Page 28 of Daddy's Christmas Rescue
He didn’t ask questions, though. Just gave me a mug of sweet tea and let me sit there in the warmth until my hands stopped shaking. His office was small and smelled like old books and lemon furniture polish, and I stared at the floor the whole time he talked.
He made a few calls, speaking in that calm, measured voice priests always seem to have, and told me he’d found a bed for me at the shelter two streets over. “Just for the night,” he said. “They’ll need your name, dear, for their records. You can use mine for a reference.”
I almost gave a fake one. Almost. But lying felt like trying to breathe underwater. So I whispered, “Holly Turner,” and tried not to flinch at the sound of it.
He didn’t notice. He just wrote it down and pressed the page to his chest like a blessing.
That night, I lay in a narrow cot with the smell of detergent and dust around me. A woman snored softly in the next bed. Somewhere down the hall, a baby cried. I should’ve felt safe. I should’ve slept. But I kept seeing her—Amanda—perfect and composed, sitting in that doorway like she belonged there, like I’d been the mistake. Every word she’d said burned.Fiancée. Business trip. Forgotten key.It all fit too easily. Of course Blake hadn’t kissed me. Of course he’d been kind only because he felt sorry for me.
People like me didn’t get to keep people like him.
When dawn crept through the window, pale and thin, I gave up pretending to sleep. The volunteers were already moving quietly through the halls, setting out coffee and oatmeal.
I thanked them. Took none of it.
Outside, the air bit at my face. Frost clung to the curb, and a light snow had started again, soft, steady, almost beautiful. For a minute, I stood there the shelter door closing behind me, wondering where I’d go. Maybe another town. Maybe farther north. Somewhere Blake wouldn’t look for me. Somewhere Vincent would forget I existed.
But I didn’t make it to the end of the block.
A black car idled at the curb. The kind that didn’t belong in this neighborhood—sleek, tinted windows. The back window rolled down with a soft hum. And there he was.
Vincent Hale.
Not wild or frantic like someone who’d been chasing me. Just calm. Composed. Smiling the same smile that had once made mebelieve I could be free. “Good morning,darling.” His voice was silk and poison. “You’re up early.”
I couldn’t move. Couldn’t think.
He looked me over, his eyes cool and assessing. “You’ve been difficult to find. I told your parents you’d come to your senses eventually, but I admit—” He gestured lazily at the church behind me. “I didn’t expect you to start haunting parish halls.”
My throat closed. “How… how did you find me?”
He laughed softly. “You really should be more careful where you sign your name.”
The breath left me all at once. I remembered the clipboard. The neat lines. The pen trembling in my hand. Father Matthews. The shelter. I’d done this.
Vincent opened the car door and stepped out, snow crunching under his polished shoes. “Come now, Holly,” he said quietly. “You’ve made quite the mess, but we’ll sort it out. You know I always fix things for you.” I backed up a step. Then another. The curb was slick. My heel caught, and my shoulder hit the cold brick wall behind me.
He reached for me. “Don’t make a scene.”
His voice hadn’t changed, but there was something under it now like a warning. My heart hammered so hard it hurt. I wanted to scream. To run. To call Blake. But Blake didn’t want me. Blake had Amanda. Blake thought I was a liar.
So I just whispered, “Please don’t hurt me.”
Vincent’s smile widened. “Hurt you? Never, darling. I just want to take you home.” He stepped closer. The snow fell harder, muffling everything including the traffic, the city, the sound of my heart breaking.
The air was so cold it burned my nose. There was barely any light, just a thin line under the door. I could hear them upstairs, my mother’s voice rising and falling, then Vincent’s, low and calm, the way he always sounded when he was about to do something terrible.
I stared at the paper in front of me. My name was already on it, in a dozen places, but there was a new line, and Vincent had put a pen in my hand and guided my fingers over it, like I was a child who couldn’t even write her own name. "Just sign, Holly. Don’t make this harder than it has to be." His voice echoed, even in my dreams.
I'd said no. I didn’t know how I’d managed it, but I had. I’d said it once, and then a second time, and then my father had called me useless and my mother had grabbed my arm so hard I thought she’d snap it. They’d dragged me down the steps, the paper crumpled in Vincent’s fist, and the door slammed and the lock turned. I heard the sound of the bolt sliding home. That was it. Locked in again.
I didn’t cry. Not at first. I just sat on the cold floor, wishing I had Blake's jacket wrapped around me, hands shaking so bad.
I stared at the paper and wondered if I’d ever get out. If I’d even be allowed to.
It was dark for so long I lost count. They didn’t bring food, either. Just water, and once, a protein bar, tossed through thedoor like I was a stray dog they didn’t want to touch. I ate it, but it made me feel sick.
The worst was the silence. That, and the things my brain kept saying.
