I cover the mouthpiece of the phone and look at my mom, eyes wide. “Mom, it’s Linden!” I say his name in a whisper. Just in case.
Mom raises her eyebrows at me. “Oh really?” she says playfully.
“He wants to know if I’m busy tonight at eight.” I look at her, pleading with my eyes. “Will we be done by then?”
“What does he want to do?”
I sigh. “Does it matter?”
Her face becomes a little more serious. “Yes,” she says. “I don’t want you outdoors, or alone, with no adults around. Not because I don’t trust you, because I do, but because two teenagers have died in the last three weeks.”
Oh yeah. Real life. The cocoon of safety that has enveloped my mom and me for the last several hours is instantly gone. “Um, Linden, what did you want to do? My mom’s worried about safety,” I tack on, lest he think I have any reservations.
“Oh, mine too!” he shoots back. “That’s why I waited so long to call. It’s my family’s annual Christmas Eve party. I was going to ask you last Friday, but they were still going back and forth on whether or not to hold it. Anyway, that’s why I got your number.”
Everything inside of me warms. It’s not some last-minute, oh-crap-I-need-a-date thing. He’s been thinking about it—about me—for almost a week. Maybe it is a real date. I don’t know that for sure—he might just want a friend—but even if that’s the case, he still picked me.
“It’s kind of fancy, I guess,” Linden rattles on, probably just filling the silence I rather awkwardly left for him, “and it’s super traditional and they still want to hold it despite—” His voice cuts off and I lift a hand to my heart, aching for him. “You know,” he continues after a long pause. “My parents decided that this year—more than ever—they need to help raise people’s spirits. But they’re being careful. Tell your mom we’re doing valet service so no one has to walk to a parked car alone, and that my dad hired a security guard to patrol the house.”
“Wow, they’re really taking this seriously,” I say, genuinely impressed.
“It’ll be subtle,” Linden replies. “But they want everyone to feel safe. To be safe.” He hesitates, then says, “Listen, Charlotte, I hope this doesn’t sound too weird—and I don’t want you to take it wrong—but Bethany and I were . . . we were good friends, and she was friends with pretty much everyone I hang out with and we’re all really having a hard time and—” His voice cuts off and I hear him take a deep breath. “I need a date who isn’t going to make me think about Bethany all night. And I remembered what you said right after . . . right after she died and I know this probably isn’t what you meant, but —I just . . .” His voice cracks and I have to blink back tears at the sound. “I need one night to not think about all this.”
“Of course,” I say as soon as I’m sure he’s done speaking. “I meant it when I said you could call me for whatever.” My mom has wheeled herself in front of me and is making faces, begging for hints, but I lift a “just a second” finger. “I’ll talk to my mom and text you in a few minutes, okay?”
“Perfect.”
“So?” my mom asks as I hit END.
“He needs me,” I say, the wonder of it spreading through my veins like warm maple syrup.
Mom tries to insist on dropping me off at the party, but when I tell her about the whole valet and security-guard thing, she relents and lets me borrow the car.
“On one condition,” she says sternly, and I brace myself. But she can’t hold a straight face straight for very long and she breaks into a grin and says, “Take a couple of pictures with your phone. I’ve always wanted to see the Christiansens’ house and I hear they deck it out to the nines for this party.”
Sierra comes out of her room to help me get ready too. It’s almost a shock to see her. I’ve been avoiding her since I snuck into her room, and especially after breaking every rule I know—and several I clearly don’t—with Smith. “It’s about time you had a good night,” she whispers in my ear as she hugs me. I hug her back fiercely, wishing I could tell her everything that has been happening, and promising myself that I’ll at least consider telling her someday.
Just not today.
With all the fuss my mom and Sierra are making, you’d think I was headed to prom or something. It’s sad proof of how sparse my social life is that an invitation to a Christmas party—and in the end, simply doing a favor—justifies this much excitement.
“Just remember, it’s not a real date,” I tell my mom when she sprays her best perfume on my neck.
“Says who?” she says with a smirk.
“Says Linden,” I reply. “I told him a couple weeks ago that he could call me for anything, and he did. That’s all.”
My mom takes both of my hands. “That could be all it is now. But you said so yourself; he’s talking to you more these days. Maybe he’s starting to see what I’ve always seen. How special you are.”
I smile and blink back tears of such mixed emotions, I can hardly begin to sort them out: guilt, pride, love, regret.
And I can’t help but wish that my dad was here.
As I get in the car, a melancholy envelops me and I have to consciously push thoughts of my dad away. Instead I think about Linden. Think about him the entire snowy drive. When I come into sight of his house, I can’t hold back a little noise of delight. Mom was right—this place is freaking gorgeous. It’s one of those homes with ridiculously tall front doors and a huge overhang that covers an enormous circular drive.
And every inch of its perfectly manicured landscaping is covered with twinkling lights, which look especially magical in the snow. I try to picture myself coming here casually to hang out with Linden and I can’t even imagine it. I don’t fit. But I’m eternally grateful that for one night, this is where I belong.
Linden wasn’t kidding about the valet service. There’s a bit of a wait to pull up to the ornate front doors that are thrown wide open to allow guests in but, when I get there, a guy in a black jacket opens my car door, takes my keys, and hands me a small claim ticket.
Fan. Cy.
I walk through the front doors and wonder if I’m going to be expected to show an invitation. Surely someone is checking to make sure complete strangers aren’t pulling up and crashing the party. But everyone in the crowd seems to know one another—to know who ought to be here.
As I attempt to look around me without staring—or worse ogling—I’m 100 percent sure I’m the sole guest under fifty. And not only do I not belong, it’s becoming slowly apparent that the people around me are starting to notice. Just as I’m ready to back out the front door, Linden appears to rescue me.
“Thank you so much for coming,” he says, taking my hand and tucking it into the crook of his arm in a smooth movement that looks—and feels!—like it could have come out of a movie. I’m a little unsteady as I peer up at him and smile. “You look very pretty,” he says, and though his smile is a little sad, at least it’s there.
“You too. I mean, not p-pretty obviously,” I stutter, feeling my face flush. “Nice,” I amend. “You look nice.” If nice is a synonym for blow-my-mind, extraordinarily gorgeous. He’s wearing charcoal-gray pants that fit him perfectly in all the right places, and a dusty purple button-up shirt crisply ironed but with the sleeves rolled up and his collar undone. The whole thing is topped with a formal vest that matches the pants. It’s like a stylist dressed him.
I’m wearing a black dress with wide straps and a chiffon overlay. It’s a bit formal—from a wedding two years ago—but it only comes to the knee, so it has a hint of casual too. I went back and forth between this and something more simple for about half an hour after Mom and I got back from delivering cinnamon rolls. But I’m glad I took Mom’s nudge to risk being a little overdressed rather than under. I let a smile cross my face when I decide that Linden’s and my outfits look good together.
He escorts me to a table full of sparkling champagne flutes and grins before asking me, “Real or fake?”
“Fake,” I reply. “Driving.” Which isn’t exactly the reason but “I cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die-promised my mom no alcohol” doesn’t have quite the same ring.
He walks me through the crowds of people, introducing me here and there, for the first hour. I don’t say much and realize he was very honest with me on the phone this afternoon; I’m not there for him and me to get to know each other, or even because he’s interested in being “just friends.” For the moment, I’m a person to fill up the space beside him so no one has to ask him where his date is. So he doesn’t have to suffer through badly timed jokes and ribbings about getting a girlfriend.
I’m a buffer.
But it’s okay. I offered him whatever kind of help he needed, and I can see how much easier I’m making this for him.
Besides, he continues to keep my hand resting on his arm and sometimes covers it with his own, especially when he’s introducing me to someone. It makes every inch of my body feel warm and beautiful as he presents me to people.
And Mom’s right. This could be a jumping-off point. Every relationship has to start with a little step somewhere. Maybe this is our first step.
Finally when my smile muscles are getting a little tired, Linden walks me over to an elaborate table full of fancy appetizers and hands me a shiny, gold-rimmed plate. “Why don’t we grab some food and escape onto the back porch for a little while?”
I look down the table and hardly know where to begin: small crackers with a rainbow of creamy toppings piped onto them, pastry shells full of berries and chocolate, meat rolls that look like seashells, tiny chocolate-drizzled cream puffs, and an entire section dedicated to a checkerboard of truffles and cheeses. I want to try one of everything, but I think that would take about three plates. I choose carefully and when I have a full dish in one hand and a sparkling cider refill in the other, Linden inclines his head toward the back of the house.
I expect it to be cold outside and judging by the sparse sprinkling of guests, so does everyone else. Instead, I’m greeted by warmth radiating from above. I look up in awe and Linden laughs.
“Infrared heaters,” he explains. “My mom and dad had them installed last year, but no one sees them, so no one ever comes out here. All the better for me. For us,” he amends to my delight, then leads the way to the far end of the porch.
I set my dishes down on the table, and Linden pulls out my chair for me. Again, something I’ve only seen in movies. I definitely could get used to this, and as I look out at the cloudy sky and spot one star struggling to show through, I make a quick wish on it that maybe I’ll get the chance.
“I’m starving,” Linden says with a sigh, and I notice that while my plate is full, his is piled. The formality of the party melts away and I grin as he digs in. For a few minutes neither of us speak.
“Thank you again for coming. And on such short notice,” Linden says once he slows down.
“Of course,” I almost choke to reply. I take a second to actually swallow then gesture at his house. “It’s really beautiful.”
“Mom and Dad love Christmas,” he says softly. “They always go all out. I just . . . can’t get into the spirit this year.”
I nod somberly and a movement catches my attention from the corner of my eye. Linden notices and we both watch as a uniformed security guy ambles down a well-worn path in the snow that follows the perimeter of the porch and then disappears around the corner.
“That’s a new addition though,” Linden says, and I hear that catch in his voice I heard on the phone earlier today. “I just, I can’t believe she’s gone. They’re gone. Both of them. And that they haven’t found a single thing to help catch the killer. Maybe even killers.” He laughs mockingly. “Killers.” He turns and looks at me. “It feels surreal, doesn’t it? Talking about murder in Coldwater?”
I nod, but let him talk.
“Every morning, I wake up and run to the internet to look up the news. I keep waiting for something to happen. Either they find evidence or . . . or another kid dies.” His voice is a whisper as he finishes and he throws back what’s left of his drink. “This isn’t what I meant to talk about,” he says, and changes the subject by gesturing to a miniature wedge of cheese on my plate. “You should try that one; it’s my favorite.”
I ask him about the other foods I haven’t gotten to yet and he tells me what they are. When he points at a crème-topped cracker and dares me to pop the whole thing in my mouth I do—and gag before spitting it back out.
“Sea urchin pâté,” he says after he recovers from laughing. “One of my dad’s favorites. As far as he’s concerned, the fishier, the better. I hate it. Worse than caviar. He drags it out for everything.”
I clear the taste from my mouth with a truffle or two . . . or three, before Linden stands and stretches his long arms over his head and says, “Back into the fray.”
He holds out his hand to me and when I slip my fingers into his, they’re warm and soft. He pulls me up very gently. I reach for my plate but he assures me I’m supposed to leave it there for the serving staff.
“We’ll get you another one to carry around if you’ll share,” he whispers close to my ear. His breath meets the edge of my cheek and curls around it like a caress. He smiles down at me before again tucking my hand into the crook of his arm. When he leads me from the dimly lit porch into the glittering world of candlelight and crystal that waits for us inside the house, I feel like Cinderella.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
FIFTEEN
I wake up with the last vestiges of my perfect dream still flitting at the edges of my consciousness. It’s starting to fade, but I lay still and hold it close like a well-worn teddy bear. In my dream it was Christmas day, just like now, but I was at Linden’s house.
And there was kissing. A lot of kissing.
What a perfect Christmas that would be. I close my eyes and start to imagine the scene all over again when I hear a knock on my door.
“Seriously, Char, you’d think I was the little girl and you were the mother. Get out here!”
My mom is such a kid on the inside. Especially when it comes to Christmas presents. “Coming,” I say, and flip my comforter back, grabbing for my bathrobe, my toes inching toward my slippers.
That’s when the darkness starts to close in. The pressure that builds in my head is almost instantaneous, threatening to explode within seconds. I sprawl back down on my bed and close my eyes. I’m learning to recognize the violent force of the truly horrendous foretellings even as they build, and this one absolutely has it. I try to relax and let the vision overtake me despite my jabbing certainty that whatever I’m about to see, it’s going to be awful.
I’m not outside this time; I’m not sure where I am. The vision seems to be having trouble stabilizing and I wait for the scene to come fully into focus. When it does, a scream rises in my throat as I take in walls splattered with the deep maroon of fresh, wet blood. Even the ceiling has gruesome stripes crisscrossing it.
My breathing is unsteady as I let my focus fall back to the ground. My vision self begins to retch uncontrollably when I see someone lying in several bloody heaps on the concrete floor.
I think it’s a girl. But it’s hard to tell. Not without picking through the pieces. I take two agonizingly slow steps. My shoulder blades hit a wall and my hands spread out on the surface behind me to catch myself.
Only to brush something wet and sticky.
A ragged breath that sounds like a sob wrenches out of my throat and I jerk my hands away and look at the stripe of blood across my fingertips. I force my eyes closed. Surely I’ve seen what I need to see. Now I want out. Out! “Please let me out!” I scream.
Two seconds later, my room hazes into view. I’m soaked with perspiration, though a glance at my clock tells me it didn’t even last a full minute. I hear noises outside my door. Happy noises. For a m
oment, I can’t figure out how in the world anyone could be cheerful in a world where someone committed the violence I just saw.
Then I remember.
“This hasn’t happened yet,” I whisper. “Smith.” I almost fall off my bed reaching for my cell phone and start to scroll through my contacts.
Wait. I can’t call. Someone—let’s be honest, Sierra—might hear me. I jab at the screen and type a quick text message.
Again. It’s worse. I need your help.
I pause, then add:
Text, don’t call.
I peel my damp T-shirt over my head and pull another one on so I can get out of my room and pretend to be excited about Christmas morning with my family. The sooner it’s over with, the sooner I can connect with Smith and stop this terrible vision from coming true.
During the next hour, I decide I’ve missed my calling as an actress. Neither my mom nor Sierra seems to suspect anything. Even when I pull out my phone to find the simple message:
Where? When? Tell me—I’ll be there.
I just smile and say it’s a friend from choir wishing me a merry Christmas. As quickly as I can, I send back some cross streets and a time I dearly hope I can actually get away with.
As soon as the last present is open—and I’m pretty sure I’ve delivered enough gushing to avoid suspicion—my phone buzzes again, and I look down, expecting another text from Smith.
Did you have fun last night?
I’m totally confused until I realize it’s from Linden. Despite everything, a little bubble of happiness grows in my chest.
I text back:
A blast.
Me too. Any chance your mom will let you come back later today?
Breathing is out the window. I’m glad he texted instead of calling. I would be sounding like a moron right now.
“You okay?” Mom asks, and I nod so hard I probably look like a total spaz.
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