Page 26 of Mistletoe, Mayhem & Mr. Grump
"I'm sorry?" I manage.
"It's just such a generic name. Holden Clark. Like something from a romance novel. Or a witness protection program," she observes casually.
"My parents weren't very creative," I offer.
"And where are these uncreative parents?" she asks.
"Dead," I say flatly.
Most people would apologize or look uncomfortable. Delia just makes a note in her folder. In red ink.
"How convenient," she murmurs.
"Delia!" Wren protests. "You can't say death is convenient!"
"I'm simply noting that it prevents verification," Delia says calmly. "Now then, Mr. Clark?—"
"Holden," I correct.
"Mr. Clark," she continues, ignoring me. "What exactly are your intentions toward our Wren?"
"Our Wren?" I ask. "Is she community property?"
"She's a cherished member of this town," Teddy Wickham interjects from his corner, his Santa beard quivering with emotion. "We look after our own."
"Like a cult?" I suggest.
"Like a family," June Hartwell corrects, scribbling notes furiously on her notepad.
"That's what cults say," I point out.
Wren kicks me. Hard.
"What Holden means," she blurts, "is that he appreciates the town's close-knit nature."
"Do I?" I ask.
She kicks me again. I'm going to have bruises.
"Yes," she says firmly. "You do."
"I do," I agree, rubbing my shin.
Delia pulls out a laptop. "I've prepared a presentation."
"Of course you have," Wren mutters.
The screen lights up with a PowerPoint titled "Holden Clark: An Investigation." There's a transition effect. And music. The Mission Impossible theme.
"Is this legally actionable?" I ask, wondering how, in the span of an hour, they have been able to put all of this together.
Delia clicks to the first slide. It's a blurry photo of me at The Frosted Pine Inn.
"Day one," she narrates. "Subject arrives. No luggage observed."
"I had luggage," I protest.
"One duffel bag doesn't count as luggage. It counts as suspicious," she counters.
