It all looks so warm and cozy. We use terms like blanketed, cottony, downy, and quilted, and talk about a fresh fall of soft snow covering up the grime and dirt of city streets. Pristine, pure as the driven snow. Soft and fluffy snowdrifts, sugar-powdered landscapes.
The reality is cold and chilling. Ice crystals and freezing sleet. Even the pretty snowflakes are daggers of cruelty. Six spikes of frozen water molecules in the form of millions of tiny needles, zigzagging together in unique combinations.
The beautiful crystalline flakes of snow are anything but warm and fuzzy. They are created by cold, the absence of energy, the withdrawal of life.
I can’t stand here not knowing, so I head toward the guest room, hoping against hope that last night didn’t happen, and that I’d find Poppy stretching and yawning, wearing his Santa’s hat and greeting me with a Good Morning Ho, Ho, Ho.
One of the doors opens, and a large man stops me in my tracks. It’s Damon, and I never noticed what a giant he is. If Braden is quarterback size, Damon is more like a fullback.
“Grandpa’s room is off limits.” His voice is rough and stern, and I notice he’s still wearing a rumpled shirt and jeans. “I’ve been told to send everyone to the kitchen.”
“Any news about Poppy?” I ignore his orders and try to circumvent him, but he moves when I move.
“To the kitchen.” His brows are ridged like those of an angry bull, daring me to charge.
“Okay, okay.” I turn and stomp toward the kitchen. “No one’s there. Are we going to call the hospital and ask if Poppy’s okay?”
Instead of answering me, he yells up the stairs, “Mom, someone’s awake.”
That shocks me, because his family is not the yelling kind. They use intercoms, and they don’t shout across the room.
Doors pop open, and people pop out of them like contestants in a game show. Some are wearing pajamas, and others are already dressed. Will and Abbie have their eyes on Lindsay, taking their cue from her.
I glance from face to face, but no one acknowledges me. There’s not a smile anywhere, but a deep and pervading sense of fear.
“Why won’t anyone tell me?” My voice rises to a semi-hysterical shriek. “Did Braden and Poppy make it to the hospital?”
Lindsay whirls around from Abbie and Will and stabs an accusing finger at me. “She called him Braden. Did you hear that?”
It’s too late to say anything else, so I take her accusation with relief, because if Poppy was dead or dying, none of this would matter.
As usual, Jolene takes charge. “Nash and Damon are tasked with guarding the guest room, so no one should go in there to disturb the evidence. The rest of us are to gather in the kitchen and wait for the sheriff to arrive.”
“Sheriff? Why?” I rush up to Jolene and clutch at her sleeve. “Has something happened? Why won’t anyone tell me?”
“Poppy made it to the hospital.” She rubs my hand. “We’re not supposed to discuss anything else amongst ourselves. The police want to interview us separately.”
“But why? If Poppy’s okay and Dad made it to the hospital… Unless something happened to my father?” I blink up at her like she’s my only hope—my only tenuous connection to this family.
I know there was bad blood when Braden’s father married her, but so far, they seemed to have made it work—on the surface, at least.
“Your father is in one piece. That’s all I’m going to say.” She turns toward her three daughters. “Okay, girls. It’s Christmas morning. Let’s show our guests how we Brant girls do Christmas breakfast.”
The dam breaks with hurrying and scurrying, and people go through the motions of cracking eggs, stirring up batter, and brewing coffee.
I slump into the corner of the window seat and lean my forehead against the frosty-cold pane. Something bad has happened, and it’s not a hard mystery to crack.
Braden is suspected of giving his grandfather an almost fatal overdose and is being held by the police. The entire charade we concocted to boost our image while making Poppy proud of us could very well put both of us behind bars.
