“Whatever.” I flip the oversized switch.
Nothing happens.
I flip it back and forth.
Gideon fiddles with the electrical wires leading to the tree.
“It was working this morning… Aha. Try it again.”
I flip the switch.
The lights on the tree blaze, and everyone cheers.
Then I smell roasting pork over the sugar-and-spice smell of the Christmas market. The lights get brighter, then several of them pop, sparking.
The fire department gets ready.
“First fire of the season, boys!”
They cheer.
“No one is burning this tree down,” Mayor Loring threatens.
Suddenly, all the lights go out. Smoke wafts out of the tree, and the fire department aims its hoses.
“What is that smell?”
“I thought the reindeer barbecue was next Monday,” people whisper.
I have a sinking feeling that my bad day is about to get much worse.
The branches of the tree move. There’s rustling like a big animal is in there.
People in the audience scream.
Hunter, Meg’s husband, jumps up on the stage protectively. Fedora does the same for Taylor Grace.
I have no man who cares about my safety, so I shove the branches out of the way.
More rustling, then branches creak, and a corpse falls out of the tree to swing silently, flames crackling, wrapped merrilyin Christmas tree lights. There’s a creak and asnap, then the corpse falls out of the sky…
Right onto the roof of my stall.
“Water!” The fire department douses the Jingle Bites stall.
“Oh my god!” Taylor Grace’s screams pierce the night. “Jonah! Jonah! Someone help him!” She rushes to him.
Fedora holds her back, away from the smoldering corpse.
“Jonah! Oh, poor Jonah!” Then she turns to me, face a mask of fury. “You killed him, Willow Price! You killed Dr. Merriweather!”
2
HUGHES
The snow is falling like powdered sugar over a city that hasn’t been sweet in years. Christmas lights blink down crooked alleys, but they can’t outshine the shadows. That’s where I come in. Name’s Hughes. Hughes Whitaker. Private eye. While the rest of the world is stringing tinsel and kissing under mistletoe, I’m chasing down a case colder than a reindeer’s nose. And let me tell ya—nothing good ever hides in a stocking that big…
“Hughes, you talking to yourself again? I swear.” My nana swats my arm.
