Irritated with myself, I abandon the hunt for extension cords and head back inside where somebody is fumbling around in thekitchen. I’m about to call out Quinn’s name when a low grumble that sounds nothing like Quinn thunders through the house.
In the hallway, the front door is unlocked. Could someone have broken in? My heart starts to race.
As I inch into the kitchen, the shadowy form of a tall, round man looms on the periphery. He’s munching on something. Squinting, I see that Quinn appears to have left out a plate of cookies and a glass of milk for Santa—something silly and cute he’s always done since we’ve lived together, even when our apartment didn’t have a chimney. Even sillier and cuter is that he’d get up earlier than me, race downstairs, sip the milk and bite the cookies, so that when I got up, I’d think Santa had been there. Quinn would even go so far as to sign some of his gifts to me asFROM SANTAin a loopy scrawl.
In front of me, the intruder struggles to lift the glass with his mitten-covered hand to wash down his snack. But when he finally does, the milk goes flying into the air. “Ew, fuck. What is that? Oat milk? Disgusting.”
I grab for the nearest object. Adrenaline and fear mix and surge through me. Someone has broken in—someone rude, at that—and I won’t let him ruin our Christmas or get to Quinn.
Though, he’s dressed all in red. So perhaps he wanted to get caught. It’s not exactly an all-black catsuit that I might not have seen at this hour in this darkness.
With vigilante-mode activated, I heave a frying pan from the drying rack as the burglar samples the third cookie on the plate. I stand up to my full height and command with ferocity, “Put the cookie down and nobody gets hurt.”
The man turns and steps forward.
Frightened, I let out a scream that’s bordering on a squeal.
I close my eyes.
And then I swing.
Clang.
Thud.
“Crap!”
7A WAKING NIGHTMAREQUINN
CHRISTMAS
The stress of Patrick’s massive confession mixed with playing host-with-the-most tomorrow when our electric is out has seeped into my dreams and turned them into freaky nightmares.
The sound of my name being called repeatedly pierces the veil of my subconscious. I wrestle myself awake only to notice that I might’ve landed in yet another nightmare,Inceptionstyle. The shadowy outline of Patrick hovers over me, and even through sleep-crusted eyes, I can tell he’s holding a large, metallic object up at his side in a menacing way.
This is it. I’m about to beDateline’d. I thought that was only a straight people problem.
My hands fly up to protect myself. “Please don’t hurt me!”
“What? Oh. Sorry.” Patrick drops the frying pan—I mean, Ithinkit’s a frying pan; I’m not keen to lean over and inspect closer. The object hits the carpeted floor with a muddled ring. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Mission failed,” I say, hand clasped over my speedily rising chest. I try to sit up, placated in the knowledge that my husband hasn’t come to turn me into the subject of a future true crime podcast, but newly unsettled by the way Patrick flops onto the side of the bed in the guest bedroom with his features scrunched. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
I’m hot in my long-sleeve T-shirt and hoodie, and the nightlight I put in here when we had overnight company last is on across the room, casting a dim honeyed glow across the floor. The power must be back on. “Did something happen with the breaker in the basement? Was there a family of rats down there?” Patrick hates animals with long tails that scurry. I don’t know why exactly his first choice of rodent repellent would be cookware, per se, but Patrick has done weirder things.
“No, I—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head.
“What?” This bed-in-a-box mattress dimples as I scoot up onto my knees. I would normally run a hand along his back, the comforting gesture he probably needs most, but I can’t bring myself to touch him. Not after our conversation outside.
What would I do if one of my students was in a sleep-deprived panic spiral? “Big inhale, hold your breath, count to seven, biiiiiiig exhale. Good, very good. Now, tell me what happened.”
Finally, Patrick looks at me, marginally calmer but fear still helixing in his expression. “I think I killed a man.”
I shoot back from him, twist the knob on the bedside lamp, and look him over in the light. There’s no blood on his hands. The frying pan—okay, good; itwasa normal frying pan—isn’t dented or misshapen in any way. The only evidence that this could be the truth is the stupefied way Patrick stares off into the middle-distance barely breathing, eyebrows converged like he’s trying to figure out a complex math problem.
“Pat, I think maybe you got shocked by the electrical cords earlier.” I need to rationalize this, so my heart rate slows and I don’t freak myself out more. “Or you’re overtired and imagining weird things. Hell, I was just dreaming about a pig with your mom’s voice.”
That snaps Patrick out of his stupor. “Did you just call my mom a pig?”
