hard earth. Maybe this would be easier if she had an actual shovel, instead of a garden spade. Maybe it’d be better if it were summer, and the ground weren’t caked in frost.
Maybe this wouldn’t be happening if she’d remembered to feed Siegfried like a good, responsible person.
When it came to choosing a burial site, Murphy had decided against her own yard. Neighbors might see and ask questions. Instead, she’d taken Siegfried off-site, walking a few street corners down to a place where no one would be: Morris Park. Here, a few yards into the tree line, down a loose gravel path, was a thick copse of evergreen trees.
Murphy figured it was symbolic: evergreen, the way Siegfried would remain evergreen … in her heart?
The grave-digging was taking so long, though. Murphy had been here over half an hour and had hacked out only the barest outline of a square. It was getting dark. Dusk rested on the trees, and cold slithered beneath Murphy’s puffer coat, prickling gooseflesh from her skin.
It was silent.
Too silent.
In the summer the park was filled with joggers, barbecuers, yelling kids. Families gathered here for the Fourth of July, celebrating past midnight with sparklers and Bud Lights. In December, the park was a different place. A deserted chunk of icy ground.
Shadows gathered around the spruces and pines, forming deepening pockets of darkness where unknown figures could hide. Murphy hadn’t considered safety before. She’d only been thinking that the park was the nearest deserted, concealed plot of land.
Murderers and kidnappers probably thought that too.
Murphy staggered to her feet, wiping the dirty spade on her jean leg and picking up Siegfried’s coffin.
“Later,” she said. “When there’s more light.”
She set out from the copse in a nervous jog, keeping to the path, following it to the parking lot.
If someone were to kidnap her out here, Murphy wondered, how long would it take Eileen and Claire to notice? Hours? Days? Until Mom returned from the cruise?
Even then, they’d probably get over it fast. Mom had two whole other daughters. Claire and Eileen had each other for sisters. Murphy wasn’t essential.
I’m the spare tire of the family, Murphy thought, crossing the parking lot. No one notices me when I’m around. Who would notice if I were gone?
The lot was empty. There were no cars here. No one to see if gloved hands reached out, wrapped around Murphy’s mouth, and dragged her into the gathering shadows. A shudder drove through her spine like a metal stake.
It was a bad idea to dig out here.
A very bad idea.
In this deserted place Murphy’s jokes were pallid, powerless things. Her illusions were silly tricks, learned from library books titled Magic for All and The Art of the Con. Murphy wasn’t meant for deserted places. A magician couldn’t perform without a lively audience. Murphy was going to find that crowd eventually. It would require years of work to make it on stage, but she had what it took. The drama club advisor, Ms. Stubbs, had even confided in Murphy that she was the most talented kid in the group. One day Murphy would make it big.
In the meantime, though, she had to be careful about not getting randomly murdered. What a waste of fourteen years—the book reading, diagram studying, rope-trick solving—that’d be.
As Murphy headed for the poorly lit street, it began to mist. Raindrops stuck to her gloves. They lived for a second, visible droplets, before seeping into black knit. Murphy tucked her hands into her coat, where her turtle’s coffin sat snug between her ribcage and the coat zipper. She patted the Tupperware and sighed.
“Siegfried,” she said, “this is one screwy Christmas.”
DECEMBER TWENTY-THIRD
SEVEN Eileen
It was two in the morning and Eileen was eating a day-old donut, leftover from her most recent Safeway shift. She chewed while sprawled on her frameless mattress, raining sugar flakes on the wrinkled sheets. Her own private blizzard. And people said it barely snowed in the Willamette Valley.
It was pretty in a way, this everyday snowstorm. Two years ago Eileen would have chosen Titanium White and Pewter Gray from her acrylic set to do the scene justice.
Beside her rested a manila folder filled with several important-looking documents, which Mr. Knutsen had asked Eileen to look over carefully. The only document Eileen cared about was the paper with the address:
2270 Laramie Court, Rockport, OR
Patrick Enright’s house. Her inheritance. The way Mr. Knutsen had explained it, the house would truly be Eileen’s once Murphy turned eighteen. That’s when she