Page 36 of A Christmas to Die For
Not even an alarm goes off, and why would it? This town is a piss stain on a map, full of clueless locals who wouldn't know a real threat if it knocked on their front porch. They don't take precautions, despite all the shit that's gone down here.
Regardless, I crawl out the door, expecting a swarm of bodies to meet me on the other side, desperate to find out why the beloved motel in their town has been vandalized from the inside out.
But there's no one. The town is dead. I don't even see a car on the road.
I need to warn the girls. I don't know what they're expecting at the cabin, but it can't be good. They need to know Albert is behind it all.
Running to Cabin One to alert Chet, hope blossoms in my chest that he might have a radio or walkie talkie to alert the police in case of an emergency. This qualifies as one, seeing as I just killed his dad.
Albert's run-down pickup truck is parked behind Chet's cabin, and even though I'm pounding my fists hard and jiggling the door handle, no one answers. It's locked.
"Open up, dammit!" My fists are on fire from the force I'm exerting.
But this is pointless. I know I'm fleeing the scene of a crime, but I sprint to Albert's truck and—praise the redneck Gods—his keys are still in the ignition. The trust of these folks, I swear.
I stomp the pedal and head towardthe cabin.
I'm terrified to turn around. I don't know who it might be—whoever's behind all this. Albert? Chet? Jessica? Someone we haven't even met from this foredoomed city?
But I recognize the voice before I turn.
"Phoebe!" Mara shouts, running toward me.
Before I can warn her that the house is booby-trapped, she steps on a floorboard that Sabrina and I must have missed and it gives way, her left foot sinking below the foundation.
"Ahhh!" she screams, terrified and confused, stuck in an awkward position that can't be comfortable.
She hasn't fallen through completely, so I move cautiously, watching for other loose boards.
"The house is a fucking trap!" My voice explodes with vigilance as I grab Mara under the arms and pull her free. She was stuck to the hip, half her body sunken below.
She's bundled up, but I can already tell she probably shaved off a layer or two of skin on her shin. Torn fabric exposes her flesh, which is already seeping with blood.
"What is going on? Where's Sabrina?" Mara adjusts her clothes, wincing as her hands glide over the front of her leg. Blood comes back on her hand, staining her beige pants, and I'm terrified to see the damage.
She keeps glancing around, like maybe Sabrina will materialize from the second floor with something sassy to say.
"Mara," I begin, a lump lodged in my throat, "I think Sabrina is dead. This house is a fucking death trap! Someone set it up like they're Kevin McAllister andwe'rethe burglars."
"She's… she's…dead?"
"Yes. Behind that door. I don't know what happened. It locked shut and something, something—" I'm stuttering, spittle flying from my lips, tears streaming down my cheeks.
"We have to call for help. Phoebe, I know who's behind all this."
"Who?" My lungs are going to explode; I can't breathe no matter how hard my chest is trying to draw in tainted oxygen.
"It's Albert." Mara pauses before continuing, her throat bobbing with the effort to continue. "And I killed him."
If the house weren't rigged with traps, I'd fall to my knees in disbelief. I don't know how I'm still standing, but I'm scared to move.
"You… you killed him?" I repeat, my voice barely above a whisper.
"He had literal blood on his hands. He cornered me in the office when I tried to check out. It was an accident, I swear."
We're both sobbing, clinging to each other like maybe the safest place left is in each other's arms.
"Did you notice the blood on the back of Sabrina's car?" I exclaim. "That had to have been Albert. Was he warning us?"
