Chapter 19 Sam
Sam
Christmas Eve number five alone to be precise
The first thing Detective Callahan noticed wasn’t the body. It was the postcard tucked into the victim’s hand, edges curled and yellowed like it had been waiting twenty years for someone to find it.
My fingers fly. The scene unfolds fast, sharper than anything I’ve written in months.
Detective Callahan walks into the abandoned diner at the edge of town, dust motes suspended in the beam of his flashlight.
Across the cracked linoleum, Dr. Avery, my other protagonist, kneels to examine the corpse with calm precision.
Their eyes meet, not in the safety of a conference room or over coffee, but with the weight of a cold case pressing down on them.
The dialogue snaps and sparks, their distrust palpable, their partnership inevitable. A murder long buried. A clue that shouldn’t exist. An attraction simmering just below the surface, even as they argue over evidence and jurisdiction.
The keys keep pace with me, clattering in rhythm until my wrists ache. I don’t stop. Not for water nor food. For the first time in too long, and story has had its claws in me, and I let it drag me under.
Hours later, when I finally pause, flexing my fingers, the document word count makes me blink. Ten thousand words. Ten thousand. That’s the most I’ve written in years.
The clock in the corner of the screen tells me I’ve been at this all day, sunlight gone without me even noticing.
I shut the laptop before I can be tempted back in, as my stomach makes itself known.
My gaze flickers toward the window, but I don’t lift the curtain.
I drew them earlier, deliberately, because I don’t want to know if her driveway is empty. If she’s really gone.
I stand, stretch the stiffness out of my back, and head for the kitchen.
The kettle rattles to life while I root through the fridge, pulling out potatoes that are more sprout than smooth.
I quickly make a cup of tea, then cut everything into wedges, coat them in oil, and shove the tray into the oven.
Chicken hits a pan with garlic and a sizzle that sets the aroma alive, a few vegetables tossed in for good measure.
It’s not much, but I realize how long it’s been since I bothered cooking properly.
Waiting for it all to come together, I lean against the counter.
The quiet has weight tonight. After spending the last few days with Frankie, it feels…
strange here, pressing at the edges of the room.
I should be used to it by now. I am, mostly.
But right now there’s restlessness under my skin, a strange thrum I can’t pin down.
Like some part of me has been nudged awake, reminded of everything I swore I didn’t need anymore.
Everything I thought I’d never get back again.
I didn’t know what else to do with it, so I turned to the only thing that’s ever steadied me. I wrote today. Really wrote, and that’s the feeling I’ve missed so much.
The only problem is, the one person I want to tell is probably high above the clouds by now, heading back to the life she was always supposed to choose.
I lift my mug and let the tea burn the back of my throat just as the chicken sizzles some more. Once everything is ready, I sit at my table alone.
Christmas Eve number five alone, to be precise. Tomorrow will be just another day, and that’s okay too.
The thing is, I’ve gotten a lot of perspective over the last few days, and I’m not sure what Lucy and I had was ever endgame.
Maybe it just was. The passion between us never threatened to burn me alive every time we touched.
I’ve felt firsthand what that feels like with Frankie, and it doesn’t compare.
The thought settles in me, and I want to kick myself for staying for comfortable, for making Lucy mine when it’s clear she was never meant for me.
But if there’s one thing Frankie has taught me, it’s that you have to live in the now. And she and I did.
I fork up a wedge, let it cool on my tongue, and wonder what Frankie’s parents’ house sounds like right now. I’d wager it’s chaos because there’s a lot of that where she goes. But I also hope she’s laughing, enjoying the next couple of days.
I finish up, washing everything, and I start to make another cup of tea when there’s a knock at my door. I’ll bet Mrs. Kline needs something, although she’s not sought me out before; it’s usually me forcing help onto her when she looks like she’s in a pickle.
The knock comes again, louder this time, and I set the mug down before making my way across the floor.
When I pull it open, the last person I expect to see is standing there, cheeks flushed, Santa hat jauntily on her head, curls peeking out. Frankie beams at me, clears her throat dramatically, and launches straight into song.
“Weeeeeee wish you a merry Christmas, we wish you a merry Christmas, we wish you a merry Christmas and a happy new year…” Her voice wobbles like she’s doing karaoke after too much eggnog, but she powers through, eyes locked on mine, grinning like the fool she knows she sounds like.
“We wish you a merry Christmaaas, and a happy new year!”
I blink, too stunned to do anything but stand there while she claps twice for emphasis… before launching straight into the next verse.
“Oh, bring us some figgy pudding, oh, bring us some figgy pudding—”
“Frankie—”
“Oh, bring us some figgy pudding, and bring it right here!” She throws her arm out like she’s conducting a choir of one.
By the time she stomps her boot for the big finish—“we won’t go until we get some, we won’t go until we get some”—my cheeks ache from laughing, my hand braced against the doorframe as I let her finish, enjoying watching her sing her little heart out… for me.
When she finishes on a dramatic note, she heaves a loud breath, white air pluming around her.
“You’re here,” I say, because my mind is awash with her, and it’s all I can manage.
“I’m here.” She tugs at the end of her hat, suddenly shy despite the fact she just serenaded our whole street.
And me… she serenaded me. She’s here. My heart feels too big for my chest, my pulse rattling wildly in my neck at the idea that she’s stayed here for me.
My brain struggling to wrap around that.
“But I thought—”
I don’t get to finish that sentence because she launches herself at me, arms locking around my neck. Her body presses flush to mine. The force of it knocks me back a step, but I don’t let go. I can’t.
“I couldn’t leave,” she breathes against my ear, voice shaking just enough to undo me. “Not when I wanted to be here. With you. Is… is that okay?”
Something splits open in my chest, something I didn’t even realize I’d been holding together with both hands. Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? This isn’t a chance thing. Frankie made a choice to stay here.
“Frankie. It’s more than okay.” Her name is a growl, a plea, a thank-you all in one as I kiss her harder, deeper.
My mouth finds hers over and over, desperate and reverent all at once. She tastes like cold air and something sweeter that’s all her, and when she moans into me, I eagerly swallow the noise and lose whatever control I was clinging to.
I guide her inside, then push the door shut with my foot, trapping her between it and me. She gasps, then laughs against my mouth, and I drink it in like oxygen. My hands slide beneath her coat, greedy for heat, for skin, for anything that proves she’s real, and she’s here.
She tugs me closer, like she’s afraid I’ll vanish if she doesn’t anchor me. “Sam,” she breathes, breaking just enough for the word to slip out, her lips brushing mine.
“You chose me,” I murmur against her mouth, the realization hitting me all over again, hotter than any touch. “You could’ve been anywhere tonight.”
Her eyes shine, certain. “I wanted to be here.”
That’s all it takes. My control unravels, thread by thread.
I tilt her chin up and kiss her like I’ve been starving for it, because I have.
It’s only been hours, and I’ve missed her.
Her coat slips from her shoulders, pooling at our feet.
My hands roam, greedy, mapping every inch, and I don’t think I’ll ever get enough.
I lift her easily, her legs wrapping tight around my hips, her laughter tumbling into my mouth.
I press her harder against the wood, my forehead dropping to hers for a beat, needing her to see it, to know it. “You undo me.”
Her fingers thread into my hair, tugging me back down. “Good,” she whispers. “Because you undo me too.”