Page 1 of The Detective's Secret Santa

1

BROOKLYN

A fresh layer of ice glistens on Main Street in the early morning sun, not even a dusting of sand dimming the diamond-bright sparkle. It’d almost be pretty if my not-made-for-winter tires weren’t struggling to find traction. Half a dozen SUVs and pickups cluster behind my Mustang, do doubt wondering if I’m going to fishtail and slide my way through the entire intersection.

Point of fact. I do.

“We’re almost there,” I promise, both to myself and the car. My eyes lock onto the Alpine Valley Community Center and I exhale a shaky laugh. One block ahead and on the right the old building sits, nestled between an unplowed parking lot and icy curbside parking. My fierce grip on the steering wheel tightens, turning my knuckles white. Choices. Great.

My winter wasn’t supposed to include snow or ice or anything else arctic. It was supposed to be sunny and warm.

A blue truck loses patience and zips around me, making the trek on the slick, still unsalted, road look effortless. At least he doesn’t honk. But his aggressive gesture reminds me for the hundredth time since I moved home a few weeks ago that I am really not prepared to live in a mountainside town.

Not that this was exactly in my plans.

I make my stand, decide that I’ll never get back out of the parking lot, and turn left into an angled parking spot outside the community center. I manage a slow, gingerly approach despite the SUV nearly hitched to my bumper, but I hit a patch of ice. I shriek, pressing my foot so hard against the brake that I feel the pedal hit the floorboard.

It’s not enough to keep me from ramming the curb.

My Mustang rocks forward, the red envelope containing the Christmas card from my landlord sailing from passenger seat to floor.

By some miracle, my car stops before it ramps the icy curb.

I shift into park and let out a heavy sigh of relief, dropping my head against the steering wheel. I love this car, but it was never meant to drive in hazardous winter conditions. Something I never worried about in Houston. An inch of snow would shut that place down and keep me working from the comfort of my home.

“I’m getting you snow tires,” I promise the car, patting the steering wheel even as I fight tears of frustration. Emotion bubbles in my chest and I feel a full-blown meltdown threatening to surface. But I can’t think about that right now. “Just as soon as I know I’m not on the hook for rent.”

Unbuckling my seatbelt, I dive into the passenger side floor for the Christmas card that gave me the smallest bit of relief after a really shitty end of the year. My landlord, Wilma, agreed to waive my December rent—and the rent of my other four-plex neighbors—if we each drew a name for the local Secret Santa event.

I’d be a fool to say no to something so simple.

With my savings drained to exactly one hundred and twelve dollars and thirty-nine cents, the waived rent is the only prayer I have of buying a few Christmas presents and the all-weather tires I desperately need if I’m going to spend a winter in my hometown. Because trading in my brand new car and losing thousands of dollars in value isn’t happening. Add in the sentimental attachment, and it’s completely out of the question.

“That’ll teach me to spend my yearly bonus before I get it,” I mumble.

Because thinking about getting fired threatens to make me cry for a second time this morning, I force the humiliating memory away and replace it with a smile I don’t quite feel. I don’t want Wilma to think I’m ungrateful.

I’m surprised to find half a dozen smiling people inside, holiday themed giftbags dangling from wrists and curled fingers.

Wilma spots me and waves enthusiastically. The bells on her festive Christmas sweater jingle. Her eyes sparkle with kindness. The sweet older woman reminds me of a loving grandmother. Her warm smile puts me instantly at ease, giving me the sense, if only for a moment, that everything might just work out.

“Brooklyn, I’m so glad to see you.” Wilma slides a metal bowl filled with wooden tokens across the table that separates us. “Go ahead. Draw a number.”

I close my eyes—it feels appropriate—and let my fingers dig enthusiastically into the bowl. After several seconds of rifling around, I capture one in my palm. I squeeze it, hoping that the number etched into the token brings me good luck.

I open my palm for both of us to see. “Forty-eight.”

“Ooh, that’s a lucky number.”

“It is?”

Wilma thrusts a clipboard at me, the pen attached by a piece of red yarn dangling off to the side. “Very lucky. Please, fill this out.”

“What is—” Wilma’s pulled away by a woman in a green sweater, leaving me to fill out a questionnaire of the most random questions. How many speeding tickets have you received? “Like in the last year?” I mumble. Dread twists my stomach. Can you be disqualified for too many traffic infractions?

The questions shift from criminal history to Christmas themed ones. What’s your favorite Christmas movie? “Easy, Die Hard.” I said what I said. Fight me.

“All done?” Wilma asks, holding out a silver bag dotted in sparkling white snowflakes, the number 48 dangling off a red tag.

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