Page 7 of A Christmas to Die For
"Here we go," I mumble undermy breath.
"If you crash my Range Rover, I'll kill you," I tease, handing Mara the key fob. It's not like she hasn't driven my car before—whether it was to pick up my dry cleaning, grab me a mid-day coffee, or snag some tampons for yours truly—but I don't think she's ever driven in snow. "This baby's got four-wheel drive, but let's hope she doesn't need chains. I have no idea how to put those on."
"None of us do," Phoebe interjects, settling into the front seat.
I plan on sleeping in the back, wrapped in cozy blankets, noise-canceling headphones playing low-fi music, and a goose down pillow, at least for as long as I can. I trust the girls won't fall asleep at the wheel and drive us straight into a lone deer darting across the road.
Mara shuffles some things around in the trunk before stuffing her luggage beside my things. Yes, I packed like we were going to be away for two weeks, but I neededoptions!
Once we're all buckled in, I see Aiden wave to us from his third-story apartment complex.
Phoebe is the only one with a significant other, and I feel that tiny green monster rip through my insides when she and I wave back simultaneously. I know he's not waving at me specifically, but it's cute to pretend.
Around 4:00 a.m., I'm jerked awake, my insides lurching like I'm on a rollercoaster. My car skids, sliding in a way that's completely unnatural.
"What the hell?" I curse, the fog of sleep mixing with the sharp edge of danger that my subconscious is already sensing.
"Ice," Phoebe mutters, her expression steady as she overcorrects the steering wheel. "Started snowing a while ago, after I took over driving at the gas station. I've had to drive slower just in case."
I see Mara wide awake and unfazed by our precarious situation. Her face is bathed in the cold blue glow of her iPhone, her thumb scrolling endlessly while she stops on…
"Is that the panty photo?" My seatbelt locks me in place as I lunge forward, trying to catch a glimpse of her screen. "Why the hell are you looking at that?"
Honestly, I don't know how anyone could willingly subject themselves to that image more than once. The dark stain of blood against the women's soiled underwear is something out of a horror movie. I have to pretend it's not real just so it doesn't cause nightmares.
"It's crazy how Jack was stupid enough to keep the actual evidence in their apartment. If Holly hadn't found it, he probably would've killed someone else."
Mara goes on, rambling about how she's hopeful Holly's episode will turn things around for us.
Okay, I'll admit accusing someone on air of murder wasn't my best moment. But the motive seemed clear. Our subject admitted her husband was verbally abusive, and they'd both been considering divorce.
The night in question started as a simple meet-up with friends. He ordered some chicken that was accidentally fried on the same grill as shrimp, causing cross-contamination. He was severely allergic, and oddly enough, the wife couldn't find the EpiPen in her purse. He died, and she sued the restaurant. But something about the whole situation didn't sit right with me. I had a gut feeling she'd planned for this to happen.
Turns out, I was wrong. We had to pull the episode, and I had to publicly apologize to the widow. I really grilled her—it was embarrassing to be so wrong. I swore I'd never trust my gut again. Phoebe is usually spot-on when it comes to intuition—she told me the wife was clean, but I didn't listen. Cancel culture sucks, and you're truly one mistake away from being the next target. I didn't realize slanderand defamation was a thing. I really fucked up, and I don't think the girls have forgiven me.
But right now, they're stuck with me, as we wait to see what secrets lie at the top of a winter wonderland.
Little do Phoebe and Mara know, I have a secret I'm holdingonto as well.
The navigation chimes, signaling we're nearing the turn—fifteen miles up the winding mountain road to Frosthaven Falls. The single main street on the map twists like a child's erratic scribble, looping and curving in every direction. I grip the seat, silently praying I don't get carsick.
"Maybe we should stop for some snacks," Phoebe suggests, almost as if she's reading my mind, sensing my growing unease.
"I agree," I reply, though I'm unsure if food right now is the best idea for my nervous stomach. We're slightly behind schedule, but at least civilization should be opening up right about now. "There's a Trader Joe's in the shopping center up ahead, the same one Romee stopped at before she went up the mountain. This was on my itinerary. Let me adjust the address for you."
"Oh my God, that's right! You're a genius, Mara." Sabrina's compliments are rare, and I graciously accept her kind words. "We're literally following in Romee's footsteps. This is so cool."
"I still can't believe what happened to her," Phoebe says, eyes on the navigation system. "And I can't believe Frosthaven Falls decided to plead the fifth on everything."
I keep scrolling through my phone, landing on yet another article dissecting the town's eerie history. "I wonder if it'll be packed with visiting families."
"I sure hope we're the only ones who came up with this idea. You know, visiting on the one-year anniversary."
"God, I hope so," Sabrina says. "I want to be the only one documenting this. It's perfect for the podcast—not just switching from interviews to a documentary format, but the whole package. Our audience will eat it up. Maybe you two could even make a cameo?"
"Absolutely not," I say before she can finish. Sabrina has always been the face of the podcast. My hand or the back of my head might have made a few appearances on her posts, but that's as far as I go. Social media is brutal, and I'm not as eye-catching like Sabrina. I'm rather plain looking, and I blend into the background. The last thing I need is strangers on the internet ripping me apart because I like to wear vintage clothes.
Sabrina's massive following is intimidating, and I prefer to stay where I belong—behind the scenes, running the show from the shadows.
