At the landing, she paused, heart hammering, and looked back through the glass. The gardens were empty, just snow and lights and the memory of black wings.
She clenched her fists and turned away, not sure what was to come next.
13
The drive to the news station with Grace’s friends was a fun mixture of gossip and singing to loud 90s music. Caroline insisted on taking her car, because she preferred to show up to the news station in style, but between the puffer coats and the assortment of coffee cups in every available holder, it was more clown car than limousine.
Holiday Hollow was in rare form. The snow from last night had been replaced by a spitting sleet that froze instantly on every exposed surface, glazing the already lurid holiday decorations with an armor of ice. Lamp posts wore icicles like beaded flapper fringe, every yard boasted inflatables in various states of collapse, and the downtown banners all proclaimed WINTER WONDERLAND in letters already curling from the cold.
Olivia, in a coat so pale it was practically fluorescent, leaned into Grace’s personal space. “You know,” she said, voice pitched so only Grace and Anna could hear, “if we actually survive this holiday without a murder, it’ll be all because of you and your abilities”
Grace tried for a smile. “Or the murder will happen, and it’ll be all because I couldn’t stop it.”
Anna snickered. “You’ll stop it, besides I think Bryant secretly loves the drama. He acts all annoyed but he’s been listening to true crime podcasts in his office for years. This is his Olympics.”
Caroline cut in from the front. “You’d think the news lady would love a bit of real-life intrigue. But honestly, I feel like she’s going to sue us for loss of productivity if we take up more than five minutes of her morning.”
Grace watched the world outside strobe by, the happiness she’d been feeling just a moment ago disappearing as a familiar tension built as they neared the news station. There was no more denying the visions, the threats. There was just this: the cold, the determination, the knowledge that if she messed this up, someone was going to die.
The news station was a two-story red brick cube at the end of an industrial block, ringed by a sad chain-link fence and a perimeter of security lights that made the snow glare in patches. The parking lot was nearly empty, save for a battered news van and a couple of sedans parked at reckless angles. Caroline claimed the best spot, threw the car into park, and immediately started rifling through her purse.
“Chins up, ladies,” she said. “Smile like you’re here for the bake sale and not to tell someone they’re the next target in a murder plot.”
They filed out, the sleet hitting Grace’s bare face like a thousand tiny knives, and followed the walkway to the glass double doors. Inside, the station was all gray tile and fluorescent light, a neutral zone that smelled of burnt coffee and microwaved popcorn. A young woman in a Channel 5 polo sat behind the reception desk, typing with the speed and indifference of the truly bored.
“Hi!” Caroline beamed, shifting instantly into socialite mode. “We’re here to see Tessa Monroe. She’s expecting us.”
The receptionist barely looked up. “Name?”
“Caroline Shepard, with friends.” She gestured broadly to encompass the rest.
The girl tapped her keyboard, then handed over four visitor badges with a glare that suggested she suspected them all of shoplifting.
“Elevator to the second floor, left at the water cooler, end of the hall.”
“Thank you, darling.” Caroline led the charge, Grace, Anna, and Olivia trailing behind.
The elevator smelled like a locker room and jerked alarmingly as it climbed. Anna made an elaborate show of crossing herself, then laughed at Grace’s expression. “Don’t worry. If this thing goes down, I’ll just turn into a puddle and you can crawl out on top of me.”
Grace shook her head. “That’s not how mermaids work… is it?”
“You bet,” Anna deadpanned, then laughed. “Okay, well, not really.”
Olivia rolled her eyes, but Grace saw her fighting a smile.
The second floor was quieter, with a long hallway lined with framed news photos—ribbon cuttings, food drives, the mayor’s annual address. At the far end, a frosted glass door declared: TESSA MONROE, INVESTIGATIVE JOURNALIST.
Caroline rapped twice, then opened the door without waiting for an answer.
The office was a shrine to its occupant. Wall-to-wall built-ins displayed awards, trophies, glass plaques in every geometric shape, and, most prominently, dozens of framed news articles. Tessa Monroe stared out from every one, hair in a variety of lengths and colors but always styled to near-superhuman perfection. There were photos of her with governors, withcelebrities, with children and rescue dogs. She smiled in all of them, except the oldest, where she looked genuinely pissed off.
The woman herself was not present. Instead, her desk, a modern slab of acrylic, was covered in color-coded folders, three separate laptops, and a Bluetooth headset so large it looked like part of a jet pilot costume.
“Wow,” Olivia said, running a finger along the edge of a shelf. “She really went for the Power Woman aesthetic.”
Anna was already peering at the nearest framed article. “She was writing crime in high school?” she marveled. “That is commitment.”
Caroline ignored the spectacle and flopped onto a chair beside the desk. “Let’s try to focus, shall we? We’re not tourists.”
