The joy on the kids’ faces and their laughter fill my heart with tenderness. For a moment, I forget about the scars hidden under my sweater, the darkness that’s been clinging to me like a shadow. Today is all about light and love.
“Alright, elf,” Dad calls over his shoulder, breaking me out of my thoughts. “Let’s get these gifts sorted.”
I set the boxes down under the tree and kneel on the soft carpet, organizing them by size and shape. The wrapping paper crinkles under my fingers, the bright reds and greens reflecting the cold fluorescent lights above. I can feel the kids’ eyes on me, their curiosity palpable as they wait for their turn to receive a piece of Christmas magic.
“Is that your helper, Santa?” a small voice asks, and I look up to see a little girl with curly blonde hair and wide blue eyes staring at me.
“Sure is,” Dad says with a wink. “She’s the one who made sure all the presents got here safe and sound.”
I wink, holding up a small box with a shiny bow. “And I double-checked the naughty list,” I add. “Looks like everyone here made it onto the nice list this year.”
The kids laugh as I finish arranging the presents. Once I’m done, I brush off my hands and step behind Santa’s throne. I exhale a low, contented sigh and glance around the room.
That’s when I see him.
Ray stands in the corner, half hidden in the shadows near the doorway. He’s wearing a black peacoat over a dark sweater, his broad shoulders stiff, his expression unreadable. Beside him is a boy—no more than five years old—clinging to his hand. The boy’s dark hair is tousled, his round cheeks flushed, and his wide eyes dart around the room, taking in the bustle with a mix of awe and hesitation.
My breath catches in my throat. Pete. It has to be him.
Ray’s gaze locks onto mine, and the rest of the room fades away. The chatter becomes a distant hum as we stare at each other. The weight of the feelings I suppressed over the past days presses down on my chest like a boulder. Breathing turns ragged and hard as time freezes. His dark eyes are intense, but I spot something softer, more vulnerable in them. It’s like a single ray of sunlight breaking through heavy storm clouds.
I don’t know how long we stand like that until Pete breaks the spell, tugging on Ray’s hand and saying something I can’t hear. Ray kneels beside him, his movements slow and deliberate, and wraps an arm around the boy’s shoulders. The protective gesture throws me back in time to when Ray and I were kids.
Ray has changed so much from the boy I used to know. Yet he’s still undeniably him. This realization stirs something deep inside me. And seeing him with his son, the tenderness in his touch, only makes it harder to look away.
It also deepens the mystery. How did his wife die? What kind of life is he living now? I can’t decide, though, if I want to know the answers to these questions. I take a deep breath, trying to focus back on my task, but it’s no use. Ray Flanagan has always had a way of getting under my skin. And now, with this darkness in his eyes, he’s more dangerous than ever. And every time we meet, I get the sensation that Ray is keeping a secret far bigger than I can imagine.
10
RAY
The hospital hallway stretches ahead of me, a kaleidoscope of holiday cheer plastered over its stark sterility. Strings of Christmas lights crisscross the ceiling, their colors blinking in an uneven rhythm. Paper snowflakes hang from the walls alongside brightly colored drawings—stick figures in scarves, uneven trees heavy with ornaments, and a star perched precariously on top. The faint smell of the chemicals these kids take to save their lives mingles with the sweetness of the candy canes they’re clutching while waiting to see Santa. The sharp click of my boots echoes as we progress down the hall. Pete clutches my hand as his head swivels to take in every detail.
I’d brought him here expecting a quick checkup, a simple confirmation that he wasn’t coming down with anything serious. The kid’s been coughing just enough to set me on edge. Turns out he’s fine. Healthy as a bull. I said a silent, thankful prayer when the doctor told me that. On our way out of the doctor’s office, the nurse—a cheery woman with a grin too wide for small features—insisted we stick around for the hospital’s Christmas festivities. She even promised a present from Santa himself. I couldn’t deny Pete this small pleasure, not after the amount of shit life has thrown at him over the past couple of years.
“Dad, you think Santa’s real?” Pete’s voice cuts through my thoughts, bright and joyful. He turns those wide blue eyes up at me, the ones that remind me too much of Nadya, his mother.
I clear my throat, forcing down the tightness in my chest. “What do you think, bud?”
Pete considers this, his small face scrunching in concentration. “I think he’s real, but maybe not the way they show in the movies.”
Smart kid. Too smart sometimes.
“You’re probably right,” I mutter, running a hand over my face. “Let’s go meet him and find out, huh?”
I snicker at the sight of the large double doors of the pediatric ward. A life-size nutcracker cutout has been glued to them; the bright red and gold laminated paper reflects the lights above as we approach it, giving the illusion of movement.
“Wow, Dad! He’s watching us,” Pete whispers, his eyes trained on the paper soldier. “Maybe this Santa is real.”
“Maybe,” I agree since my heart refuses to let my son down.
I push the doors open, and we step into a brightly lit room. I catch my breath. Children sit in rows, cross-legged on the floor, their faces glowing with anticipation as they stare at a man in a red suit. The jolly old Saint Nick himself waves a white-gloved hand, his deep “Ho, ho, ho!” filling the space. But it’s not Santa that captures my attention.
It’s his helper.
Sophia.
She’s standing just behind the makeshift throne by the tall Christmas tree, her copper hair catching the twinkle of the blinking fairy lights like fire. She’s dressed casually in jeans and a fitted cardigan. She’s slaying the elf look, the green scarf around her neck perfectly matching the pointy hat. My pulse quickens. She looks like she belongs on a fucking magazine cover. Her laugh rises above the chatter of the kids, rich and full, as she helps Santa distribute presents. My chest tightens, and I can’t help but curse under my breath. Of all the places, of all the people.
