“I’m sorry,” Holly said, her hand moving to her chest. “I didn’t realize anyone was there. Can I help you?”
He turned toward her with a smile that should have been reassuring. His teeth were very white, verystraight. His face was handsome in an unremarkable way, with the kind of features you’d forget the moment he left. But something about him made Holly’s skin prickle with inexplicable warning.
“I apologize for startling you,” he said, his voice cultured, carefully modulated. “I knocked, but perhaps it wasn’t heard over the festivities.” He gestured vaguely toward the dining room, where laughter still spilled out. “I was wondering if there might be a room available.”
Holly found herself taking a small step backward, though she couldn’t say why. The man hadn’t moved, hadn’t done anything threatening. His posture remained relaxed, his hands visible and still. Yet every instinct she possessed whispered caution.
“I’m afraid the inn is completely booked for the holiday,” she said, surprised by how steady her voice sounded. “Maybe try in St. Augustine proper. The Hampton Inn is about fifteen minutes away, and there’s a lovely bed and breakfast on the other side of the island that might have availability.”
“How helpful,” he said, but made no move to leave. His gaze shifted past her, taking in the lobby with an attention that seemed too intense for casual interest. “This is a beautiful establishment. Very... atmospheric. How long has it been in operation?”
“Quite some time,” Holly answered vaguely. Something about the way he studied the space made her want to shield it from his view. “Would you like me to write down directions to those other hotels?” She noticed his eyes lingering on the pictures of the inn’s staff on the wall.
“No need.” His smile widened a fraction, but it still didn’t reach his eyes. They remained fixed on her now with an intensity that made her want to look away. “I’m quite familiar with the area. I was drawn to the lights and the decorations. It seemed so inviting from the street.”
The grandfather clock chimed the hour, the sound seeming louder in the strange tension that had filled the lobby. Through the doorway to the dining room, Holly could hear Trinity laughing at something Christopher had said, the sound like sunshine breaking through clouds.
“Well, I’m sorry we couldn’t accommodate you,” Holly said, moving subtly to position herself between the stranger and the doorway to her family. “I hope you find somewhere suitable for the evening.”
“I’m certain I will.” He continued to look at her, his head tilted at that slight angle that made him seem as if he were studying something fascinating. “You have a lovely family gathering. It’s nice to see such... connections during the holidays.”
Holly’s blood chilled. She hadn’t mentioned family. She hadn’t said anything about who was in the dining room. Yet he knew, had been listening perhaps, or watching before she’d noticed him.
“Thank you,” she managed, her voice carefully neutral. “Have a good evening.”
Finally, he moved toward the door. His hand paused on the handle, and he looked back at her one more time. “Merry Christmas,” he said, and something in the wayhe said it made the traditional greeting sound like something else entirely. Not quite a threat, but not a blessing either.
“Merry Christmas,” Holly echoed, waiting until he’d stepped outside to move closer to the door. Through the glass panel, she watched him pause on the porch, looking back at the inn with an expression she couldn’t read. Then he walked away, his stride confident, unhurried, like someone who knew exactly where they were going and had all the time in the world to get there.
Holly stood at the door longer than necessary, watching until his figure disappeared into the darkness beyond the porch lights. The lobby suddenly felt colder, despite the warmth from the heating system and the cheerful glow of Christmas lights. She rubbed her arms, trying to dispel the crawling sensation that had settled over her skin.
What was it about him that had unsettled her so deeply? He’d been polite, well-dressed, soft-spoken. He’d done nothing overtly wrong. Yet every instinct she possessed, every intuition honed through her lifetime, screamed that something about that man was not right.
The laughter from the dining room seemed louder now, more precious. Her son was in there, home and safe. Her granddaughter, her sister, and new friends who were becoming like family. The stranger’s words echoed in her mind—”such connections during the holidays”—and she shuddered.
The cold hit him the moment he stepped outside, the December air sharp enough to make his breath visible in small white clouds. He paused on the sidewalk, letting the door of the Christmas Inn close completely behind him before reaching into his coat pocket for his phone. The warmth from inside had fogged his vision briefly, and he blinked to clear it, looking back at the building with its cheerful lights and welcoming glow.
Such a quaint little establishment. So perfectly... American in its enthusiasm for the holiday. Every window blazed with light, decorations visible through the glass, as if the place were trying to advertise its joy to the entire world. He could still hear the faint sound of laughter from inside, muffled now but unmistakable. Family. Happiness. Connection.
His fingers moved across the phone screen with practiced efficiency, finding the number without looking. The street was empty; the other businesses along this stretch of Anastasia Island were closed for the evening. A string of streetlights created pools of yellow illumination, leaving strips of darkness between them. He stood in one of those pools of light, knowing it made him visible from the inn’s windows if anyone cared to look, but that was fine. Let them see him making a simple phone call. Nothing suspicious about that.
The phone rang twice before the connection was made.
“Yes?” The voice on the other end was male, cultured, with an edge of impatience that suggested he’d been waiting.
“I found her,” he said, his accent shifting now that he was alone, the carefully neutral American tones replaced bycrisp British pronunciation. He turned slightly, looking back at the inn while he spoke. “She’s here, just as you suspected.”
“You’re certain?”
“Quite certain. I saw her photograph on the staff wall when I entered.” He paused, remembering the moment he’d spotted it. It was a candid shot of the restaurant staff, all smiles and chef’s whites. “She’s working in the kitchen, apparently.”
“Great. Your job is done. I’ve transferred your payment.” The man advised before the line went dead.
He pulled the phone away from his ear and glanced back at the Christmas Inn, its windows glowing like a Thomas Kinkade painting come to life. Through one of those windows, he could see movement in what must be the dining room. Shadows of people passing back and forth, living their lives, celebrating their holiday, blissfully unaware of the storm that was probably heading their way.
He gritted his teeth and pushed his conscience down. It was just a job, and he’d done it. The rest was not his problem. He’d learned long ago not to get emotionally involved in these situations. Find the target, report back, collect payment, move on. Clean and simple.
His footsteps echoed on the empty sidewalk as he walked away, each streetlight creating a new shadow that stretched and shortened as he passed. Behind him, the Christmas Inn continued to glow against the December darkness, a beacon of warmth and light that he was leaving behind.
