Page 21 of A Christmas to Die For
"I'm pretty sure you know."
If he's playing dumb, he's doing a bad job. And if he doesn't want to talk about it, he should just say so.
"About what happened a year ago," I confirm.
Chet exhales sharply. "We don't like to bring that up. The locals, the ones whose families built this town over generations, won't talk about it. It's an embarrassment. We were a prosperous, beautiful place. Now our reputation is tainted."
"And you had no idea? About any of it?"
"If I had, I would have told the police. Just like when they interviewed me."
My heart twitches like I've just found a clue. Chet was interviewed?
"Was everybody questioned, or just you?" I confirm.
I've put him on the spot, and I can tell he doesn't like it one bit.
"I wasn't 'questioned'. The police spoke to everyone of interest, innocent or not. My parents may own The WhisperingPines Motel, but I'm here every day and night, running it. If you're here to stir things up or try to connect innocent people to that horrific night, you're wasting your time."
His tone is neutral, not at all threatening, but his words sound rehearsed.
"Okay, I'm sorry," I say. "It's just not every day a story like that makes national news. Even the cars driving off cliffs—"
"Those were accidents. Bad snowstorm accidents."
"Ehh, some of them weren't," I disagree.
Chet leans forward. "Look, I guarantee you've witnessed your fair share of crime in L.A. Shoplifting, muggings, carjackings. But this is a small town. I know everyone here. Trust me, everyone involved that night got what they deserved."
"If you know everyone, then why are you being so vague about the creep who sexually harassed us—in Frosthaven Falls, no less, not L.A.?"
"Sexually harassed? What are you even talking about?" Chet folds his arms across his chest, the universal sign of defensiveness.
"Whatever, but if I see that freak snooping around this lodge, it won't be good for any of you." I don't mean to slam the door, but I do as I step back outside.
What the hell is Chet hiding? I know in small towns the community looks out for each other. The locals are the backbone, which is obvious since Chet's been running his family's business.
I turn a corner and find a bench to sit on, mesmerized by the beautiful way the sun refracts off the snow. I pull out my phone, snap a few photos, and post one to socialmedia. Then, I take a ten-minute breather, breathing in and out in slow, focused cycles.
My phone buzzes, and Aiden's name flashes on the screen. Well, not really. It's saved as "Andrew," just in case Phoebe ever sees it.
"Oh, fuck," I shout. "Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck!" I kick my feet in the snow, the crunch oddly satisfying. I type a reply.
But he doesn't reply. I wait for the bubbles to appear, for him to say something, totake it back or change his mind. Instead, I get a notification in our group chat.
"Leave while you still can? This has to be Chet." I'm holding the paper in our room, the three of us reunited, but more on edge than ever.
"Why do you think it's him?" Mara asks.
"I just came from talking to him and he got a little hostile," I exaggerate. "He wasn't scary or anything, but he got really defensive, and I could tell he was lying about something."
"This whole town seems to be hiding something, given how they won't give up anything," Phoebe agrees.
"You didn't see anyone?" I press.
"No, but I didn't answer the door right away. I thought itwas that weirdo."
"His name's Albert," Mara interrupts. "I overheard two women gossiping at the store, talking about a man who sounds a lot like him. They said he should be put out of his misery."
