A Christmas to Die For (Holidays & Homicide #2)

Chapter 1

"Tell me what you were feeling the night you killed him."

My words cut through the silence that's pressed in on us for the last twenty minutes of this interview. The air seems to thicken, heavy with expectation. This is the moment, the part everyone's been waiting for.

"It... it wasn't even a decision," Holly stammers. She shifts in her seat, her hands trembling, fingers curling into fists before releasing. She avoids my gaze, and I can almost see her weighing the words before they leave her lips.

Up until now, our conversation has been fluid, easy—a casual stroll through her history with her boyfriend of four years. But now the air has gone still, everyone in the room holding their breath.

I lean in closer, the mic between us picking up the faintest scratch of my breath. I'm calm, but firm. "Go on."

Her eyelids flutter, and I watch a single tear tremble at the edge of her lashes. "It wasn't a hard decision to kill him," Holly admits. "Despite being with him for so long, it was just… I had to do it. It had to be done."

Holly shifts slightly, her hand absently pulling at the frayed fibers of the pillow in her lap, as if her mind is a million miles away from the room.

I, however, am focused on that ratty pillow that we desperately need to replace.

I make a mental note to tell Mara, my assistant, that we need some new decor in here.

If I notice this small detail, so will our viewers.

"I plunged the nearby knife deep into his throat before he even knew it was coming.

When I pulled it back…" Holly uses her fingertips to press into her eyelids, no doubt reliving the horrific night.

"When the knife came out, the blood didn't just pour, it exploded!

Every beat of his heart sent blood surging out in violent pulses, the rhythm of his life slipping away.

There was a wet gurgling sound, like… like… "

I'm salivating over the picture she's painting for our audience. The imagery she's conjuring with her words is incredible. I jump in to enhance it with a vivid description.

"Like a fountain shooting out water?" I confirm.

"Yes, it was horrific. I knew I hit his carotid artery—I should know, I'm in med school—but I never realized it'd be so much. His blood sprayed all over me, getting in my mouth and my eyes, but he deserved it. He deserved worse."

"What thoughts went through your head when you knew he was dead?"

"When I saw the life drain from his face, his cheeks turning ghostly white, I felt… nothing."

"Nothing?" I repeat.

"I wasn't even me anymore. I felt like a spectator, hovering above, watching from the ceiling. My subconscious had drifted away, unable to comprehend why I'd done something like that to the man I loved."

"And you did love Jack, right?"

"I did love him."

"But not anymore? Because..." I press.

"Because... of all the women he killed."

"And you had no idea, no feeling in your gut that something was off? That you were under the same roof as a serial killer?"

"No. Not a clue. Not even a hint that he might have been capable of such horrific acts."

"This all happened after you found—"

"The underwear collection. I couldn't—I couldn't—"

Holly's face twists into one of pure disgust, her eyes squeezing shut for a moment as if trying to block out the memory. She looks like she might puke up the complimentary pastries and coffee we have laid out in front of us.

"I assume you saw the photo, Sabrina?" she asks me, but it's less of a question and more a statement.

"I have," I confirm, but inside, I'm churning. Who hasn't seen the photo? I have no idea how the media got hold of the evidence Holly found, but once it leaked, all hell broke loose.

I glance at Mara, who's been working hard to keep the interview on track, steering me back to the original question when Holly gets sidetracked.

But this time, Mara gives a subtle shake of her head, a warning to hold off on the photo. We don't need to push Holly further. Showing it now could break her, sending the interview into a spiral of tears and hyperventilation.

I do it anyway.

"This photo?" I say, ignoring the plan and flipping the tablet around.

I imagine the television behind us, dead center, displaying the same image once the podcast is edited and released. Phoebe, the one recording this and equally as helpful at editing these interviews, also rolls her eyes when I veer off script.

"Please… I can't see it again," Holly blubbers. I imagine finding it in real life was traumatizing enough. Being forced to relive it now, under a microscope, must feel unbearable.

But still, this will make for great ratings.

The photo—likely snapped by a rookie cop inside Holly's apartment—captured a collection of blood-stained panties, caked with dirt. Though none of the victims had been sexually assaulted, their missing undergarments later turned up, tucked inside a hollowed-out book, soaked in their own blood.

Alongside the panties was a stack of Polaroids, each capturing the victim's final resting place, frozen in time with the click of a camera. Aside from the leaked photo itself, the actual Polaroids were never released to the public, nor should they have been.

"Those women did not deserve what happened to them. He—I can't even say his name—"

"The Silk Stalker," I remind our future listeners, despite the urge to break my serious expression and warp my lips into a smile. The idiot cop who leaked the photo could have been the same dumbass who also coined that ridiculous nickname.

The Silk Stalker?

I guess The Night Stalker and Jack the Ripper were already taken.

Jack Dixon, the boyfriend in question, could've had a much better nickname, considering his innuendo-laden last name.

Hell, even Jack the Panty Ripper would've been a decent option, had they known his identity.

Regardless of the silly name, he evaded capture for two whole years.

His true identity was only revealed when Holly called the police herself.

Jack's involvement and connection to the murders, even posthumously, quite possibly never would've happened if Holly hadn't found what she did.

On paper, Jack looked as innocent as the helpless women he preyed on.

It was astonishing he hadn't appeared in any police databases—not even CODIS.

He didn't have so much as a speeding ticket.

He moved through the world unnoticed, like so many ordinary men who conceal unspeakable things behind a harmless facade.

The forensic report for the fourth victim raised a few eyebrows. The semen found at the scene wasn't typical. While it had the distinct markers of human semen, it suggested it hadn't been naturally ejaculated. Further testing revealed traces of spermicide—the kind commonly found in condoms.

It wasn't conclusive, but the evidence pointed in one direction—the killer had used a condom to masturbate and then tossed it in the bushes. He was cocky enough to know any DNA left behind wouldn't lead back to him.

"Holly, I know sex lives are private, but tell us about the darkness behind your relationship."

She rips a tissue from the nearby box, dabbing at her eye as if trying to regain some control.

"I haven't told anyone this publicly, only the police."

I'm like a frantic dog, tongue hanging out, tail wagging, waiting for my treat. This is going to be good.

"Jack had a difficult time getting… hard," she admits, her face flushing with embarrassment.

"I think he had some dark secrets from his past he wasn't willing to share with me.

He had a hidden part of himself he kept locked away.

Even when we tried sex without a condom, he'd finish right after entering me.

But if we used a condom, his erection wouldn't last. It was like a weird limbo where sex was never satisfying for either of us.

Most times, we'd give up, and he'd go to sleep angry with me, like it was my fault.

I was honestly worried that maybe it was… "

She pauses, taking a sip of water, her hands trembling as she sets the glass back down.

"He wanted to try something new—something I wasn’t willing to experiment with.

Strangulation. That was a hard no. Eventually, our sex life dwindled to special occasions—anniversaries, Valentine's Day, each of our birthdays.

But even then…" She scoffs, clearly ashamed.

"Even then, he never finished. At least, not with me. "

"Because every special occasion where intimacy was expected, he left in the middle of the night and found someone else?"

"Yes." A lone tear falls, and I hope Phoebe caught that glistening down her cheek.

"If I may be so bold," I begin, "How did the hidden panties go undetected? You lived together for so long…"

"He never gave me any reason to think he was hiding something. Nothing was ever off limits—his office didn't even have a lock. He'd just tell me to be careful around his shelves because of some fragile Lego figurines. I had no reason to snoop because we trusted each other."

"What made you even look at the book?"

"Our anniversary was coming up, and I had seen a collector's edition of a Star Wars book, so I went into his office and looked through his shelves to make sure he didn't already have it.

I saw an old, weathered-looking hardback, thick, like an encyclopedia, and something just..

. made me pick it up. When I opened it and saw the pages hollowed out, and the bloody panties—and the smell.

Oh, my God. I didn't look through the Polaroids.

I saw the first one stacked on top. That's all I needed to see. "

"Holly, what was it like seeing the photo?"

"I wanted to throw up. I wanted to…"

I give her a moment to catch her breath, but she doesn't continue. I give her the gentle nudge again. "Go on."

Holly shakes her head, like she doesn't want to reveal what happened next. She covers her face in shame, knowing she has to tell me the next part. It's what we're all waiting to hear.