Then he looked at me and said, “You think she got tired of you? Maybe she’s in on this whole thing. Playing a Christmas game for shits and giggles. Like, what if she just got bored, y’know?”
The world slowed and I sobered up quickly.
“You think this is a game to her?” I asked, voice low and hollow.
Joseph raised a brow. “I dunno. People change, Lenny. She did let me take pictures of her in the office. I wish she took me up on the offer to go back to my place for a more…private shoot.” He shrugged. “Maybe you didn’t know her like you thought—”
I didn’t let him finish. All I saw was red.
I launched across the room and tackled him into the center table—it cracked beneath us. Mugs shattered. Eggnog splashed across the floor like blood.
He tried to shove me off, but I grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the floor.
“Take it back!” I shouted. “You don’t get to talk about her like that!”
We tumbled again—crashing into the Christmas tree. Ornaments exploded, ceramic snowmen shattered, a string of lights snapped loose and sparked.
Joseph punched me in the ribs. I hit him in the mouth. Blood sprayed across the tinsel decorations, and then—my hands found his throat. I squeezed—hard.
He clawed at me, choking and kicking, his face turning blue.
I squeezed even harder, until he stopped moving. Until his arms went limp and his eyes went still. I let go and sat back. I breathed hard, like an animal after a kill. A cold, howling silence filled the room.
My hands trembled as I looked at him—Joseph—no longer drunk, no longer breathing…no longer alive.
What the hell have I done?
I scrambled back, heart thundering. My mind sputtered. I was standing in a grave I’d dug with my own drunk rage. I had to move.
I sprang up and grabbed him by the legs—dragging him toward the back door, every inch of my body on fire. The snow outside fell heavily now, blanketing my path to the forest.
I pulled him into the woods behind my house through frozen branches and piled-up snow. My back screamed with every step. Then I ran back, boots soaked and heavy. I grabbed the shovel from the hallway closet and sprinted back.
I dug a spot in the ground as my heart pounded like hell. The cold was beginning to numb mylimbs, but I had to keep digging.
When the hole was deep enough, I remembered the old abandoned church that sat on the other side of the woods. I contemplated taking him there instead, stuffing him inside some hole, never to be seen again.
It reminded me of my brother, Lincoln, and how he always told me that that place reminded him of Mercy’s Light—the orphanage.
I chose not to go there, there wasn’t any time. I rolled him in with no further hesitation, or pity.
Just dirt and snow covering his lifeless corpse.
I ran back, icicles stabbing my lungs. When I returned to the house, I stood in awe of the violent wreckage.
The Christmas tree had fallen, the decorations were ruined, and the floor was splattered with red wine that looked like blood.
If Angela were here, she’d have my head. Then I saw it—Joseph’s wallet and keys on the table. I grabbed them and headed back out into the snow.
Joseph’s truck started on the third try. I drove through the snow, headlights cutting through whiteness—his house was only seven minutes away.
I parked carefully in his driveway, walked up to the front door, and let myself in.
Inside, I tore the place apart. I opened drawers, flipped his mattress, and yanked open cabinets. Looking for evidence—proof—anything to justify what I’d done.
But there was nothing—no hidden letters, no racy pictures, no weapons, no sign of Angela.
Just a normal house—a sparsely furnished home with booze in the fridge and those damn masks. He was innocent, as far as I could tell.
