Page 8 of My Secret Santa Clayton

She needed me…and I couldn’t get over myself.

“Fine,” I relented, unboxing an assortment of ornaments. “But I'm doing this for you, not for the spirit of Christmas or whatever.”

“Fair enough,” she replied, flashing me a grin before putting on an exaggerated pout. “I just wanted us to have fun together, like old times. Is that too much for a sister to ask?”

“Stop with the theatrics, Mariah.” I couldn't help but chuckle, though. “You know you've got me. Let's get this tree looking less pathetic.”

As we worked, hanging the ornaments and stringing the lights, I tried to push thoughts of Clay from my mind. Mariah hummed carols off-key and danced around the living room, her laughter filling the space.

“Better?” she asked, nudging me with her shoulder.

“Better,” I admitted. I strung another length of tinsel on the tree. “You know, being an auntie doesn't automatically make me Mary Poppins.”

“Of course not,” Mariah said as she placed a glass angel atop the tree. “I’m well aware you can’t do magic. But that won’t get you out of babysitting.”

“Ha-ha.” I forced a smile, but it didn’t change how anxious I was about this little girl’s future. The walls of our parents' house seemed to close in on me, each family photo a ghost of the past. I wanted so much more for the little one on the way—more than we’d had. My dad had taken too many risks, lost all our money, and gotten himself killed. Our family had barely survived after he passed.

Now, this house was filled with ghosts, no matter how much laughter Mariah provided.

“Besides,” Mariah continued, with a playful arch of her brow, “if you quit Secret Santa it will mess everything up and Betty will make us draw names again. Do you really want to be the weak link?”

“God forbid,” I muttered, rolling my eyes. “Wouldn't want to upset the Christmas gods—or worse, Betty.”

“Exactly!” Mariah grinned. “Now come on, let's finish this tree so we can break out the eggnog and toast to your impending auntie-ness.”

“Fine,” I grumbled, yanking the tinsel straight. “I'll get Clay a damn present.”

“That's the spirit, Grace. Kill him with kindness—or pettiness, your choice.”

“Could always gift-wrap a lump of coal.”

“Or you could not let him live rent-free in your head anymore.” She draped silver loops over a branch. “Just a thought.”

“Free or not, he's getting evicted tonight.” I reached for my camera, the vintage weight familiar in my hands. It was my shield, my way of hiding behind the lens when the world gottoo real. The viewfinder framed Mariah, ornaments glittering around her like she was part of the decor.

“Smile,” I instructed.

“Cheese!” Mariah hammed it up, striking a pose.

The shutter clicked, freezing the moment in time. This picture, this memory—it would last, unlike the fleeting holiday cheer.

“Got it.” I lowered the camera. “For the scrapbook.”

“Perfect,” she said, tilting her head to admire the tree. “Now, make sure to get one without me looking like a whale.”

“Impossible.” The corner of my mouth twitched. “You're about to pop.”

“Very funny.” She stuck her tongue out at me before turning serious. “Hey, are you really okay?”

“Never better,” I lied smoothly, tossing another ornament onto the tree.

If only shaking off my paranoia was as easy as hanging ornaments.

I hung the last silver bauble on the prickly pine branch, the tense muscles in my back finally unwinding a fraction. “Merry Christmas,” I grumbled, not quite feeling the cheer. But as I stared into the shiny silver, I thought I saw something move.

Fuck.They were here and they were going to hurt my sister?—

I spun around, my elbow clipping another ornament, which teetered dangerously. The tree wobbled, Mariah reaching out to hold it.

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