Not even Harper Everly, with her two million subscribers, could change that.
THREE Murphy
At the same time Claire was not getting into college, Murphy was discovering the dead body.
Unlike, say, hamsters or hedgehogs, pet turtles have remarkably long lifespans; the average is forty years. Siegfried had lived to be thirty, so really, he’d had a decent turtle life. He hadn’t died of natural causes, though. He’d died—Murphy was convinced—because she’d forgotten to feed him.
She’d been busy lately, with school and drama club.
She simply hadn’t been thinking.
She couldn’t remember not feeding him. Only, that was the trouble with turtles: They didn’t remind you when you’d forgotten to fix them dinner. They couldn’t bark or meow or claw at their cages. They simply stayed in their shells, chilling. Hungry. Hungrier. Dead.
Murphy had read once that turtles could survive for months, even years, without food. That’s why she’d grown lax with feeding in the first place: Siegfried was cold-blooded, so he could handle a few skipped days. He could deal with dirty, months-old tank water and a blown heat bulb that Murphy hadn’t gotten around to replacing.
Now, though, it seemed that even the cold-blooded had their limit.
Murphy wasn’t sure she’d ever forgive herself.
To make matters worse, she had a dead body on her hands. What was she supposed to do about that? In her fourteen years of life, no one had prepared Murphy for this. Who did she even ask about turtle burials?
Not Mom. Leslie Sullivan had left that morning for her all-inclusive sweepstakes Bahamian cruise, and she’d told her daughters that once the boat hit the open sea, she’d have no cell phone service and only limited access to expensive Internet.
Even if Mom had been around to hear the news, would it have bothered her much? Six years ago, when Murphy had asked to take care of the family turtle, Mom had happily moved his tank into Murphy’s room like it was a big relief. She hadn’t even realized that Murphy had changed his old name of “Tortue” until months later, when Murphy had asked her to stop by Petco for Siegfried A. Roy’s food pellets. Mom was always busy working long hours at Walgreens. She didn’t have time to worry about Murphy’s schoolwork, let alone an old turtle.
That left Eileen and Claire, Murphy’s older sisters, as possible advisors on turtle funeral matters. Eileen, who locked herself in her bedroom, playing loud music and emerging only to sway and slur her words. Claire, who locked herself in her bedroom, emerging only to lecture Murphy about leaving dried oatmeal bowls in the kitchen sink.
Like Murphy would ask them for help.
Maybe four years ago, when they’d been nicer and hadn’t shut their doors.
Not now.
In Siegfried’s burial, Murphy was alone.
Tonight, the house was silent, both of Murphy’s sisters barricaded in their rooms. Murphy sat at the family computer in the den. It was a behemoth from the twentieth century, with a broken fan that juddered like a bullet-riddled fighter jet every time it started. As Murphy waited for the hunk of machinery to boot up—ri-tat-tat-tat-ti-tat—she pulled her newest rope trick from her jeans pocket.
She was trying to master this one:
Over, under, tug through and out.
The instructions from the Magic Today booklet made it sound easy enough. Currently, though, the rope lay limp in Murphy’s hands, forming the shape of a loose M.
M for Murphy.
M for Murderer.
At last, the computer lurched to life. Murphy put away the accusatory rope, opened the Internet, and clicked on the search bar.
She typed in “How to dispose of a dead turtle.”
She winced.
She hit enter.
She avoided the images tab, because this wasn’t her first gross search engine rodeo. Instead, she clicked on a forum result from a website called Pet Savvy. Most forum users suggested a shoebox burial.
Murphy couldn’t remember the last time she’d bought shoes. Having two older sisters made her the hand-me-down queen.
She kept scrolling through comments.
“SparksandDarts” said:
I’ll tell you what my dad did when our turtle kicked it. He pretended our turtle had “powers” and had “disappeared” overnight. Then he claimed he’d “reappeared” inside our TV, and he was now one of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I spent half my childhood believing Michelangelo was my old pet.
Murphy snorted and muttered, “Sick.”
Still, she filed away the information. Not for real life. For an act.
Magicians made rabbits disappear on the regular, but Murphy had never seen a disappearing turtle act. That could be new. Fresh. Fun. Murphy’s big break. She could go down in the books as “Turtle Girl.”
Murphy made a face.
Not a great name.
Turtle Empress Supreme?
Better. She’d workshop that, once she made it to Vegas.
Scrolling deeper into the forum replies, Murphy discovered posts about using Clorox to prevent bacterial growth.
That’s when she began to feel nauseated.
Murphy had realized something: She was going to have to move Siegfried. Touch dead Siegfried.
She modified her search to “How to dispose of a dead turtle without throwing up.”
DECEMBER TWENTY-SECOND
FOUR Eileen
The Law Offices of Knutsen & Crowley | 218 Avenue B #5
December 18, 2020
Dear Ms. Sullivan,
I represented your uncle, Patrick Enright, in life, and as of his passing one week ago, I serve as the executor of his will. Mr. Enright has informed me that this will come as a surprise, but he left behind the majority of his estate to you and your sisters. This estate is to be divided in equal thirds and bequeathed to each of you upon your respective eighteenth birthdays.
Since you are the first Sullivan sister to reach the age of majority, I am writing to request you make an appointment at my office, during which time I will go over the terms of the late Mr. Enright’s will and address any questions you may have. You are welcome to bring your own attorney, should you desire. I look forward to making your acquaintance.
Sincerely,
William J. Knutsen
Eileen looked up from the letter in her hand. She was facing 218 Avenue B, listening to Mariah Carey on holiday radio. Vigorously, she chewed four pieces of Dubble Bubble.
She hated this song.
But she wasn’t sure she could get out of the van.
“Shit,” she said to the steering wheel.
She welcomed the gum’s ephemeral sugar rush. Not alcohol, maybe, but like it—necessary for short-time existence, detrimental to long-term well-being.
It was misting outside, and rain had puddled in the parking lot, iridescent with gasoline and who knew what other crap. Eileen hadn’t known what to expect from William J. Knutsen. This eyesore of an office sure wasn’t it. A town as small as Emmet didn’t exactly have right and wrong sides of the track; nearly every house was run-down, the strip malls grimy. This place was especially both those things: a tan-brick shopping center that hadn’t been updated since the start of the new millennium. Half the storefronts were empty, their windows papered up, with FOR LEASE signs left on the doors like despairing afterthoughts. Wedged between two of these storefronts were the law offices of Knutsen and Crowley. A rusted plaque by the glass double doors told Eileen so, and in case she had any remaining doubts, a banner strung overhead shouted, TROUBLE WITH THE LAW? BILL CAN HELP. Beside the words was an illustration of a green bird breaking free from a birdcage prison cell.