Chapter 17
Ella
The conversation shifts to security protocols and investigation strategies, voices blending into a steady hum that washes over me. I’m physically and emotionally drained, the weight of revealed secrets leaving me hollow.
“Ella?” Lana’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “We should all get some rest. Tomorrow’s another day.”
I nod, grateful for the reprieve. “You’re right. Thank you all for... understanding. For not judging.”
“Family doesn’t judge,” Rory says simply. “Well, they do, but they love you anyway.”
This pulls a reluctant smile from me. “Goodnight, then.”
As I climb the stairs toward my room, my mind races with emergency plans, escape routes, all the old patterns I’ve relied on for eight years. But when I peek in on Nora, sleeping peacefully with her new puzzle box on the nightstand, something in me rebels against those patterns.
She deserves a Christmas—a real one, with family and traditions and joy unmarred by fear.
I crawl into bed beside her, careful not to wake her, and make a decision.
For the next few days, at least until we know more, I will give her the Christmas I never had as a child.
The one Tomas stole from me with isolation and secrecy.
Whatever storm is coming, it can wait until after the holidays.
∞∞∞
Morning arrives with a fresh blanket of snow and the delicious aroma of coffee and cinnamon rolls wafting up the stairs.
I blink awake to find Nora already gone from our shared bed, her puzzle box missing from the nightstand.
Voices and laughter float up from below—normal, happy sounds that make last night’s conversation seem almost dreamlike.
I dress quickly in jeans and a soft green sweater, pulling my hair into a loose braid. In the mirror, I look ordinary. A mother. A sister. Not someone with deadly secrets and a past that threatens everyone she loves.
Downstairs, I find a scene so wholesome it makes my throat tighten.
Nora sits cross-legged on the floor near the Christmas tree, her tongue caught between her teeth in concentration as she works on Rory’s puzzle box.
Kat and Mia are sprawled on the couch in matching flannel pajamas, arguing good-naturedly about a Christmas movie playing on the television.
From the kitchen comes the clatter of dishes and Kane’s deep laugh responding to something Kori has said.
“Mom!” Nora spots me and holds up the puzzle box triumphantly. “I got it open! Look what was inside!”
I cross to her, kneeling to examine her treasure—a tiny silver charm shaped like a star, similar to our homemade ornament on the tree. “It’s beautiful, sweetheart.”
“Uncle Rory says it’s a wishing star,” she explains, eyes wide with wonder. “You hold it tight and make a wish and then wear it to keep the wish safe.”
I glance up to find Rory watching us from the doorway, coffee mug in hand. He winks at me, and I mouth a silent “thank you.”
“What are you going to wish for?” I ask Nora, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
She clutches the star tightly in her small fist, closing her eyes dramatically. “Can’t tell or it won’t come true,” she says with absolute conviction. Then she opens her eyes and grins. “But it’s a really good wish.”
“I bet it is,” I agree, helping her thread the charm onto a piece of ribbon Rory produces from his pocket. “There. Now you can wear it.”
“Breakfast is ready!” Declan calls from the kitchen. “Special Christmas pancakes!”
Nora races toward the kitchen, her new necklace bouncing against her chest. I follow more slowly, steeling myself for awkwardness after last night’s revelations.
But the kitchen holds no tension, only warmth and the controlled chaos of a family meal in progress.
Declan stands at the stove flipping pancakes shaped vaguely like Christmas trees, while Kane arranges bacon on a platter.
The table is set with mismatched plates and mugs, syrup and butter, and bowls of fresh berries arranged haphazardly down the center.
“There she is,” Declan says, spatula raised in greeting. “Coffee’s fresh. Pancakes are almost ready.”
No mention of Mikhail. No sideways glances or whispered consultations. Just breakfast on a snowy December morning.
I accept the mug of coffee Lana hands me, warming my hands around its comforting heat. “This looks amazing. I didn’t know you could cook, Declan.”
“I contain multitudes,” he says solemnly, then ruins the effect with a boyish grin. “Actually, my housekeeper taught me pancakes when I was ten. It’s literally the only thing I can make that doesn’t come with microwave instructions.”
“They’re really good,” Nora assures me, already seated at the table with a stack of pancakes drowning in syrup. “Try one!”
We gather around the table, passing platters and pouring juice, the conversation flowing easily from topic to topic. Plans for the day—sledding on the hill behind the lodge, finishing the decorations for Nora’s and my cottage, perhaps a movie night later. Normal things. Christmas things.
“I was thinking,” Kat says, waving her fork for emphasis, “we should do a proper Christmas cookie baking marathon. With those cutters that make fancy shapes, and icing, and those little silver ball things that break your teeth.”
“Dragées,” Mia supplies. “And yes, they’re dental hazards disguised as decorations.”
“We have cookie cutters at our cottage,” Nora pipes up eagerly. “Reindeer and stars and trees and stuff. Mom, can we get them? Please?”
I hesitate only briefly. My cottage feels exposed now, vulnerable in a way the lodge doesn’t. But it’s broad daylight, and Kane has already increased security patrols around the property.
“Of course we can,” I decide, pushing down my fear. “We’ll need to grab some other things anyway, if we’re staying here a few more days.”
“I’ll come with you,” Kane offers casually, though I know there’s nothing casual about it. “Been meaning to check on that loose porch rail anyway.”
I nod, grateful for his tact. “After breakfast?”
As we finish eating, I find myself relaxing incrementally, drawn into the easy camaraderie around the table.
Connor and Rory debate the merits of different sledding techniques with the seriousness of Olympic commentators.
Wren and Lana discuss Christmas cookie recipes, pulling up photos on their phones to show Nora increasingly elaborate designs.
For a moment—just a moment—I let myself believe this could be real, that we could be a normal family preparing for a normal Christmas, with no shadows from the past lurking at the edges.
After breakfast, Kane, Nora, and I bundle up for the short drive to our cottage.
The snow-covered landscape is postcard-perfect, untouched except for deer tracks crossing the winding road.
Scout bounds ahead of us as we approach the cottage, diving into snow drifts with puppyish enthusiasm despite his age.
“It looks like a gingerbread house!” Nora exclaims as our cottage comes into view, its roof and eaves outlined in pristine white snow.
“It just needs some decorations,” Kane agrees, helping her navigate a particularly deep drift in the pathway. “Good thing we bought all those lights yesterday.”
Inside, the cottage feels smaller after the grandeur of the lodge, but it’s home—the place Nora and I have built our quiet life together. Family photos on the walls, Nora’s artwork proudly displayed on the refrigerator, the comfortable mismatched furniture we’ve collected over the years.
“I’ll grab our things,” I tell Nora. “You get the cookie cutters and whatever else you think we need for baking.”
As she races to the kitchen, Kane does a casual but thorough check of the cottage, moving from room to room with a practiced eye. “Everything looks normal,” he reports quietly when we meet in the hallway. “No signs of disturbance.”
Relief washes through me. “Thank you. For checking. For everything.”
He shrugs, uncomfortable with gratitude as always. “It’s what family does.”
Such a simple statement, yet it lands like a revelation. Family. Not just a biological connection, but a choice. A commitment.
“Found them!” Nora announces triumphantly, emerging from the kitchen with a tin box rattling with cookie cutters. “And the special sprinkles! And Mom’s recipe book!”
“Perfect,” I smile, taking the items from her while Kane grabs our duffel bags. “Anything else we need?”
Nora thinks for a moment, then gasps. “The stockings! We need our special stockings for the fireplace at the lodge!”
She darts back into the living room, returning with the hand-knit stockings I bought from a local artisan our first Christmas here. They’re simple but beautiful—deep green with our names embroidered in silver thread.
“Can’t forget these,” Kane agrees seriously. “I think there’s room on the mantel between mine and Declan’s.”
Nora beams at the idea of our stockings mingling with the others, another symbol of belonging that makes my heart swell.
As we load everything into Kane’s truck, Scout happily settles in the back seat beside Nora, and I find myself looking forward to the rest of the day with genuine anticipation instead of dread.
Cookie baking. Sledding. Decorating our cottage.
Simple pleasures that suddenly seem precious beyond measure.
“Ready?” Kane asks, hand on the ignition.
I take one last look at our cottage, nestled among the pines like something from a storybook. Whatever happens next, whatever storm is brewing, we’ll face it after Christmas, after we’ve given Nora the holiday she deserves.
“Ready,” I confirm, and mean it.