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Thump, drag.
Badger turns and takes the hammer from me, motions for me to wait here. But, of course, I follow him as he pushes open the basement door.
The hallway is dark. In my pocket, my phone is vibrating, but I barely notice as I push in close to Badger.
“I told you to wait on the stairs,” he hisses.
“Fuck off. What is this 1950?”
The floor creaks beneath our weight as we move toward the kitchen. When we turn the corner, I draw in a shocked breath.
“Oh my god,” says Badger.
Crooked and barely upright, it’s my dad, leaning heavily on his cane.
“Maddie,” he says, voice thick and slurred. I run to him and catch him just before he starts to fall.
19
Three Days Before Christmas
I’m out. I’m out. I’m free. All around me, trees and sky. There. I see it. The big pickup truck. I scramble to my feet, barely feeling where the glass cut me, the box cutter wound on my arm. My legs are weak and wobbly, but a dump of adrenaline and cortisol anesthetize and energize me.
My feet go numb almost immediately from the ice on the ground, the rocks digging into my flesh of my feet as I race toward the car. I don’t care. I’d run over glass.
He comes roaring out the front door of the house and now it’s just about speed.
I get to the car and find the driver’s door unlocked, and get inside, locking it, reaching over to make sure the passenger side is locked too, just as he reaches the vehicle slamming his fists against the window.
I reach for the ignition.
No keys.
I let out a wail of anger and frustration, pound on the wheel with all my exasperation and terror.
Santa stands outside the car and dangles the keys in front of the window. His plastic smile is hideous.
“I’m guessing you don’t know how to hot-wire a car, Lolly.” His voice is muted through the glass.
I scream at him, a wild roar of my rage and fear. Then I lean on the horn and it’s so, so, so loud, he takes a step back. I lean on it again with all my weight, screaming
as well.
Maybe someone will hear me. He starts pounding on the window with his fists.
“Stop it,” he yells. “Fucking stop it.”
But I just keep leaning on it. Again, again, again.
He disappears inside the house finally and I sit in the locked car, stop wailing on the horn, sit and cry, try to think. Should I get out and run while he’s still in the house? But the road is long and dark, the sky black, thick tree coverage as far as I can see. I’m weak and he’s so much bigger, therefore faster.
When he comes out of the house again, he’s carrying a sledgehammer.
Oh God.
I start leaning on the horn. Again, again, again. Someone will hear me. Someonehas tohear me.
20
