Page 1 of The Bright Side of Christmas
ONE
“I think he’s a serial killer,” my best friend says as I sit on my couch, cutting endless amounts of shapes from colored construction paper. My fingers are going to go numb soon, but it has to get done before next week, so a break really isn’t an option.
As I often do when I’m in the middle of a project, I deeply regret signing up to do all the decorations and snacks for the school-wide Thanksgiving party at the elementary school where I work. Unfortunately, considering no one else was signing up for it, I knew that if I didn’t offer, it simply wouldn’t get done.
It’s what my grandmother would have done, too.
I push that thought aside, instead looking up at Hallie. She’s standing at the window that faces my neighbor’s home, watching him like she’s on an investigative lookout. I’m surprised she doesn’t have some kind of long-range camera in hand, taking black-and-white surveillance shots.
“Jeez, Hal, he’s not a serial killer,” I say with a laugh and a shake of my head.
“Do you have proof of that?” She pauses her intense investigation, looking over her shoulder at me with a raised eyebrow.
I tip my head at her curiously. “How does one obtain evidence that their new neighbor is not a serial killer?”
“You talk to him, for one, somethingno onehas been able to do.”
That much, at least, seems to be true. My new neighbor moved in almost two weeks ago, having bought the house sight unseen incash, according to Jeanie Holmes, one of the two real estate agents in our small town of Holly Ridge. No one knows anything about the mysterious man, except that his name is incredibly average. (Searching forAdam Porterbrought up at least three dozen results, the most being a real estate mogul who must spend a considerable amount on ads, as he took up almost every result on the first page. That Adam Porter, though, lived in Michigan, a far cry from northwest New Jersey.)
“Nat is going for a Mafia don in hiding.” Natalie Deluca, my other best friend,wouldvote for a Mafia don in hiding.
I’m sure Adam Porter is here for some incredibly boring and run-of-the-mill reason, but given the strange purchase details and the lack of insight on our newest resident, I’m not surprised the rumors have started to fly off the handle.
Holly Ridge isn’t just a small town. It’s a close-knit community where everyone knows everyone and everythingabouteveryone, whether you want them to or not. An outsider randomly moving in with no one being able to discern any information about them is not just strange—it’s unheard of. It also breeds wild stories, such as him being a serial killer or in witness protection, just two of the many ideas Hallie has thrown out in the last hour since she noticed his car pull into his driveway. She came here to help me assemble decorations, but even when I invited her, I knew she was mostly going to chat and keep me company while I worked.
“I highly doubt a Mafia don would choose Holly Ridge to hide out in.”
“Exactly. That’s why serial killer makes so much more sense,” she says matter-of-factly.
As I set the hundredth orange triangle aside, my fingers cramp. “None of it makes sense, Hallie.”
“I just don’t know how you sleep at night knowing a potential serial killer lives right next door to you.” I’ve known Hallie since preschool, when we both showed up on the first day in the same dress, so her dramatic responses are nothing new to me.
“Like a baby,” I say, although these days, I’m actually not sleeping much, not with a million and seven projects on my plate. But that’s neither here nor there. “Honestly, Hallie, think about it. Why would a serial killer move to a small town? Wouldn’t a big city be the better choice?”
She scoffs in disbelief, waving a hand at me. “Exactly what a serial killer wouldwantyou to think.”
I let out a laugh as I cut the last orange triangle, deciding I need a break before I move on to turning them into pie slices. Might as well knock out two birds with one stone. I stand up, brushing scraps of paper off my black yoga pants. “Fine. I’ll go over there and ask him.” Hallie’s head snaps toward me, her face panic-stricken, and I have to fight back a giggle.
“You’re just going to go over there and ask him if he’s a serial killer?” She stares at me, aghast, as I move toward my front door and slip on my shoes. “You can’t do that, Wren. That’s how you become number one on his list. You already have the whole cutesy, innocent heroine in a horror movie who lives alone andalmostmakes it to the end thing going on.”
I shake my head with a laugh. “No, I’m not going to ask him if he’s a murderer. But he’s home right now, and I need to ask him when he’s going to start decorating.”
“Ah, decorating committee duties,” she says with a nod. “That’s a good cover, actually. Ask him about his decoration plans, keep an ear out for the pleas of women trapped in hisbasement, check to see if his house is furnished, that kind of thing.”
I pause and stare at her, shaking my head. Sometimes, I can’t tell if she’s joking or being serious.
“Hallie, if he were keeping women locked in his basement, I would know.”
“Would you?” she asks, skeptically.
“I mean, I would like to assume I would notice if my new neighbor were dragging women into his house.”
“Not if you’re constantly making pumpkin pie garlands and cutting everything out for hand turkey popcorn balls or whatever other bullshit you signed yourself up for.”
I don’t respond to the jab, knowing it won’t get me anywhere.
Hallie doesn’t get my need to help where I can and constantly tells me I need to relax more. But she doesn’t understand how it’s just in my blood: it’s what I do. I’m Wren King, daughter of Peter and Susan King, granddaughter of Dottie King. My grandmother told me from the moment I was able to understand that Kings help people, always, and from a young age, I took that to heart. I’m proud to be someone everyone can count on to lend a helping hand.
