Page 6 of A Christmas to Die For
"Think about it. Please?" Sabrina begs.
"We'd need to find a motel or something nearby if this is even remotely possible." Phoebe looks at me like she regrets even suggesting it.
I bring out the big guns. "You think breaking and entering should be added to our list of offenses?" I soften my tone, trying not to sound too harsh. "Remember, we're not exactly angels right now."
"The town's so small, barely two thousand people," Sabrina offers, trying to smooth things over. "We could stay a few nights, check it out on Christmas Eve, then make it home for Christmas dinner."
"Have you ever even seen snow?" I ask Sabrina. She's spent her whole life in Los Angeles where winter barely registers. "It's not like sunny L.A., where December means fifty-degree temps and a little wind. It'srealwinter up there. Freezing cold, snow piling up, trapped inside for days. Do you even own winter gear?"
Sabrina shrugs nonchalantly. "I'm sure I could get some snow clothes sponsored before we leave." Hereyes gleam with excitement. "How insane would it be to step over the threshold and see what's left? I bet there's still blood on the floors."
"Itwouldmake for an interesting video," Phoebe concedes. I can see the wheels turning in her head. She's in. This would be something completely different for her—a new challenge to tackle, something more engaging than the usual content where two people sit in front of microphones.
I push aside the uneasy feeling nagging at me, as if telling me a trip to Frosthaven Falls will only end in bloodshed. "Let me think about it."
Three weeks later, and a week before Christmas, I'm packing like we're heading into an icy frontier. At this rate, we just might. We have to leave a day earlier than planned to ensure we can even make it up the mountain.
I've studied everything there is on the Frosthaven Falls murders. Not only did the events from nearly a year ago shock the U.S., but the series of crimes before that—car accidents and deaths from driving off cliffs—sent the nation into a frenzy.
The idea that a small town could harbor criminals isn't all that different from the chaos you'd find in a sprawling city like L.A.. But in a place as small as Frosthaven Falls, with its unnervingly high number of "accidents" and "missing persons," I wonder why it wasn't flagged long before that fateful night.
The thought of stepping into the infamous cabin and exposing whatever remnants of that night might still be lingering inside sends a shiver of morbid curiosity down my spine.
Even though Mara usually leads the research and investigation for each case we take on, I've done some digging of my own in preparation for this trip. The more I read, the more unsettling it becomes. The case involving Romee Anderson has officially been closed, with the punishments for everyone involved already handed down. Justice has been served, or so it seems. But that house… it sits abandoned, untouched.
After weighing the risks, we've come to this conclusion: we'll likely face some legal consequences once the episode airs,ifit airs. But before we can even begin to justify trespassing, we need to find something worth sharing. The house is no longer an active crime scene, so tampering with evidence or burglary won't be an issue. We can't take anything with us, but we can certainly record whatever we find.
Knowing Sabrina, if we get caught, she'll play dumb—bat her lashes, throw around some cash—and hope to walk away with a slap on the wrist. If nothing of value comes from this trip, and we don't get caught, we'll call it a wash. Even if we did break in…
Mara and I have talked this through. We're both intrigued enough to accept that we're going, but we're hoping to avoid any major trouble.
It's Monday evening, the night we leave behind the crisp, winter air of Los Angeles—cold but still drenched in the city's endless sunshine—and begin our ten-hour trek across desert, that turns into farmland, that turns into a mysterious mountainside town. By the time we reach the base of Frosthaven Falls, the landscape will have shifted completely—snow, ice, and a big question markawaiting us.
We're leaving at 8:00 p.m., hoping to arrive near sunrise. Mara and I will take turns driving, determined to make the most of the precious few days ahead. It seemed the smartest move was to drive; that way if we decide to leave early or stay longer, our options are wide open.
Type-A Mara has provided an itinerary—though it's more of a suggestion than a plan since so much depends on the vulnerability of the people we meet.
Everything after Christmas Eve is a blank page. We still have the hotel another night, but we can extend if we need to. It's all up in the air and kind of exciting. I'm dead set on capturing something useful, something we can post.
Mara's car pulls up, and I inch mine forward, freeing up the spot behind me. L.A. street parking is brutal, and I'm genuinely shocked I managed to hog a spot meant fortwo cars this long.
She steps out, a small suitcase rolling behind her, Owala tumbler in hand, likely filled with coffee to keep her awake and alert.
"No Stanley?" I tease, a familiar joke between us with its own history.
"Ha," Mara deadpans, taking another long sip. "I'm so wired on caffeine that I could probably drive the whole way. Is Her Highness almost here?"
"I think so. Gosh, it's cold." I bounce on my toes, rubbing my gloved hands together to create some friction.
The street lights illuminate the night, eerie, muted-yellow spotlights that remind me of UFOs summoning innocent humans into space. Christmas lights twinkle softly from the windows of nearby homes, their colorful bulbs reflecting a warmth that pushes back against the creeping darkness. The quiet hum of the season lingers in the air as I soak in these final days of Christmas.
The street and homes are wrapped in wreaths, vibrant bows, and meticulously decorated front doors. Stoops are adorned with festive touches: blow-up reindeer and snowmen in their yards. Signs proclaim, "Santa Stops Here," and "Christmas Countdown: 3 Days." The message is a reminder that the season is practically over, and once again, I didn't do everything I had planned.
I've already said my goodbyes to Aiden, my boyfriend of two years. We exchanged gifts early, and I promised I'd stay in touch—cell service permitting.
Holly's words echo in my head, warning me about the secrets men can hide. Would I even know if Aiden were keepingsomething terrible from me? How did Holly not realize? Would I realize?
"Here she comes." Mara points to the obnoxious high beams flashing at us like a warning of imminent danger.
