Page 8 of Christmas With the Convict

When he looks at me, they burn.

“You think I wouldn’t connect the dots? My buddy who works the gate called me six hours ago to tell me you were on the road,” he says. “ He didn’t tell me you picked up a hitchhiker. What are you doing bringing an inmate here? Do you even know him?”

Of course. All these fucking cops know somebody somewhere who will tell them everything they’re not supposed to know.

“He’s been in my writing course for months,” Wendy snaps. “And he’s been released early on good behavior. He has nowhere to go and it’s Christmas.Dad…”

“Don’t do that.”

But whatever tone she’s hitting in her voice has power over him. His nose twitches and he exhales the way only a frustrated, defeated old man can.

“He served his time,” Wendy says, taking my arm. “Doesn’t he deserve a little warmth and cheer?”

If I were to speak now, I’d just fuck up Wendy’s play. She’s working him, and it’s working.

They both go quiet.

The wind howls and makes me shiver.

“Well? It’s freezing out here,” Wendy laughs, already walking me toward the house. “Let’s get inside! Oh, and Chase needs to borrow some clothes.”

“No shit,” Richard Bettencourt huffs.

He walks behind us, snow crunching menacingly. I can feel his gaze burning a message into my brain.Don’t get comfortable.

Somehow, the inside of the house is even more unreal.

The entryway is bigger than any place I’ve ever lived. Everything is pristine, warm hardwood. Intricate rugs form paths that snake off through the infinite space. Warm lights from chandeliers, candles, and bulbs hidden so well that they bleed like ghost firelight up the walls. Coats are hung by the dozens by the door, draped above countless sets of boots. And from all corners of the house, laughter and conversation reach toward us.

All the scents of Christmas embrace me with warmth and richness I’ve never experienced. Pine and wood-fire and cinnamon are so thick in the air that I could ball them up and eat them.

My senses are so overwhelmed that my eyes hurt, and I haven’t even taken five steps beyond the threshold.

“Honey, you worethatinto a state penitentiary?”

Wendy rolls her eyes at her father as she takes off her long coat. Her slender figure fits tightly into that red skirt, blouse, and heels. My eyes find solace in her pale skin, her blond hair, and those long, toned legs.

I stare for far too long.

“You.” Richard snaps his fingers. “Follow me. We’ll get you someproperclothes.”

“Be nice…”

I throw Wendy a pleading glance but she signals for me to go. The kids are back and they’ve got her by the hands, dragging her out of sight.

Richard Bettencourt stops at the landing halfway up the grand stairs. He spits down at me, “You forget how to follow instructions already? I walk, you follow. Just like inside.”

My hands ball into fists.

The disdain in his eyes is a blowtorch. It sears me. It takes every ounce of willpower not to thrash against the pain. I take a deep breath, thinking instead of Wendy’s loving, sky-blue eyes as I follow her asshole father up the stairs.

Through the halls, he leads me. Every few seconds he glances back at me to make sure I haven’t strayed from his exact steps. I get a peek of the main living room downstairs from a sort of indoor balcony; about a dozen people are gathered on cream-colored sofas around a fire, all fawning over Wendy.

I stop and lean over the railing.

This feels like it did before, watching her from afar. A physical barrier separating us, surrounded by people who would never let me get within an arm’s length of her. She looks up and flashes me a secret smile before returning her attention to the others.

A hand on my shoulder pulls me back to this strange reality.

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