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 and her sisters could jointly decide what to do: keep the house, or sell it. Until then, Patrick Enright had left behind enough money for Mr. Knutsen to manage the estate.
Mr. Knutsen had descended into legalese after that—mumbo jumbo about capital gains and property taxes. Eileen had stopped listening. She’d heard what mattered most.
Maybe it was the donut sugar blasting through her veins or the fading buzz of two shots’ worth of Jack Daniel’s. Maybe it was Christmas delirium, but there, on her bed, Eileen Sullivan was hatching a plan. Mr. Knutsen had scheduled a follow-up appointment with her, for after the holidays, but Eileen wasn’t one for appointments. Or waiting.
What she had was tonight. And tonight? She was going to Rockport.
She couldn’t shake what Mr. Knutsen had said, right before she’d left his office:
“Who knows what he’s kept locked away in there.”
“Sorry,” Eileen had said. “What?”
Mr. Knutsen had patted his sides and chuckled. “Patrick … well, he’s been the oddest of my clients, by far. Do you know, he found out about you by way of a private investigator? The PI’s findings brought Patrick down here, where he sought out my services. I’ve never had such a client: insisting on secrecy, informing me of his impending death—and I believed it, the man looked like hell. Directing me to not breathe a word to your mother and only send the letters out to you girls individually, when you were eighteen. Funeral? None. And a private burial. No relations or friends to speak of. Quite the eccentric.”
“Yeah, reminds me of someone.”
Eileen had been thinking of herself.
“As I was saying,” Mr. Knutsen had said, “it’s a mystery what’s in that house. Documents, photographs, antiques, maybe. Could be piles of junk. But he’s shut it all up. No estate sale. Left it waiting for you girls.”
On her bed, Eileen squinted in thought.
Documents.
Why would Mr. Knutsen have used that word? Not “knickknacks,” not “possessions.” He’d distinctly said “documents.”
Documents could mean answers.
Hadn’t Eileen’s troubles begun with documents? With the letters she’d found in the linen closet two years ago?
Documents could mean change.
The word pumped through Eileen’s heart, filling the ventricles, rushing in from veins and out through arteries: Ch-change, ch-change, ch-change.
She’d known the secret for two years. It had messed with Eileen’s head, fucking up everything—her art, her life at home, her will to do anything but drink in this drafty garage.
All because Eileen believed the secret to be true.
But what if.
What if Eileen didn’t have all the facts?
Patrick Enright. Her uncle. He had to have known the secret too.
And there were documents.
What if those documents told a different story from the ones she’d read?
Eileen hadn’t considered the possibility before. Now she craved it: a diary entry. A written confession. A letter to Eileen herself, left for her to discover—an inheritance of a different kind.
That was another thing: She’d inherited a house. So, best-case scenario, she got an answer to the question that had eaten her alive for two years. Worst-case? She was richer than she’d been a week ago. Either way, things were looking up.
This was ch-change, ch-change, ch-change.
It was after two o’clock when Eileen got up and filled a backpack with supplies: a blanket, socks, a thermal shirt, a refillable water bottle, Dubble Bubble, her flask of Jack Daniel’s, and lastly, the manila folder Mr. Knutsen had given her.
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse, and that was when Eileen crept out of the house.
Eileen owned a 1989 Dodge Caravan. It was equipped with wood paneling, a red interior, and a finicky alternator. Eileen hated the Caravan with her whole heart. It sucked that you could work hard for three years and in the end all you could afford was something you hated with your whole heart. In fact, Eileen considered this reality the running theme of her life.
For the Caravan’s engine to start up, you had to turn the key in the ignition just so. Eileen had mostly mastered the trick of it, but every once in a while she had to try a second or third time through a primordial sputtering under the hood. Tonight she needed stealth on her side, so with one hand she crossed her fingers and with the other she turned the key.
The engine started.
Her lucky night.
Eileen drew her seat belt snug across her chest and shifted the van into drive.
This was it. She was leaving.
Fuck Emmet.
Fuck everything.
But first—one deep, long breath.
THUMP.
The sound came from the passenger window. On instinct, Eileen shrieked.
Then she saw who it was.
Claire.
Before Eileen could reach for the lock, Claire had climbed inside. She settled into the passenger seat, primly crossing her legs and facing Eileen.
“Get out,” Eileen ordered.
“No,” Claire replied. She jangled a foot, clad in a gold glitter Keds shoe. It sparkled up at Eileen. Actually sparkled. “What are you doing? Running away from home?”
“I’m an adult,” said Eileen. “It’s not running away, it’s leaving.”
“Sure.”
“Get out of my car.”
“If you’re road tripping, I’m coming with.”
“Why do you—”
Claire leaned in, revealing the painted contours of her cheeks. “Okay, Leenie, think. Think super hard. Who does the chores in the house?”
“No one. That’s why it’s a shithole.”
“Who does. The chores.”
Eileen growled. “You, I guess.”
“Who empties the trash?”
Eileen was quiet. She had the sudden urge to puke.
“I read the letter,” Claire said.
“What … the hell.”
It came together as Eileen remembered the envelope’s torn top. She thought she’d made that tear in a drunken stupor. She’d been wrong.
“I called Mr. Knutsen myself,” Claire said, with utmost composure. “He wouldn’t tell me details, since I’m not eighteen, which I guess is fair. You have the details, though. So we’re going to do this.”
Eileen couldn’t remember ever being this surprised. It felt kind of nice to feel something this much. But that didn’t mean she was okay with it.
“We’re not doing anything,” she said.
“Sure we are. We’re going to our dead Uncle Patrick’s house. I know you visited Knutsen this afternoon.” Claire tapped the manila folder resting on the dash. “You left that on the kitchen counter when you came home and peed. I saw the address. Rockport, right? That’s where we’re headed.”
Eileen narrowed her eyes. “When did I invite you?”
Claire’s lips curled upward. Another thing Eileen couldn’t remember: the last time Claire had smiled at her.
“I’ve got money,” Claire said.
Eileen was quiet.
“Unlike you, I didn’t blow mine on a van. I’ve got thousands. Thousands, Leenie.”
Eileen studied Claire, incredulous. “Are you … bribing me?”
“One hundred dollars,” Claire answered, “for the use of your vehicle. I looked up the address, and it’s a three-hour drive north. You’re the only one with a car, and no Lyft is that cheap. It makes perfect sense.”
Eileen shook her head at Claire. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Well?” Claire pressed. “One hundred. I bet that’s twice the money you’ve got to your name.”
Eileen stayed quiet. There was a crumpled dollar in her back jeans pocket.
One dollar.
That was it.
“Why do you care?” Eileen asked. “Why’s it worth a hundred bucks to you?”
Claire looked at Eileen like she was dense. “Because it’s my inheritance too. I want to know what I’m working with. Anyway, I’ve made you a fair offer.”
“Three hundred,” Eileen said tonelessly.
Claire looked surprised for only a moment. She countered, “Two.”
“Two-fifty.”
Claire screwed up her eyes. “You know, I already wrote down the address. That’s your leverage.”
“I’ve got the van,” said Eileen. “That’s plenty of leverage still. Two-fifty, you ride. Any less, and I drag you out of this van by your goddamn messy hair bun.”
This time Claire didn’t miss a beat. “Two-fifty, fine. We drive, we check out the place, and we get home by morning. Murphy won’t even notice we’re gone.”
Though it was technically Eileen’s victory, she didn’t feel triumphant. Instead, she got a twinge of guilt thinking of leaving Murphy home alone overnight. But Murphy was fourteen, a high schooler. She could take care of herself. And nothing bad ever happened on their street.
Unless you counted Dad’s death.
Or Eileen’s everyday life.
This was a perfect example: Eileen had won the argument, but in the end she felt screwed over. Claire had still gotten what she’d wanted. She’d known she was going to get it from the beginning. She had the money. The real leverage.
That’s why she was smiling.
“You freak,” said Eileen. “Reading my goddamn mail.”
Claire’s smile opened wide, revealing two rows of crooked, ultrawhite teeth. “I’ll be back with my things.”
Eileen waited, watching Claire open the kitchen door with laughable slowness, clearly afraid a single creak might wake Murphy.
God. She was going to turn this trip into a downright ordeal.
Eileen eyed her keys, dangling in the ignition. She could still leave. What was $250 to her, really? Then she eyed the gas gauge, where the red arrow sat tauntingly close to empty. She could probably make it to Rockport on fumes, but one dollar wouldn’t buy her the gas to get home.
What exactly had been her master plan?
How had she intended to get that money? By robbing a bank?
Eileen hadn’t thought this through. She’d never been a big-picture person.
But Claire sure as hell was. She was the planner.
Eileen needed a drink.
Not too much. A shot. Sure, she’d already taken two tonight, but she could handle that much fine without risk of driving impaired. Eileen opened her backpack and removed the flask. She pulled a swig and let the liquid rest for a moment, sitting cold on her teeth, burning hot on her tongue. She remembered again what Mr. Knutsen had said: documents.
She stowed the flask in the glove compartment and, for the second time that night, she crossed her fingers.
Only then did she swallow.