Page 33 of A Christmas to Die For
And then ammonia.
My eyes start to water immediately. It burns my nose, my throat. The two chemicals swirl in the air like they've been waiting to find each other.
Chloramine gas.
"Help me, Phoebe!" I scream, slamming my shoulder against the door. It doesn't move. The walls tilt. My breath rasps out of me like steam.
The air thickens. Acrid. Caustic. It's like breathing in fire and drowning at the same time.
I claw at the door, at the hinges, at anything. The door opens from the inside, so me pounding isn't doing much with the door frame preventing me from bursting through.
"Help! I can't breathe! It's some chemical!" I cry, but the words barely come. My throat is closing. My lungs scream at me to get fresh air.
I can hear Phoebe shouting on the other side, pounding at the wood, but she's far away now.
Before my world tips into darkness, I whisper, barely audible, "I'm so sorry."
"You grew up here, didn't ya?" Albert accuses, and I can't deny it.
"Yes," I admit. "I lived in Frosthaven Falls until I was three. My dad was a police officer here but was reassigned to Los Angeles."
"Knew it," he mutters, nodding slowly like it hurts. "Knew I seen that face before. You's a Calloway, aren't ya?"
His eyes won't focus—glassy, unfixed, like he's looking through me instead of at me.
But it's the knife I'm watching.
Albert is a drunken, dazed elderly man, moving like he's trapped in some dreamlike fugue state. The kind of unpredictable threat who could plunge that blade into me without hesitation, without even realizing he's done it.
"I don't even remember being here," I continue, even though I'm not sure why I'm explaining myself to someone this far gone. "Why does it matter?"
He grins, slow, crooked, and just a little too sad.
"'Cause you look jus' like yur mama."
Isthatwhy he's been haunting the edges of every place we've been? He knew my mom when I was little?
"My mom has since passed away. My dad is retired–"
"Dawn… is dead?"
The broken look in his eyes takes me back to when he was chaining our tires. I thought he said "done" while looking at me like I was a ghost. He wasn't. He was saying "Dawn." This poor, deranged man.
"You knew my mom?" I tremble at the way he says her name, like they were friends. My hand's behind me now, feeling along the wall—blind, desperate—for a latch, a switch, something to defend myself with in case Albert turns violent.
Then I look down and see Albert is wearing my socks, one shoe missing.
He can't even dress himself, for fuck's sake. I'm starting to think I could take him…
"Dawn an' me… we had something real. She was the one who got away. I've known that gal since we was in kindie-garden."
I wonder if there's any validity to his ramblings, or if this is merely a long-lost memory that never even happened.
"I'm close with Robert down in records. One o' the last folks round here don't treat me like trash. He said a Calloway came sniffin' 'round, askin' for documents, and I thought, hell… could it bethatCalloway? Brought back a flood o' memories 'bout your mama. Lord, I miss her somethin' fierce."
He blinks, drifting somewhere I can't follow.
"What files didyou take?"
