Page 53 of A Very Addicted Christmas

“What? Kong is way better, man.”

And they go off on a light-hearted movie conversation. I back away, not taking the chance to see whether Jack would’ve pulled me into their orbit. Knowing him and his infectious way of making people comfortable and appreciated, I bet he would’ve.

But I yawn. Slept terrible last night. And I should clock in a nap. So I head upstairs. Rest my head on my pillow. Try not to play “what if” in my mind.

What if I stayed?

What if Akara never showed up?

What if I asked to kiss him?

Too complicated.He’s said he’s straight, and to uncomplicate an already complicated situation that we’re all stuck inside, I need to let things be what they are.

I drift off for a while, and I wake up to shouting.

Footsteps clamoring.

Adrenaline jolts me up, and I lose some time fighting with an old doorknob that’s jammed shut.

“Come on.” I rattle the thing.

Finally, it gives way, and I race down the stairs and into the living room. What I find outside of an abandoned boardgame ofClue: a tear-stricken Jane Cobalt, Thatcher Moretti—with his hand firmly planted on his mouth and the other around Jane, Maximoff Hale with his arms crossed and staring at the kitchen, and then my oldest friend.

Farrow Redford Keene, who looks absolutely, motherfuckingmurderous.I know him well enough to know that someone had to have gone after Maximoff.

Charlie.

It’s the only person that makes sense. But then why is Jane distraught and Thatcher as still as stone?

I’m cemented in gravity, in the weight of this fallout, and I ask my friend, “What the hell happened?”

“Charlie happened.” He combs a hand through his hair.

Maximoff uncrosses his arms and runs a hand across Farrow’s shoulders, but Farrow is already tenderly touching the back of his neck.

Before I ask for more details, Farrow explains, “He exposed the twin switch.”

The bottom of my stomach drops.

Tony and O’Malley are supposed to believe Thatcher is Banks on this trip. We were all in on the ploy.

And Charlie blew it up.

Charlie.

He went after his sister’s boyfriend. He must’ve gone after Maximoff in some way too, and I empathize with them but I can’t help but sympathize with my client. I’m torn between the two.

He’s going through something that many of us can’t understand. But it doesn’t give him a right or a pass to hurt other people.

“Where is he?” I ask.

“Kitchen,” Jane answers first with a croaked voice. “He’s with Beckett.”

I nod. Beckett will talk some sense into him.

I scan the living room, and though I’m searching for a person, my gaze falls to the copy ofMoby-Dick.

I pick up the book, and as I glance to my right, I’m not surprised that the fireplace hearth is empty. Void of Akara. Void of Jack Highland.

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