The room was falling into shadow as the sun on the horizon dipped deeper into the Pacific. She got up, flipped the switch next to the bookcase, and cast the entire north side of the room out of the creeping darkness. She scanned the shelves for several seconds before noticing the bottom; row after row of slim volumes pressed tight against one another. She crouched down and pried several out from the middle—they were journals, a hundred at least. Clare’s words about Clare’s life?

Eileen stood up with the books in hand, and considered all the other journals still on the shelves. It was like holding on to a piece of her sister, an intimate part of Clare’s world, her experiences, her feelings, her perceptions. As kids, Clare had caught Eileen reading her journals many times—her wrath and retribution had been swift and usually painful. But even back then, Clare’s life was so much more interesting than her own. She looked up to her sister, envied her. Reading her journals was Eileen’s way of both finding out about Clare’s life and measuring her own uneventful days. Was it wrong to read these now? She imagined Clare chasing her around this room, as adults, screaming at the top of her lungs for Eileen to “give me that back, you little bitch!” right before she caught the back of Eileen’s shirt and wrestled her to the posh white shag rug. The ridiculous thought made her smile—until reality rushed back in.

Eileen held Clare’s journals to her chest. How could she have let her own sister drift so far away? She took a ragged breath and let it go. “I’m sorry, Clare,” she stated. “But I don’t give a shit about your privacy,” she whispered. She knelt back down in front of the shelf and grabbed another handful of books. “I need to know, okay? I need to know why you would do this to yourself, and I’m going to find out,” she said.

When she stood up, her arms now loaded with Clare’s journals, she carried them to the door, checked to make sure Simon was nowhere nearby, and shuttled them into the hall. She had to open and check two more rooms before discovering where Henry had put her bags.

With her elbow, Eileen pressed the wall switch to turn on the chandelier hanging over the center of the room. It was exactly as she remembered it. She and Eric had slept here three years ago at Christmas, while the three kids had shared the room down the hall. This room had the same west-facing view of the Pacific out of the glass wall that, just like the larger version in Clare’s study, slid open to a private balcony.