Page 64 of My Secret Santa Clayton

Desperation.

I hesitated, looking at him. The lines on his face seemed to have deepened since the last time I really looked at him. With a sigh, I dropped back into the booth across from him. He let go of my wrist and leaned back, eyes on the table.

“In my dream, Michael was angry with me,” Dad began, his words slow and heavy. “He was mad about how I've treated you.”

My head spun. Anger from Michael? That's not what I expected him to say. I stared at him, trying to process this turn.

“Destroyed me inside, losing him,” he continued, his voice cracking a bit. “It's the worst thing I've ever gone through…even worse than your mom.”

I just sat there, watching him come undone. It felt like someone had knocked the wind out of me. Dad never talked about emotions, especially not about Michael. And yet here he was, doing just that. I watched my father's hands tremble on the table. He clutched his coffee cup like it was a lifeline, and I could see the veins on the back of his hands standing out stark against his weathered skin.

“I should have said no, should’ve been stricter with you boys,” he muttered. “I hated myself for letting you two go to the lake.”

His shoulders sagged as if the weight of his guilt bore down on them with an unseen force. I didn’t say anything—couldn’tsay anything.

“Everyone looked at me with pity after that,” he said, his voice lower. “I could see it in their eyes. ‘First his wife, now this.’ I knew what they were thinking. I couldn’t stand it.”

He paused, took a deep breath that did nothing to steady him.

“Each morning, I woke up thinking he was still here.” His voice broke, just a little. “For a few seconds, everything would be okay. Then reality would crash back, and it...it crippled me, Clay. And I took it out on you, and that…that wasn’t fair. Not one bit.”

I shifted in my seat, uncomfortable, not knowing how to deal with this raw display of emotion from the man who'd always been hard as steel.

“Your mom asked me to protect you kids, to protect her sons,” he continued, eyes distant. “And I failed her. I failed Michael.”

That’s when it came to me—what I needed to say.

“Hey,” I said, reaching across the table. I grasped his hand, his weathered skin rough against my palm. My voice sounded strange to my own ears as I repeated the thing a million people had said to me. “It wasn't your fault. It was just an accident.”

He looked up then, meeting my gaze for what felt like the first time in years. His eyes were tired, haunted by memories we both wished we could forget.

“It wasn’t your fault either, Clay.”

That sentence, simple and stark, cracked something inside me. All these years, I carried the blame, and here he was washing it away with one sentence.

“Say it again,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes held mine, steady and true. “It wasn't your fault, son.”

TWENTY-NINE

Grace

Mariah was out there, depending on me.

Turning onto the dirt road that led to the address I’d been given, I caught sight of them immediately—the black sedans, those damn specters that had been haunting me since I left Boston. They were parked right up in the driveway, just as ominous as when they kept showing up around town. If there was any doubt before, it died then.

This had to be where they were holding her.

I eased off the gas and coasted to a stop, just shy of the driveway. I cut the engine. The silence in the truck screamed at me, but I forced some kind of calm over my hammering heart. This was no place for panic.

“Okay, Grace,” I whispered to myself, “keep it together.”

My hand found its way to my waistband, fingers brushing against the taser hidden there. It wasn't much, but it was something. You don't get to be an investigative journalist without picking up a few tricks—or self-defense tools—along the way.

“Ready or not,” I muttered, checking the charge on the taser. I had no illusions about what this little device could do against what awaited me out there, but Mariah was worth the long odds.

I stepped out of the car. The abandoned cabin loomed ahead, its presence as unwelcoming as the secrets I guessed it held. Boards covered every window, and the front door hung open at an odd angle. It felt like a scene straight out of a horror movie—exactly what I had expected.

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