Page 10 of A Ranger for Christmas
“I know she loves the day.” She pictured the three Christmas trees that Susan put up, the thousands of white lights that now adorned their front lawn, and the row of pictures featuring her brothers sitting with Santa Claus lined up along the mantle.
“She’s gone all-out for you this year. Put a lot of thought into your gift. You’re going to be pleased.”
Marisa felt ungrateful and small when she thought about the bottle of perfume she’d hastily purchased online for Susan. Expensive and nice didn’t trump the lack of thought or love that had gone into the gift. She’d checked the Christmas Gift box, so to speak. “I can’t wait.”
A silence crackled through the line. “How’s work going?”
“Great. I’m steeped in ancient cultures.”
“What about the modern culture? All work and no play . . .”
He let the words trail. “I love my work. Hard to say no to it.” Her work never disappointed, lied, or left. “The work is so thrilling.”
In the background she heard the boys’ polite chatter. Her father had set up a special desk for the boys so they could work alongside their dad. The voices grew louder and a door opened. “Well, we look forward to seeing you.”
“Me, too. Can’t wait.”
She hung up, sadness fisting a knot in her chest. Pity she couldn’t bond with people as well as she connected with her dead languages.
Marisa had lost track of time when her phone chimed with a text. She rubbed her eyes and stretched her tight shoulders as she glanced at the clock on her phone. It was just after 2A.M.The time had slipped away from her again. She picked up her coffee and sipped. Ice-cold. Grimacing, she moved to the sink and poured out the stale coffee before setting another cup to brew. As the machine gurgled and spit, she picked up her phone.
Sacrifices will be made.
What sacrifices?
Rubbing her tired eyes, she studied the words and phone number. The caller was Unknown. Not Lucas. Who would send her such a text? She had a friend, Doris, who drank too much on occasion and would send Marisa texts. But those were all jokes about the men she met in bars.
The reference to sacrifices made no sense and did not fit the profile of anyone she knew.
Sacrifices will be made.
Assuming the text had arrived in error, she moved to the coffee machine and picked up her cup. With a splash of milk, the fresh coffee tasted good and revived many of her lagging senses. Foolish to drink the brew so late at night, but she knew herself well enough to know she’d work until dawn and then, with no school tomorrow, fall into bed to sleep the day away.
Her phone buzzed again.
She picked it up and read:Sacrifices will be made.
More annoyed than worried, she imagined a drunk in a bar texting a girlfriend or someone’s ex too hammered to make sure the call was sent to the right person.
As she set the phone aside and settled back in her chair to review the notes she’d written, there was a loud bang on her front door. She jumped, sloshing her coffee. Hissing as the brew scorched her hand, she rose and backed away from the door until she bumped into her kitchen counter.
The pounding grew louder, and when the handle of her front door rattled as if someone was trying to tear the doorknob out of its setting, she realized the text was no mistake or joke.
Her phone buzzed a third time and she glanced at the word,Sacrifice.
Someone was sending her a message. A warning. A threat. She looked toward the scattered, coffee-stained pages on her table and at the door. The rattling and pounding stopped, and a shadowed figure passed in front of her thick sheer-covered front window.
Her hands trembled as she drew in a breath and catalogued the names of the people she could call. The cops made sense, of course, but that would put her in the position of explaining the documents, and Lucas had asked her to keep the work she was doing for him a secret.
There was Bradley, but she imagined him nestled next to Jennifer, waking to take the call. He would come, but there’d be some price, no doubt, to her pride. Her father would lecture and demand she stay at his house for the holidays.
The door handle rattled again, not with the urgency of a madman but of someone trying to calculate its strength. Whoever was out there was stalking, searching for a chance to strike.
She scrolled through her list of contacts and settled on one. Embarrassment fluttered for just a brief moment and then she dialed.
Chapter 4
Saturday, December 20, 3:00A.M.
