out on the trip up I-5, Eileen had assumed that Claire was the same as Mom: unaware.
Even then, Eileen had thought the drunk driving—okay, that’s what it had been—was her first slip. A single misstep. She’d clung to the belief that Claire didn’t suspect the extent of the problem.
Was Eileen that far gone?
Claire had known, and she’d kept quiet. She’d been sharpening her blade, waiting for the moment to plunge it in deep, and twist.
A burned-out drunk like you.
With so much blood lost, Eileen hadn’t had the willpower to do anything but sleep. She’d taken herself to this bedroom and shut herself inside, and for the first time in three days, she’d slept in a bed. She hadn’t minded the cold last night, or the dark. Now, though, fresh from a malevolent dream, she felt differently about both.
Her spine was stiff, and she couldn’t feel her feet. Her nose, irreparably frozen, felt blue. Her mind was stuck on a word: “drunk.” Synonym to the one she wouldn’t accept.
Alcoholic.
She’d been telling herself it wasn’t true. She’d tried hard to believe the lie that she was fine. Under control. She couldn’t do that anymore. Her present need for whiskey was overwhelming—a desperation to wash away growing fears with an antiseptic burn.
But the flask was empty. Relief wasn’t coming. Left defenseless, those undeniable fears crawled into Eileen—spiders seeking a shadowy home in her heart. She thought of the letters in the linen closet. Of a bloodied piano, a lifeless body at the base of the stairs. Of painted canvases and a scribbled-on notecard reading, Eileen paints like a total psychopath.
“Shut up,” she told the arachnid thoughts.
She lifted her eyes from the sheets, only to meet a lifeless pair of baby blues.
The doll.
Why had she chosen the room with the doll?
It stood on the dresser directly across from Eileen. One white hand was raised, fingers sealed and thumb apart, like it was pleading with Eileen, begging for spare change. Or it was reaching for her. For a grip. On her neck.
“Fuck that,” Eileen said, throwing off the sheets and scrambling across the bed. To get to the door, she had to turn her back to the doll, and in that sickening moment, cold adrenaline launched through her veins. She slammed the door behind her, gripping the knob, breathing hard.
Now that she was standing, Eileen could feel an urgent pressure from her bladder. She decided to head downstairs and use the bathroom there, then settle by the fireside, next to Murphy.
Guilt dug its finely sharpened talons into Eileen.
Murph, for the love of God, not now.
She’d seen hurt swell in Murphy, drawing down the angles of her face. She hadn’t meant to be cruel. She’d had another sister on her mind, and Murphy could be so infuriatingly naive, a believer only in magic and made-up royal titles.
Still, Eileen shouldn’t have yelled. She’d apologize when Murphy woke up, and then they’d leave this house. They’d drive the Caravan home, and Eileen would face whatever wrath Claire had stored up for her in Emmet. That’s the way it would go. The inheritance and Mark Enright—she’d think about those ugly things at a later date. After Christmas.
Eileen descended the grand staircase, shivering as she went. Her leather jacket was no match for the winter cold in the parlor. The fire had gone out, or maybe Murphy hadn’t lit it. Eileen noted her on the couch, covered completely by blankets. She passed by, turning into the foyer and the adjacent bathroom.
When she was through and washing her hands, she looked to the bathroom mirror. Past her back, through the open door, she saw the ruins of Cayenne Castle in the sitting room. Eileen shut off the tap, wiping her hands on her jeans and turning to the blanket-strewn mess. She walked into the room, and as she did, she entered the past. December twenty-firsts from years ago were present here, circling Eileen’s memory in a carousel mist: Murphy’s bad quarter tricks and ginger ale tea parties, and the grand fanfare her sisters had made when Eileen had hung her painting on the mantle. The memories came to life in the light of a half moon.
Eileen’s gaze roved the torn castle walls and pillow thrones until her eye caught on something—a manila folder, half-obscured beneath the leg of the open storage couch. Eileen could guess what had happened: In Murphy’s construction process, pulling sheets from the chest, the folder had slipped out from inside. Or maybe it had been on the