She heads up the stairs, and I’m about to follow, but Dad says, “Alex, wait.”
I glance toward the entryway, then back at him. “I think it’s best we leave.” I say calmer than I feel.
Mallory points a finger at Grant. “Why are you being such an asshole?”
His face reddens. “I’m not the one?—”
“Yeah,” Tyler says, his voice tight. “You are the one.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to say,” Grant protests.
“Does it matter?” Tyler shoots back. “There’s nothing you can say to justify how you’ve treated Finley.”
“I just wanted to know why she had a stocking and Eloise doesn’t.” He turns to Mom with an accusing look.
She shakes her head. “Don’t look at me. I had nothing to do with the stockings.”
“Then who did?” Mallory asks, looking around the room.
“Maybe it was Santa,” Grant says, his voice dripping sarcastically.
“It was Finley,” I say flatly. “She has a stocking because I insisted that she have one too. And for the record, Eloise has a stocking upstairs in our room, but we didn’t put it up because she’s not here.”
When he starts to argue, I hold up my hand. “And the fact Eloise isn’t here has nothing to do with Finley. You might think I’ve got a flavor of the week,” I seethe, “but at least I’m not stuck in a toxic relationship.”
Grant’s jaw works like he’s about fire back, then clamps shut.
What am I doing standing here? Finley’s upstairs alone—her Christmas ruined—I’m wasting time with this. “I’m going upstairs to pack.”
“He’ll stay in line,” Dad says, narrowing his laser-focused glare on my brother.
I turn back to face him. “No offense, Dad, but you and Mom have been promising Finley she wouldn’t be subjected to any more of his bullshit since last night, and yet he keeps dishing it out.”
Mom’s cheeks flush.
“Hey!” Tyler snaps. “Don’t talk to Mom and Dad like that.”
“It’s okay, Tyler,” Mom says quietly. “He’s right. We promised it would stop, and it didn’t.”
To his credit, Grant looks embarrassed.
I start toward the entryway when the doorbell rings.
It’s so out of place with the mood that none of us move. Then it rings again. And again. Whoever’s out there isn’t leaving.
I’m the closest to the door, so I head to the entryway and yank the door open, prepared to send someone packing—only to freeze.
Two older women are standing on the porch, bundled up in so many layers, they look like escapees from an unprepared arctic expedition. Multiple scarves are wrapped around their necks and heads, and oversized purses are slung over their arms. The tall one clutches a pet carrier shrouded in a knit blanket.
“Well, don’t just stand there!” the shorter, stockier one barks, her eyes blazing. “Let us in.”
Her voice carries so much authority; I don’t even question it—I back up and they storm across the threshold like they’re staging a raid.
“Where is she?” the shorter woman demands, shooting daggers at me. Her face looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t place her. Is she one of the neighbors?
“Who?” I manage, still thrown off.
“Alex,” Mom calls from the living room. “Who’s at the door?”
