Page 19 of A Christmas to Die For
Outside the convenience store, the motion-sensor doors part like the Red Sea, inviting me in with a soft whoosh.
We've already grabbed most of the essentials at the grocery store, but I take a small red basket to make my presence seem less suspicious. No one's behind the counter to greet me as I step in, so I wander through the cramped aisles, picking up the most affordable items that won't go to waste. A few overpriced energy drinks find their way in, along with a couple of candy bars.
The store feels almost too small to function as a one-stop shop, its aisles narrow and cluttered, as if they're trying to squeeze everything in—tall shelves crammed with products that barely fit. There's a tiny deli tucked away, a modestproduce section, a small alcohol display, and name-brand goods scattered among cleaning supplies and toilet paper.
As I reach for an item, I freeze when the whispers on the other side of the aisle grow clearer.
"She looks so familiar, but I can't place it," one older woman's voice says in a hushed tone.
"I know, but she also looks like trouble. Why are they here over the holidays? Don't they have a family? It can't be good," another elderly female responds, low but matter of fact.
"You knew the looky-loos would show up eventually. But I can't figure out that one girl… Is she famous?"
The voices are drawing nearer, and I hurry away, eager to keep listening.
I keep my back to them as I move toward the front of the store, hoping they won't recognize me and will just carry on with their conversation.
They seem oblivious to anyone else, and the first woman continues. "Did you see Albert leave his dungeon? He went into the Red Barn. I wonder if Agnes kicked him out."
Albert? That's got to be the creep we ran into. There's no way this town has two Old Man Marley's like inHome Alone. One weirdo is enough, and I'm betting Albert is our guy.
"He scurried off—who knows where he went?" The other woman muses, the clink of items being thrown into a steel cart echoing in the otherwise quiet store. "He needs to be put out of his misery already."
"He's gotten worse…"
"Dementia's a hell of a disease. Anyway, want me to ring you up?"
Oh, shit—one of them works here, and the other's just shopping for groceries and catching up on gossip.
"If you're all done, honey," she adds, and I realize she's talking to me now. "I can ring you up, too. Did you need help finding anything?"
She's speaking to the back of my head, so I force out a polite response. "I just realized I forgot my wallet. Sorry about that. I'll be back soon."
I leave the handheld basket at my feet and practically run out ofthestore.
The room doesn't feel so small once I'm the only one inside. It's cozy, almost nostalgic, reminding me of the days before electronics ruled everyone's life. The TV is probably from the early 2000s—no Hulu, no USB ports for a Roku.
I open my laptop and pull up my emails. One from Holly catches my eye that I realize I never replied to.
It's a response to my initial inquiry two weeks back about releasing the episode early, hoping the boost would help after our numbers had been tanking. I was praying she'd give the go-ahead so I could spend a few hours perfecting it.
Damn. Since recording Holly's episode, we've lost twenty thousand followers, though Sabrina's personal account seems to be growing, thanks to that star power and attractiveness people can't get enough of. I was hoping we could release this early and maybe win back some of their favor. I knew this long break would kill us.
At least I get more time to make sure this episode really stands out. I think it's our last shot before we might have to consider a career change.
I'm basically freelance now, my friendship with Mara and Sabrina forming organically over the time we've spent together.Even if we went our separate ways with our careers, we'd still see each other regularly. They're the sisters I never had.
But lately, there's this strange charge between us—like we're all magnets flipped the wrong way, unable to connect no matter how close we get.
I know I should probably be researching the events happening in the town I'm in, but instead, I pull up Holly's episode and pick up right where I left off.
"Umm, so yeah," Sabrina says over the recording, and I roll my eyes.
"Ugh!" I sneer at her inarticulacy, tapping at my keyboard. "I'll have to edit that out."
My job is to create a seamless flow, as if you'd never know it was spliced together. Some sentences get cut altogether because they're just not interesting or add nothing to the scene.
Holly's voice plays through my over-ear headphones, the end of the interview nearing as she speaks to Jack as if he were still alive today.
