Page 17 of A Christmas to Die For
"He objectified us!" Sabrina cringes, embellishing the truth a smidge.
I'm not quite ready to tell them I also saw him at the police station, because that would mean I didn't trust Mara's response about the files—a confrontation I'd like to avoid. "I just saw him, I swear. Maybe he went into the bar? Should we go in?"
"Hold up." Chet raises his palms, trying to calm everyone down. "Which guy are we talking about? What did he look like?"
"He lives off Deadwood Grove." Mara shows Chet the photo on her phone. "The first house."
"Deadwood Grove?" Chet raises an eyebrow. "No one lives on that road. Sure, there's an abandoned house, but I'm pretty sure no one's been there for years."
"He had Christmas lights up front," I add. "He had to have electricity."
"Well, I've lived here my whole life, and I don't know of anyone living there."
Chet's conclusion makes no sense. What, a bum with a generator? A homeless guy who paid the energy bill for a house that's been abandoned for years?
"He's, like, ill looking." Sabrina's description is pretty spot-on even if it gives nothing useful.
"Ill looking?" Chet echos.
"He took Mara's socks!" I roar.
"Socks?" It's official, Chet thinksweare the crazy ones.
"Need I remind you he jerked off with them?" Mara rushes to my side, trying to be supportive.
Chet's judgment is so obvious, and my heart sinks. Maybe we're three girls from L.A., clueless about how life operates eight thousand feet above the rest of the world in a town full of secrets.
"You have nothing to worry about," Chet says, his voice lacking any trace ofreassurance.
We walk to room six, the three of us drained by the drama that has unfolded over the past hour.
"I need a nap," I confess as the door swings open, but my exhaustion fades when I take in the place we'll be staying for the next forty-eight hours.
"Oh, dang. Thisistiny." Mara looks around, unimpressed.
Phoebe steps in behind us, hauling in her equipment and laptop. "Wow, uhh, okay. This is—"
"Tiny?" I repeat. "I wonder if the hot water even works in the bathroom. Does the toilet flush?"
"I'm sure everything works just fine, Sabrina." Mara walks over to the heater, brushing off some dust before releasing a half-laugh. "At least the heat is working?"
Phoebe drops her things onto one of the mattresses, but I stop her. "Wait! Don't put anything on the bed. Or the floor. Maybe we should keep our stuff in the car?"
"I still have a few scenes to edit from your interview with Holly. No way I'm leaving my laptop and expensive equipment in the car overnight. I don't trust anyone in this town, and the cold isn't good for this stuff."
"I brought extra sheets and a mattress protector," Mara admits, and I could kiss her for it.
"You're a genius! This is why you're my assistant!"
I should have said best friend, but that title has slipped between my fingers like sand. I can't pick up the pieces of the huge mess I put us in, and it kills me. And to top it off, I'm sleeping with my friend's boyfriend. Loyal girl's girl of the year, right here.
Mara strips the bed with clinical efficiency, tugging off the sheets and adjusting her glasses like she's flipping a switch from assistant to maid. She's a modern-day Edna Mode with a thrifted twist—blunt Bettie Page bangs, thick black frames, and vintage clothes that somehow always work. She's the organized one. The safe one. The one who's been my rock for as long as I can remember. I don't even know how to function without her.
After unpacking the few things we brought with us, we get down to business and start discussing our plans.
"Should wesplit up?" I suggest.
"Are you insane? You've seen horror movies."
