Page 27 of Christmas With the Convict

Uncle Rick laughs nervously before shaking his head.

“Keep the clothes,” he says, holding out his hand. “My brother… He’s a complicated man.”

“I don’t give a shit about your brother. All I care about is her.”

Rick nods toward his offered hand. “I know, Chase. I won’t let her do anything stupid, alright?”

When I finally shake his hand, I feel crisp bills slide into my palm.

“You can borrow those.” He smiles. “Merry Christmas.”

He heads back toward that giant house I’ll never see again.

Through the big windows, I can see the chaos unfolding. The kids are crying. Wendy’s mom is in the kitchen having a drink. Richard passes between different panes of glass, still fuming and throwing his arms up.

No matter where I look, I don’t see Wendy.

In my hand are ten one-hundred-dollar bills.

Chapter 7

WENDY

My father refuses to tell me where he’s hidden my car keys.

I can still hear him up there, cursing and howling. He stomps around like a madman, sometimes sending dust swirling down in the basement.

I cried myself to sleep and it was dark when I woke up.

Chase’s vest keeps me warm.

I can just make out his earthy scent blended with the leather.

His journal is on the end table. I still haven’t worked up the courage to read it. If I do, my tears will stain the pages.

Someone opens the door.

Their soft, tentative footsteps come down the stairs.

I don’t care who it is. My father acted insane and they all stood by. They did nothing because they’re more afraid of him than any criminal boogie-man he’s created.

“Honey?”

I gasp and look up from the pillow. “Mom?”

She’s standing there—no drink in her hand—bundled up but still shivering.

“It’s freezing down here,” she says.

I lie back down and hug the vest close. “It’s not so bad.”

She comes around and fingers the books on my shelf, smiling and laughing softly. “You were always so obsessed once you started one of these. We couldn’t pull you away until you’d finished.”

“Like you and the bottle lately. Huh, mom?”

Through the years, I’ve forgotten what her scorn could look like. She snaps her gaze to me, ice in her words. “We all have ourescapes.”

“Chase isn’t an escape.” I’m on my feet, vest still bunched up in my hand. “You don’t fucking get it.”

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