had collected inside her that the words had shot out like bullets, aimed to kill: Better to be a bitch than a burned-out drunk like you.
Claire walked the slick path down the bluff, warding off guilt. Why should she feel bad for what she’d said? For all Eileen’s lying, maybe she deserved a good slap of truth to the face.
Claire had nearly reached the base of the long, sloped hill when she lost her footing, rubber soles skidding across a patch of ice, and this time she couldn’t right herself. Her legs gave out beneath her, and she was airborne for one alarming second. Then her back hit the asphalt in a whump. Pain screamed through Claire as she pulled in her limbs and, wincing, sat up.
Her backside hurt, and tears sprang instantly to her eyes. The chilled Pacific wind drove into her, harder than before, and Claire allowed herself the indulgence of crying. She let the tears fall fast, soaking the collar of her peacoat. Still crying, she managed to find a foothold on the frost-bitten ground that bordered the road. She got to her feet, limping onward toward Ramsey’s Diner, or whatever public place she found first that was open and had a phone.
If Murphy wanted to be a whining child, then fine. If Eileen chose to be a liar, okay. Claire had been the responsible one in this family for far too long. Her sisters could fend for themselves, spending another night in that house. Claire was going home.
The sun was setting fast, turning the world the color of a bruise. Streetlights kicked on along the road as Claire limped forward, careful