AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Christmas Day dawns clear and cold, the ground still covered in icy white from the blizzard and the frigid temperatures. I still remember how I used to run down to the Christmas tree in the morning to find it surrounded by gifts. But this morning I just lie here for a while in the warmth of my bed—thinking about Ainsley and Sam, about Steph, about my dad. About Badger—I mean Steve. I glance at my phone to find a text from him.
Merry Christmas
Merry Christmas, I want to write.I love you.
But I stick with the first part.
What time today?
Any time.
Ok.
A man of few words. He is bereft. I know this—devastated about his brother, the secret that was right beneath his nose for so many years.
Did you have any idea?I asked him that night, as Chet was escorted away, silent and sullen. He looked at me, head shaking.
No, he said.Never. He was always just—Chet. My kid brother. The stoner, the one I had to watch and keep in line. I love him, but he’s forever been a total pain in the ass. I still don’t believe it.
I believe him. I know how you can miss something that’s right in front of you.
So much has come out in the last few days about Chet, how he frequented strip clubs in the area and found his prey. About how all this time he was in communication with Evan. There were emails apparently, found on Chet’s computer. Hundreds of email messages. Letters found in Evan Handy’s cell.
I can’t stop puzzling over it, though the pieces are starting to come together and more information is coming to light every day. I still have so many questions about that night. When did Evan and Chet meet? Did Ainsley and Sam go willingly away with Chet that night?
When I rise, I make a fire in the fireplace and then get breakfast ready. There is a slew of presents under the tree. From me to my dad, things Miranda bought as gifts from my father to me. There are gifts for Ernie, Giselle, for Steve. There’s even one for Chet, who I thought we’d see today.
I hear my dad moving around in his room and I go to help him, find him standing on his own in his pajamas, leaning on his cane.
“I’m good,” he says. His voice is still thick. But movement has returned to the right side of his body. “I can do it.”
“I know,” I say. “Let me help.”
He waves me away. And we’re both grateful when I hear Corinne come in downstairs.
“I’ll send her up,” I say and back away. I know he doesn’t want my help; too many years of taking care of me. He’s not happy to have the tables turned this way.
The day passes in a parade of visitors—Mrs. Williams stops by with one of her grandkids; Van comes with his girlfriend and brings the gift of a tiny, decorated Christmas tree, which I place at the center of the table. Eldon from down the road a piece brings some homemade cookies.
Badger comes around noon, and stays helping in the kitchen, making eggnog, heating up the appetizers I have in the freezer, the absolute pinnacle of my entertaining ability. The air between us is charged. There’s so much to say, and yet neither of us seem to have the words.
I have taken his gifts from their hidden box and arranged them on my dresser. I’m awed by their thoughtfulness, their tenderness.
Though he smiles and jokes, he is stiff, and sadness emanates off him in waves. No one asks him about Chet.
Around three, Miranda, Ernie, and Giselle arrive, bringing with them baskets and baskets of food. In light of all that’s happened, we decided to move dinner here. And even with the darkness lingering outside this moment, all the hard and terrible things ahead, the rest of the evening is peaceful. We eat a delicious meal in the company of our family of friends. Even my dad is smiling. He seems released—at least some of the questions that have obsessed him may now have their answers. I am grateful.
After dinner, there’s a knock on the door and everyone freezes.
There’s a darkness looming; we all know that. An investigation underway, a graveyard of missing women finally coming home in a way no one ever wanted. Families are gathering this Christmas Day at the local inn, awaiting news. A grim holiday to be sure.
When I go to the front door, there’s someone there I didn’t expect.
My mom.
She looks small and fragile, stylish in a cashmere poncho, her dark hair up in a twist. Another rush of emotions—so complicated, so raw.
“I came as soon as I heard the news,” she says. How long has it been? Years. “Is that okay?”
