Page 10 of A Very Killer Christmas
“Good evening,” he says, sounding tense and annoyed. “Thanks for checking in, but we haven’t seen anything suspicious.”
The male officer hands me a card, but my fake boyfriend snatches it before I even lift my hand.
“Call us if you see anything.”
Mission apparently accomplished.
Relief floods my system, and I nod frantically. The only thing that keeps me from bouncing in place like an overstimulated puppy is the solid body pressing to my back. I feel his heat, and it grounds me.
The officers just begin walking down the porch steps when the woman stops and gives me a quick, alert look.
“I couldn’t help but notice your house is the only one without any decorations on the block. Why is that?”
I don’t think, I just speak, and what comes out is the truth. Mostly. “Oh, I didn’t want to decorate alone. It was too depressing. My grandfather passed away this year, and it’s my first Christmas without any of my family around. But now that my boyfriend is here, we’ll decorate. I usually love Christmas, it’s just that this year is a lot.”
The woman gives me a compassionate smile.
“I’m sorry for your loss. Merry Christmas, and please, stay safe. Call us if you see anything out of the ordinary, no matter how small.”
I nod eagerly. The officers leave, and I stare at their retreating backs until my killer tugs me back inside and closes the door. I shiver, finally feeling the cold. The reality of what I did crashes into me like a ton of ice.
I lied to the police to hide a murderer.
And why did I do that? Because I felt lonely and didn’t want him to leave. The truth is devastatingly cringeworthy. I push the thought away.
“We should turn on the heating,” I say, avoiding his eyes. “And put up some decorations in case they come back. There are some boxes in the attic, I’ll bring them down. We don’t have a tree, but at least we could…”
“Stop.”
I exhale in a rush and purse my lips. A warm, big hand cups my cheek, tilting my face up. I consider closing my eyes just to avoid his gaze, but that’s childish. I made my bed. I should face the consequences of my choices.
He looks serious as he studies me, and I study him back, seeing him clearly in the light for the first time.
He isn’t what I imagine when I think of a homicidal maniac. He’s in his late twenties, his skin light brown, eyes big and fanned by long, curly lashes. His dark hair is short but soft and shiny. He is handsome, more handsome than any man I’ve ever physically touched. My stomach squirms with unease. A strange sort of urgency buzzes right under my skin.
I have to push him away before he does, because of course, he is way out of my league. He shouldn’t touch me at all. I’m a shut-in weirdo, the odd girl who barely speaks to anyone in real life, thedropout who left college to care for her grandfather, who then died on her not even a year later. I’m a loser, destined to be all alone in the world.
Handsome, muscular men never pay me any attention. It’s unnerving that he does, because I’m sure all my flaws are right on the surface. He’s bound to reject me. Maybe laugh. That’s what hot men do in the rare moments when they notice me.
I brace to end this moment of taut intimacy when he does something strange. He pulls me closer and wraps his arms around me. I am swallowed by male heat and the scent of roses, and my senses go haywire with confusion.
“What are you doing?” I ask, but my throat is so tight, the words come out quiet and strained against his chest.
“Thank you, fluffy socks.”
I freeze, my insides filling with soft, sticky warmth. His voice is so low and masculine, and it just hits me again. A man is here, with me, on Christmas. My lashes stroke the fabric of his sweatshirt as I blink in confusion. We’re awfully close.
A part of me wants to burrow closer into the safe enclosure of his arms, and another part panics. I don’t know what to do, and I’m bound to make an idiot of myself. I’m frozen, all of my attention focused on memorizing each detail of him before he inevitably lets me go.
But he doesn’t seem to be in a hurry.
“What’s your name?”
“Um. It’s Prudence. My grandpa named me. My mom took off as soon as she could walk after giving birth. She was dying for a fix, because my grandparents held her under lock and key throughout the pregnancy so she wouldn’t take drugs. After his daughter turned out so bad, my grandpa vowed he would do a better job with me. Hence the name, but I think it didn’t work very well. I mean, look at me. Helping a killer isn’t very prudent.”
He makes a low sound of surprise and pulls away. I bite my tongue. I wish I’d held my mouth shut, because my panicky confession obviously disgusted him.
“Sorry, too much information,” I say with a cringe. “Forget everything I said. My name’s Prudence.”
