Page 40 of A Christmas to Die For
She says nothing. No denial. No anger. Just an evil grin stretching across her ugly face. And in her silence, the truth sharpens.
"You said nine victims in our interview. But the police only listed eight. I thought maybe you included yourself, like some metaphor for survival or trauma. I didn't push back when I was editing or delve further because I was a bit distracted up here…"
She's calm. Too calm. The stillness of a predator who's already decided the outcome.
"I knew going on your podcast was a risk," she huffs. "But I needed to tell my version. Not on a national network, not with Oprah or Barbara Walters. But your stupid little podcast? Just enough women tuning in, just enough sympathy. A survivor. A fighter. It was perfect."
My breath hitches. "You broke into our cabin… you stole my laptop. It wasn't Albert…" That last fact is said under my breath, the full scope of the last few days coming full circle.
She nods.
"Then you asked to release the episode early," she clicks her tongue against her teeth. "And thanks to my errors, that was never going to happen. Just so you know, no one's ever going to watch it."
A boulder of fear wedges in my throat, making it nearly impossible to swallow.
"How could you frame your boyfriend? What kind of monster are you?"
If I can keep her talking, I might be able to think of a way out. A distraction, a delay, anything. I have no idea where the ax is, still jammed in the wall of the house? Why didn't I take Sabrina's knife when she offered it to me?
"Well, since you're about to die anyway, I'll tell you. It might be nice to confess to someone." Her voice is disturbingly calm. "Jack found that book—it was onmybookshelf. He came tomein the kitchen. Everything else played out like I said, except I was fighting for my life because he was going to turn me in. I had to defend myself."
She shrugs, like she's explaining the plot of a movie, not admitting to ruining someone's life and framing them.
"If I was going to get caught for murder—and I was, thanks to Jack—murder by self-defense sounded a lot better than the truth that I killed nine innocent women. Yes, nine. They still haven't even found one of the bodies. I had to flush the ninth victim's photo and panties down the toilet before the cops showed up. Sloppy, I know, but I didn't have a lot of time and options since I knew they'd search the apartment. I framed Jack using his sperm—a backup plan I put in place a year earlier, just in case things went south. And they did. Funny thing is, he didn't even have a bad sex drive."
Then, out of nowhere, Holly erupts into laughter—a jagged, unhinged cackle like it's all one big inside joke she's been dying to share.
"He was actually fantastic in bed, just so you know. But fuck, I was bored. Med school and forensic pathology just weren't cutting it. Seeing the dead bodies on the gurneys, cutting into someone who didn't flinch at the pain or react to the knife, it wasn't enough! I needed something more, something that would actually excite me. I had to be the one ending someone's life."
She starts peeling off the rest of the ski mask, getting comfortable now, like confession is catharsis. Like I'm her priest—or maybe just her final witness.
Her eyebrows have thick pieces of masking tape over them. And under the ski mask, she's wearing a swimmer's cap. My stomach turns.
She came prepared.
No stray hairs. No skin flakes. No DNA. Just like at the other crime scenes.
She'll vanish without a trace, leaving me and my friends to die here like someone from this cursed town wasn't quite done using the cabin for whatever twisted purpose it was built for. No one would suspect a thing. She'll walk away untouched, free, her name scrubbed clean, her mask still perfectly in place.
"It was a miracle Sabrina told me you guys were coming here," she beams. "Like fate or something better. It was the perfect setup. I've been camped out in the basement, just waiting for you bitches to show up."
I practically foam at the mouth. "My… friends… are dead."
She tilts her head, mock sympathy dripping from her voice.
"Don't worry. You'll see them very soon."
I'm floundering now, the full weight of what's happened, what's about to happen, crushing down on me. I'm not above begging. Not anymore.
Empty promises tumble from my mouth—vows I won't keep. Desperate oaths that I won't tell a soul. That I'll protect her secret.
Holly hovers over my helpless body, the snow around me darkening as it stains deep red. Warm blood pours from my leg, melting patches of snow before freezing into a crust of rusty ice.
I glance up past the deck, beyond the awning and to the second story roof, into the heavens, praying for a miracle. I don't want to die. Not here, not this young.
Holly stands at the edge of the deck, towering over me. I can't believe it; this could be the last face I ever see.
The knife glints in her right hand like it's hungry. "Wanna get this over with?"
