The Takedown

Prologue

prologue

CHRISTMAS EVE

You can tell a lot about a family by the outfits they wear on Christmas Eve. When I was growing up, we were sweatpants people. Casual people. I’d dress in gray cotton from head to toe, and my sister would sidle up next to me on the couch, eating goat cheese with a spoon. There was no big sit-down dinner, no fancy candles. We’d turn on the TV and gorge ourselves on finger food.

This year is different.

It’s different in so many ways, I’m not even sure where to begin.

Let’s start with dinner. All around the table, my sister has laid out the best silverware (the gleaming forks and serrated servers) alongside Grandma Ruby’s handmade ceramic plates. Soon, they’ll be loaded with mashed potatoes and turkey and all the perfect-smelling things.

Still, I have to fight a lurch in my stomach.

We never eat like this, at a long table with fresh pine boughs and vases wrapped in tinsel. We never hear the faint slap of wind outside, punctuating our awkward silences.

The biggest difference, though, is him.

Sipping champagne near the end of the table, my sister’s fiancé catches my eye and winks. Asshole. I grit my teeth so hard that I can feel my dentist wince, and I take a swig of wine in an exaggerated, breakneck way. My jewelry clinks together. It’s Grandma Ruby’s. She told me to borrow some bracelets, because this is a special occasion; I’m supposed to look “Christmas nice.” We have guests.

Over the turkey, I stare back at Johnny. Hard. I realize that he’d make the best poker player in the world. His face is exceptional . Not a single shaved whisker of it betrays anything that happened last night. In his white linen shirt, freshly starched, he looks as saintly as an altar boy. Or one of those fluffy polar bears. Sure, polar bears might seem like they’d drink Coca-Cola and snuggle up with you on chilly nights, but get too close and they’ll rip your fucking throat out.

Just eat the food , I tell myself. Just eat the food and say nothing.

Normally, I’m good at keeping my mouth shut. Blending into the background—when I need to—is easy for someone like me. But tonight... the screws are loosening. After everything that’s happened, I can feel myself breaking down.

I push back my chair a little.

“What are you doing?” my sister, Calla, whispers, leaning in to me so no one else can hear. Panic flits across her eyebrows. Yes, her eyebrows. They’re as chunky as mine, and they’re magnificent. She used to worry they looked like caterpillars. “I said no speeches. And... you’re sweating. Why are you sweating?”

“I’m not sweating.”

“Sydney, it’s dripping down your face.”

Haphazardly, I dab my forehead with one of the cloth napkins and tug my turtleneck an inch lower. This is the last time I wear reindeer wool! The stuff does not breathe. “I’m just going to say a few words...”

“No! No, please . You’re—”

She reaches for the sleeve of my sweater like we’re six years old, trying to yank me back to the seat. But I’m faster— ha! Rising unevenly, half dragged down at the elbow, I wobble to a stand and clink my wineglass with a butter knife. It makes a comedically tinny sound, like a fairy coughing.

“I’d like to make a toast,” I say. My smile is warm, friendly. My voice is gracious. The carbonation bubbles in my sparkling wine.

A hush falls over the dining room until the only sound is “You’re a Mean One, Mr. Grinch” thrumming from the speakers. Seems appropriate. There’s a Grinch at this table. But he’s not going to change by the end of the movie. His heart will always stay just a little too small.

“Johnny,” I say to my sister’s fiancé, raising my glass in his direction. “I don’t need to tell you how lucky you are to be loved by someone like Calla... but I’m going to tell you anyway.”

Everyone at the table titters.

Even Johnny. Even Calla. Even the other guy at the end of the table, who shall remain nameless right now. I don’t want to think about him. I don’t want to think about the gentle brush of his lips, or the roughness of his palms, or how he looks in bed, covers hugging the angles of his hips.

Currently, he’s sitting back in his chair, hand to his mouth, this apprehensive smile peeking through his fingers. He’s hanging on my every word.

I shake my head almost imperceptibly and steamroll on. “Calla might be a big fan of holiday sweaters, with the sparkling thread and the bells, and she might be more than a little afraid of teeny-tiny hamsters—”

“Class pets are unpredictable ,” Calla says, unable to stop herself from grinning, her face half-covered in her hands.

“But don’t let that fool you. Genuinely, she is one of the fiercest people I know. And the best. Anyone who’s met her will say the same thing.”

Calla tilts her head at me in a polite way that says both I love you and Sydney, are you drunk? And yes, yes, maybe I am a bit, but this is important. I’m not done with the speech. Not yet.

My eyes dig into Johnny.

“When it comes down to it, I would do anything for my sister. Anything. I’m lucky to love her, like you’re lucky to love her. So... raise your glasses.”

Around the table, seven glasses surge into the chandelier light. Everything is sparkly. We look like a Christmas card.

“To Calla and Johnny,” I say.

“To Calla and Johnny,” everyone echoes, including the man at the end of the table. Nick. (Fine, that’s his name. Nick.) Of course, I choose this moment to catch his eye. He gives me this gentle, sincere nod, like Nice speech, Syd , and I think about mistletoe and the dimples on his lower back and—oh yes—how I’ve seduced him for the government.

My throat constricts.

I think I might hate him.

And I have no idea how this is going to end for either of us.

“Be good to each other,” I add with a final, choked flourish. “Or else, Johnny, I may just have to break every bone in your body, and all that good stuff. Okay? Who wants turkey?”