John Enright, age 24, passed away on January 20, 2004, in Boston, Massachusetts. An aspiring environmental attorney and first-year law student at Suffolk University, John was an active participant in his community, an esteemed intern at Rowe and Lundergrun, and was training for his first Boston Marathon at the time of his passing. He is survived by his brothers, Mark and Patrick. Visitation to be held at 12:00 p.m. on January 25, 2004, at Hayworth Memorial Home.
“What,” Eileen breathed. “What the hell is this.”
She raised the paper to an approaching Claire, who snatched it, looked over its contents, stopped, and met Eileen’s gaze with wide eyes.
“That’s not Dad,” said Eileen. “That’s … not Dad. He died here. In Oregon. In 2006. He wasn’t a fucking law student.”
Claire licked her lips. “Leenie, there’s something I found out. Something Kerry told me.”
“Kerry who?”
“The sheriff. She said … Leenie, Mark isn’t Mark Enright. Mark is Dad.”
Eileen stared at Claire. “Excuse me?”
“Dad—our dad, John Sullivan—was Mark Enright. He changed both his names.”
Eileen continued to stare. “I don’t … that doesn’t …”
“Kerry said it was the mom who did the killings, not Mark. She was messed up. It was her, not Dad. She said—”
Eileen raised her hands to her head. “Stop. Fucking stop.”
Her brain was on fire. The photographs. This obit. The sheriff. There were too many thoughts in her head competing for attention. And Murphy was lost. They’d lost their sister. They didn’t have time for this.
Eileen turned and screamed Murphy’s name again—a frantic, lilting echo. She felt the dread coming on hard, jabbing into her spine from behind like a living, breathing presence.
And then she was sure of it. She heard breath.
Claire saw first. Her eyes caught on something behind Eileen, and she raised a hand to her mouth.
Slowly, Eileen turned to the foyer and the figure standing there: a grown adult carrying a limp, prone Murphy. Eileen was so startled, she didn’t register the face, the anything of the figure.
Then she looked again, closer, and said, “Mom?”
TWENTY-NINE Claire
Oh my God,” said Claire.
The words emerged as a sob, and as they did, Claire realized how much fear had been pent up in her bones, to the point of fracture. Her mind spun, dipping in and out of questions. How was her mother here? How was Leslie Sullivan not on a beach three thousand miles away?
“What … what …” The choked word wouldn’t form itself into a sentence. Claire gave up the effort and, instead, cupped her hands over her mouth.
“She’s all right,” Mom said, nodding to the daughter in her arms. “She’d fallen asleep on the beach.”
Murphy, who Claire now saw was awake, gave a groggy half nod.
“Yeah,” she croaked. “I’m cool.”
“She’s cold, though,” said Mom. “Is there something to warm her up?”
Eileen jolted to attention. “Yeah. There are lots of blankets in the other room.”
“I’ll get them,” Claire blurted, suddenly needing this above anything else: to take action.
She propelled herself from the parlor, darting into the sitting room, where Murphy had constructed Cayenne Castle. She grabbed blankets and sheets with abandon, decimating Murphy’s construction and turning the castle to ruins. Then, with the blankets piled high, she returned to the parlor.
Eileen was crouched by the hearth, crumpling the contents of an open filing box and throwing the papers under new logs, striking a match. Soon, the kindling was alight, and the fire grew. Leslie had laid out Murphy on the couch, and Claire made quick work of burying her in blankets, encasing her ribs, ankles, thighs.
“There’s a kettle in the kitchen,” Claire said, remembering. “I’ll heat up water.”
She dashed from the room again, because it was better to keep moving than to sit with panic-stricken thoughts.
Mom was here. She was here. She’d found out their secret, and she’d found them at the worst possible time, with Murphy lost and Claire a mess. And what came next?
Claire didn’t want to think. Instead, she grabbed the cast-iron kettle from the stove and filled it with water. She turned a knob on the range and then stared, nonplussed, at the cold burner.
“God,” she groaned, when she realized: no electricity. If she’d stopped to think—the thing she most wanted not to do—she would have realized that.
Claire set down the kettle and breathed in deep. She turned back toward the parlor, exhaled, and resolved to face what awaited her in there.
“No power,” she mumbled, as she returned to the couch.
“I’m o-okay,” said Murphy, peeking her face over the mountainous pile of