“I believe it’s Doctor Thomas T. Tuttle,” I answered.
His eyes suddenly met mine. “Yes, him. He holds more power than you might think. He’s buddy-buddy with Mayor Carl Hamonte.Rumor is, Doctor Tuttle secretly funded all of his political campaigns.”
Holy shit.
I crossed my arms. “Is that so?”
He leaned forward in his chair, his voice low, trembling. “Look, Lenny…I barely remembered that Peter and Maria had adopted two boys. I used to drop off Christmas hams for them every year, and we’d have some nice conversations. Sometimes, I’d come in and have some hot cocoa—maybe a cup of coffee—and I’d catch a glimpse of you sitting on top of the stairway, holding that little doll. Before I could say anything about you, you’d disappear. They never mentioned you guys; I don’t know why. Maybe to protect you?”
The words sucker-punched me, knocking the wind out of my gut. I remembered that doll. It had been the only thing that got me through my time at the orphanage—Mercy’s Light. Ironic name for a place that was a complete shithole.
There was a woman there named Mildred. She made us sit facing the wall if we so much as coughed. Lincoln and I used to count the seconds under our breath, just to remember what our voices sounded like. All that the lady wanted was quiet; if we made noise, it meant death.
I appreciated my foster parents, Peter and Maria Frost, because they took us out of the orphanage, but they had treated us like secrets that could never be spoken. I was sure they were only interested in collecting a check. They weren’t especially attentive either; all we had was each other—Lincoln and me.
I stared back at George, wanting more answers. “Give it to me straight, George. Angela’s missing, and I don’t know how to find her. What’s really going on in this town? Who’s pulling the strings? How do my former foster parents factor into this? What game can this copycat Xmas Day Butcher be playing?”
He stayed quiet for a few moments, staring at the ground. I patiently waited for his answer.
“I don’t know anything about your foster parents, but Doctor Thomas T. Tuttle and Mayor Carl Hamonte…Lenny, those are the names you need to remember. The doctor controls the institute. The other controls Whisper’s Creek. The two of them together…they might control everything. Don’t tell anyone I said that.”
He slowly got up from his chair and looked longingly at the Christmas tree. “Clara’s gone…Angela’s gone… a return of a Xmas Day Butcher. Curse this damn town. This will not end well.”
CHAPTER 8
DECEMBER 8TH
Ifound it near my front door in the early hours of the morning. The air was still frigid, and my world still felt empty—the days beginning to blur together in this frozen wasteland.
Another gift box, wrapped in shimmery red and green paper, miniature candy canes and gumdrops scattered throughout. I wondered what was inside this one. Maybe a body part? Something worse? I almost refused to check, horrified at what might lie inside.
I hesitated before touching it, my trembling hands lingering over the box. It was so quiet, so still in my neck of the woods. There were never any knocks or signs of the Xmas Day Butcher coming to drop them off. They were always just there—waiting for me—ominously. The only sound I heard was the faint creak of my floorboards as I stepped near it, a sharp ball of anxiety creeping up my throat.
I crouched beside it and lifted it; it didn’t weigh much. I brought it inside as I shut my front door behind me. I placed it on my coffee table and just stared at it, hesitant to see what awaited me inside. After some deliberation, I ripped it open and lifted the lid to the box.
Inside was another red envelope. I tore it open and read the letter that was inside:
CLUE #4: “Why did Clara go poof? In George’s house—find your proof. Check her room, or you will hear of Angela’s doom.”
The words were simple, but they felt like a blade being thrust inside my ribcage. “Doom.” What was the letter insinuating? That George had something to do with Clara’s disappearance all along?
My mind was spinning, trying to make sense of it. All the rumors in town…could they be true? Was George St. Nicklaus a secret murderer? Why did Angela need to suffer for all of this?
I stared at the letter for a long time. “Doom,” the word echoed in my mind, but it just didn’t make sense. I was so caught up in the idea of George being behind Clara’s disappearance that I didn’t notice the newspaper clipping that was also in the gift box, a second part to the clue.
I picked it up and read the headline:CLARA ST. NICKLAUS MYSTERIOUSLY DISAPPEARS AFTER TOWN HALL XMAS PARTY.
From what I remembered, Clara had disappeared after leaving the Town Hall Christmas party last year. No witnesses saw her after she left, and no camera footage had picked up where she might’ve gone. It was like she really vanished, out of thin air.
George being behind it never clicked in my mind because he was her father, for goodness’ sake. But who else could it be? Sometimes culprits hid in plain sight because they were too obvious to be guilty. But how did the Xmas Day Butcher know that George was involved? Is he just pinning it on him because he’s the one who actually caused her to disappear?
So many questions…I couldn’t take it. I was losing it. All I wanted was Angela back in my arms. I didn’t want to play some sicko’s twisted game.
I tried to keep a steady head and dialed Castillo’s number. I needed to talk to someone about this, someone who could potentially help me. Someone to pull me back from the edge of the cliff, to keep me from spiraling down into the hell that was my own mind.
She picked up after a couple of rings. Her voice, raspy from lack of sleep, cut through the blaring quiet in my house. “What happened, Lenny? Are you alright?”
I felt my throat tighten as I talked, the mounting fear strangling my chest. “There’s another gift box, Detective Castillo. It had a note—it mentions George’s house, and how proof of Clara’s disappearance is there. He’s threatening Angela’s life as well.”
