Page 22 of Daddy's Christmas Rescue
“You sure?”
“One hundred percent.” Cas rustled some papers. “George and Marianne Turner. Clearwater Insurance Agency, founded nearly thirty years ago by Elspeth and Harold Turner, George's mother and father. Expanded statewide five years back. I know I don't need to tell you the company’s been under scrutiny a few times—sketchy claims denials, aggressive policies, your standard corporate slime. Nothing that sticks, but the reputation’s ugly if you know where to look.”
The air felt heavier with every word because I knew all about them.
Cas didn’t stop. “You might really want to sit down for the next part.”
“I’m already sitting.”
“Good. Because their daughter—Holly—is the legal owner. And her signature’s on a batch of paperwork linked to disputed insurance payouts from two years ago. The kind that ruin small businesses.”
My hand clenched around the rag until my knuckles popped, and for too long white noise seemed to fill my head.
Cas kept talking, gently, aware that every word was cutting me open. “Look, I can’t tell if Holly was directly involved or just a figurehead. The company was left to her by her grandmother. She’s not listed on payroll, but she was signing things. I don’t think she’s innocent in all this. Her fiancé—Vincent Hale—he’s deep into financial fraud, and he’s tied to the same firm Clearwater uses for legal representation. If she’s running from anyone, it’s probably him. But if she’s playing you—”
“Fiancé?” I choked out.
There was a long pause on the other end.
“Blake,” Cas said carefully, “you need to keep your distance. Whatever story she’s told you, there’s a good chance it’s bullshit. The girl’s name is all over this, and Hale’s the kind of man who uses people until they break. Be smart.”
The line went dead.
I sat there a long time, staring at nothing. The heater hummed back to life, loud and hollow. My hand found the old scar on my palm—the one from the day I’d slammed a hammer through a board after Mom’s denial letter came.
Clearwater Insurance.
Holly.
My mother.
The girl I’d carried out of the dark, the one who looked at me like I’d hung the goddamn stars, was the owner of the company that’d ruined my family. That had just about killed my mom.
I’d believed every word she’d said. And now I didn’t know if she was terrified of monsters—or if she’d just been hiding the fact that she was one.
For the first time in years, I felt something tear in my chest—not the kind of anger that burned hot, but the cold kind that crept slow and deep.
Because I hadn’t just let a liar into my house.
I’d let her into the one place inside of me no one had been in a long time.
And that— that was on me.
Chapter eight
Holly
I’d listened as Blake left for work and I knew I’d screwed up. I didn’t just make cookies this time, I made a huge chocolate cake, then left it cooling and grabbed everything for dinner and put an Italian chicken meal together in the slow-cooker, using a recipe I knew by heart as it had been my Nana’s favorite.
Restless, even with Biscuit following me I found myself staring at the boxes labeled “Christmas.” I knew I should have gone back to the kitchen—I’d left the flour out, and the cake was cooling ready to be decorated—but my hands wouldn’t move. The smell of cardboard and old tinsel filled the closet, sharp and sweet, and for a second, I wanted to just crawl inside and not come out.
That was ridiculous, though. I was twenty, not five. Old enough to know better than to make a mess. Old enough to know that if you made a fuss, someone would always regret letting you in.
Still, I opened the first box, careful not to tear the tape. Inside, a tangle of colored lights blinked up at me, half the bulbs shaped like tiny bells. There were old ornaments wrapped in tissue, thekind that looked like they’d break if you breathed on them too hard. A wreath, a plastic one with a faded red bow, and a tangle of gold garland that looked like it belonged in a movie. There were plastic snowflakes, too, and a whole box of ornaments shaped like tools. Tiny hammers, paintbrushes, and even a little hard hat with “Weston 1999” painted on the brim.
Weston? Where had I heard that before?
I didn’t take anything out, not at first. I just sat there, staring at the jumble and feeling like I’d broken a rule. I was still holding my hands together so I wouldn’t touch anything, but the longer I stared, the more the idea took root. Maybe if I made the place look nice for Christmas, Blake would be happy. Or at least not so quiet. Maybe he wouldn’t regret bringing me here.
