Nick rose stiffly to his feet, reaching for his crutch as he thanked my mother and father for dinner. He said goodbye to Georgia and Vero, and I walked him to the door. He paused in the foyer, resting his weight on his crutch, his voice soft and his eyes heavy lidded. “Help me with my coat?”
I was pretty sure he was capable of doing it himself. Maybe it was the wine. Or the simple relief I was feeling. I reached for it anyway.
“There’s something in the breast pocket. Grab it for me?” There was a strange gleam in his eyes as I plucked his leather jacket off the coatrack. Curious, I slipped my hand inside his pocket and withdrew my phone. Not my new one, but the one I’d lost weeks ago, the day we’d first found Carl.
My mouth went dry. “Where did you find this?”
“An officer recovered it from the scene at Mrs. Westover’s house. He found your name on the lock screen when he powered it on and thought you must have dropped it during the shooting. I told him I’d get it back to you.”
“Thank you.” My throat felt tight as I tucked it away. My lock screen would have kept them out, I assured myself. If the police had suspected there was evidence on this phone, they never would have returned it to me. And Nick definitely wouldn’t be looking at me the way he was looking at me now.
“Speaking of lost things, I’ve been wondering if your heroine ever found her missing attorney?”
The foyer seemed to shrink around us. The scrubbing sounds in the kitchen grew suddenly, suspiciously quiet.
“She did,” I admitted. “But the end of their story didn’t quite turn out the way I planned.”
“I’m sorry.” He leaned lower, letting me draw the heavy leather jacket around him. I tried to ignore the intoxicating scent of it as I maneuvered his good arm into the sleeve. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you since that night we went to dinner.” Hepitched his voice low, his warm breath tickling my ear as I tugged his coat around him. “See, I’ve been dying to know what you and Vero were doing in Steven’s trailer the night of the fire.” My hands froze on his collar. I opened my mouth to tell him he must be mistaken, but words failed me when his nose grazed my temple and trailed a path slowly down my cheek. “I’d love to know why your voice was on that security recording. Why a piece of your credit card was in the weeds out front and a set of high-performance sports car treads were found in the mud out back.” His mouth paused beside the shell of my ear. “I’d love to know where you and Vero learned how to make those very effective Molotov cocktails, and how you knew Theresa was hiding at the Westovers’ house, which I’m guessing had something to do with your missing phone. But here’s the thing,” he said, his lips close enough to draw a surprising shudder of desire from me. “More than all of that, I’d really like to kiss you right now. And the answers to those questions would probably ruin it. So I think, for now, I’d rather just not know.”
I clutched the collar of his coat, my knees a little weak. “Who says I’d let you kiss me anyway?”
He tipped his head toward the sprig of mistletoe above us. Then he dipped his chin, brushing his lips softly over one corner of mine, his chaste kiss leaving me breathless and wanting. “Merry Christmas,” he whispered. He drew back slowly as my traitorous mouth followed.
I let go of his jacket, unsteady on my feet as he turned to go. Head resting against the doorframe, I touched the tingling edge of my lips as he hobbled on his crutch to his car. My mother appeared beside me, drying her hands on a dish towel. She sighed, watching him over my shoulder. “He really does have very nice biscuits.”
EPILOGUE
I set my screwdriver down beside the level and tape measure on the mantel and straightened Vero’s hot pink stocking on its hook. It looked nice there, bookended between the children’s and mine, filling out the empty spaces between us and returning a sense of balance.
I stole the glass of eggnog from the hearth that Vero and the children had left out for Santa, and I sipped it under the lights of the tree Steven had picked out. Feeling nostalgic, I remembered the significance of each of the ornaments I’d hung on it tonight: first steps, first birthdays, and now first lost teeth… There was another box of ornaments upstairs, packed away in my closet: first date, the wedding, our first anniversary. Somehow, the tree didn’t look any less full or shiny without them.
Vero was upstairs in her room, wrapping the last of the presents she’d bought for Delia and Zach. The kids were fast asleep in their beds and the house was blissfully quiet.
I dragged my computer into my lap and opened my manuscript, determined to put a dent in it while the children were sleeping. A dam had broken in my writer’s block, and the story was finally coming together in ways that made sense. My heroine had broken out of jail, recovered her stolen bounty, and found her missing attorney on herown. But in the end, she made the decision not to go back with him to stand trial; she hadn’t been guilty of anything she wouldn’t have made the choice to do again. And Sylvia was happy. The hot cop was back in the plot, determined to catch the assassin, the two of them slow dancing on a tightrope that felt dangerous and uncertain, but also inexplicably right.
My assassin just wasn’t sure she was ready to be caught yet. She was content to be the hero of her own story for a while.
My phone vibrated on the coffee table, the screen glowing with a new notification:Julian Baker wants to connect with you on Instagram.
My thumb hovered over theAcceptbutton.
Vero crept up behind me and peeked over my shoulder. She set three presents under the tree and sat down beside it, her head tipped back against the arm of the sofa. “Which one of them is your heroine going to choose in the end?”
“Who says she has to pick one?” I closed the invitation and set down my phone.
“So she’s just going to ride off into the sunset with all that book money on her own?”
“And end the story there? No,” I said thoughtfully, “I have to leave my heroine a few mysteries to solve. Besides, she’s not keeping the money.”
“She’s finally getting around to buying a new car?”
“No. She’s giving it to her accountant.”
Vero went very still. Tree lights glistened on the sheen in her eyes. “Why would you do that?”
“Because you need it. And we’re family.” I swung my legs off the couch and tossed her a bag of stocking stuffers before either of us started crying. “As soon as the holidays are over, we’re going to Atlantic City to deal with this lost marker. And then we’re going to get thepeople you owe off your back. Now, grab me those stockings so we can get them filled and go to bed. I’m exhausted.”
I tore open a bag of candy, stealing a few pieces for myself as Vero gathered the empty stockings from the mantel. She held mine aloft with a bemused frown. It crinkled when she squeezed the fabric.
