Chapter 29
TWENTY-NINE
TWIGGY
Floyd’s Toy Emporium has been a staple of Lucy Falls since before I was born.
One of the town’s cornerstone businesses, it takes up a prized corner lot on Main Street, all red-and-white striped awning and hand-painted signage that makes the big box stores off the highway look soulless by comparison.
Today the front window is a full-on spectacle: Santa’s workshop in miniature.
It’s decorated with wooden workbenches and tiny hammers, elves and stuffed bears just waiting for children’s eyes.
There are dozens of boxes wrapped in kraft paper and glossy red ribbon, each one tagged with a different name in looping script.
Kids are already pressed to the glass, breath fogging the pane.
I grew up in this place. Not with toys, exactly—my brain preferred puzzles to plastic princesses—but Floyd’s always had the best selection of brain teasers and logic games for a fifty-mile radius.
People change. Algorithms change. The internet changed everything.
Somehow, Floyd’s never did.
I beeline straight for the puzzle aisle and feel something in my chest unclench when I see it: shelves and pegboards full of familiar boxes. Hanayama cast puzzles. Wooden burrs. Those awful impossible metal disentanglement things I love and hate in equal measure.
“I see some things never change,” I say, running my fingers over a battered favorite that’s been reprinted three times since I was a kid.
“Some of us know better than to mess with a good thing.”
I turn and grin as Floyd Junior ambles down the aisle, wiping his hands on his Santa-patterned apron. I give him a tight hug, inahling cardboard and peppermint.
“Place looks great,” I tell him. “And no, some things never will change. Love the window.”
He shrugs, pleased. “Figured it’d be good with having Santa and his elves visiting this year. We went big. Speaking of, your guy’s in the back getting into costume.” His mouth twitches. “He did not look happy.”
The mental image of Bran wrestling himself into a red velvet suit is so good I have to bite my lip.
“That’s just the way he looks,” I say. “Resting murder face.”
“As long as he’s jolly to the kids…” Floyd lifts his chin toward the front. “Community home’s on their way. You ready, Twig?”
Am I ready? To sit in a red dress and striped tights and let kids tug on my braids while my maybe-boyfriend plays mobster Santa?
Nope.
“Yes,” I say. “Totally ready. Let’s do this.”
The back room is filled with stacks of old cardboard, packing tape, and dust. Bran emerges from it like a pissed-off Yeti, his Santa coat hanging open, belt dangling, fake beard looped around his neck. The red velvet pulls tight across his shoulders, the hat listing to one side.
I snort. “You look like Santa after a bender.”
He scowls down at himself. “This thing’s a fecking sauna. There’s no air in here.”
“Stop whining.” I step into his space and grab the beard, tugging the elastic up so it covers his own dark bristle. His breath ghosts over my fingers. “Hold still.”
His hands come up, big and warm, closing around my biceps to steady me when I wobble on my stupid curly-toed elf boots. It’s not a tight grip. Just enough to remind me that he could hold me still without trying.
“I am never, ever going to forgive you for this,” he rumbles, voice muffled under the beard.
I pat his ridiculous padded belly and reach for the belt, cinching it snug around his waist. “You’ll be doing this for me every Christmas before you know it, big guy.”
“Don’t start making traditions I have to live up to,” he mutters.
“Too late.” I step back to assess my work. Between his size and the suit, he looks like Santa’s meaner, hotter cousin. “You’re absurd. And perfect.”
“Holy crap, I need a picture.”
We both turn as Floyd appears in the doorway with his phone in hand, eyes bright.
“You guys are perfect,” he declares. “I think…yeah. Twiggy, can you stand on that present? It’ll highlight the size disparity between you. You really do look like a freaking elf; it’s crazy.”
I roll my eyes but climb carefully onto a sturdy faux present wrapped in red foil. Bran plants himself beside me, arms folded.
Floyd presses a smaller prop package into my hands. “All right, Santa, put your hands on your stomach and say ho, ho, ho.”
“Fuck you, you, you,” Bran says instead, deadpan.
“Bran,” I hiss.
Floyd groans. “Oh dear God. Don’t say that to any kids.”
“I’ll try to restrain myself,” Bran says, which is not reassuring at all.
We pose anyway. The camera clicks.
I start to climb down, but Bran stops me, putting his hand on my ass. “Hang on. If we’re taking pictures, we’re getting a good one. Get one of these.”
Before I can say merry motherfucker, he swings me up so I’m swinging behind and around his neck, one arm planted securely around my thighs with my ass in the air. “Smile, Tink.”
Laughing, Floyd snaps the picture, and then it’s game time.
Bran takes his place on the throne Floyd cobbled together from an old salon chair and a lot of gold spray paint. I stand at his right hand, little elf with a clipboard, as Floyd goes to unlock the front doors.
Bran hooks a finger under his collar. “This fecking suit itches.”
“Hush,” I say. “Here they come.”
The first wave hits all at once.
Kids in mismatched coats and dollar-store mittens. Volunteers from the children’s home in bright T-shirts over long sleeves. A couple of foster parents, faces already tired.
The air fills with voices and laughter and the sugary smell of hot cocoa from the refreshment table Floyd set up near the registers.
I slip into my role. Greeting each child, I crouch to their level, ask if they’re excited to see Santa, compliment a sparkly hat or a dinosaur backpack. A few of them are wary; more of them are vibrating with sugar and adrenaline, eyes fixed on Bran.
It’s weird, being on this side of it. I remember standing in this line myself, hopped up on the same cocktail of nerves and holiday magic. The crush of bodies. The too-bright lights. The way every noise seemed ten decibels louder because I was supposed to be having fun.
The only thing that’s changed is where I’m standing.
I help the first kid, a four-year-old with a head full of ringlets, climb into Bran’s lap. She studies him like a tiny interrogator, little fingers hovering near his beard.
Bran stares back, nonplussed.
“Psst,” I hiss out of the side of my mouth. “Ask her what her name is. What she wants for Christmas. You know, starter script.”
Shifting on the throne, Bran clears his throat. “Hi there. What’s your name?”
She squints suspiciously. “You’re supposed to say ho, ho, ho. Is your beard real?”
“Oh. Um. Yes. It’s real.” His eyes flick to mine. “Ho, ho, ho.”
“So weak,” I cough into my hand.
He ignores me, barely. “What would you like Santa to bring you this year? A pony? Some pretty jewelry?”
Jewelry. I nearly choke.
“Santa, little Jamie here is four, not forty,” I stage-whisper.
Jamie frowns harder. “You’re weird,” she informs him solemnly. “I like Mall Santa better. And I want a Barbie.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing out loud as Bran solemnly promises Barbie delivery and hands her off.
The next kid, a boy about eight, is less judgy and more chatty. He launches into a breathless monologue about Transformers and Spider-Man and Minecraft while Bran nods, actually listening, occasionally tossing in a “That so?” or “Sounds deadly,” that makes the kid glow.
By the time we’re halfway down the line, Bran’s found his rhythm. Still gruff, still visibly uncomfortable in the suit, but his shoulders have dropped a fraction. He’s not going to bolt. The world is not ending.
My bladder, however, is.
Fifteen kids in, my coffee and nerves have joined forces. I hitch my chin toward Floyd, who’s manning the hot cocoa urn behind Bran.
“I’m taking a bathroom break,” I call.
“Sure—” Floyd starts.
“No,” Bran says at the same time, not looking away from the little boy currently perched on his knee.
I make a face. “I’ll be fine. The bathroom’s just back here. I barely have to take ten steps.”
His gaze flicks up, sharp over the kid’s head. We have a full silent conversation in one heartbeat.
I will be in your line of sight the entire ti—
There’s a knot of kids shifting, a volunteer flagging Floyd down, someone dropping a cup that explodes cocoa all over the floor. For a second, everything in front of us is motion and noise.
I use the distraction like the shameless gremlin I am.
“Seriously, two minutes,” I say, already backing away.
“Tallu—” he starts.
I flash him a bright, innocent smile and slip around the comic book spinner rack.
The door to the back hallway is half-hidden behind a display of vintage comics in plastic sleeves. I duck through it, the noise of the main floor muting as it swings shut behind me.
The employee corridor is narrow, lined with boxes and half-opened cases of stock. I sidle sideways past a tower of board games, grateful I’m small and flexible. Someone’s dragged a tub of stuffed animals out and left it sitting in the middle of the walkway; I toe it aside with a muttered curse.
The bathroom is exactly where it’s always been—second door on the left, crooked “Employees Only” sign and all.
I pee. I wash my hands. Then I stand there longer than necessary, palms braced on the edge of the sink, breathing.
Introvert timeout.
The fluorescent light hums overhead. The fan rattles. My pulse, which has been in light-fight-or-flight mode for the last hour, starts to ease.
I turn the cold tap on and splash water on my face. When I look up, the mirror throws back a version of me I’m still getting used to—elf dress, striped tights, freckles standing out stark against winter-pale skin. Blue eyes rimmed with dark circles and sleepless nights.
But my mouth is curved.
Happy. That’s what my reflection looks like. Not in a manic, jittery way. In a weird, quiet way that feels like standing in a sunbeam.
That’s Bran’s fault.
He’s infuriating and bossy and constantly on my last nerve. He’s also…my brain scrolls through the data, searching for the right label.
…a giant cinnamon roll, I decide. Crunchy on the outside, soft in the middle, full of dangerous levels of sugar. The kind of thing you know isn’t good for you in large doses, but you want it anyway.
Shiloh makes cinnamon rolls every Christmas—a tradition she inherited from her mom—and delivers them to friends and neighbors, big pans of sticky, spiraled perfection. I love those almost as much as Karla’s donuts.
Thinking of Christmas makes my chest pinch.
Last Thursday: Friendsgiving at Cotton’s. Savvi fussing over the turkey, Miguel sneaking Saoirse extra rolls, Jack pretending he wasn’t tearing up during the toast. Mom’s hummingbird ornament hovering in my mind because I still haven’t been able to hang it.
Had it really only been a week since then?
Seven days from laughter and comfort and Miguel alive to…this.
To Bran in a Santa suit, to kids who have no idea a monster put my name on his list, to me standing in Floyd’s bathroom trying to talk myself out of wanting things like forever and safe and him.
Dangerous. All of it is dangerous.
I blow out a breath, flip the lock, and pull the bathroom door open.
I haven’t taken a full step into the hallway before a hard arm bands around my shoulders and neck, yanking me backward.
A second hand clamps over my mouth, smashing my lips against my teeth.
The world narrows to muscle and pressure and the sudden, visceral awareness of being prey.
“Look what Santa delivered,” a familiar voice croons against my ear, breath hot and awful. “A spicy little gift right into my waiting arms…”
Henry.
My brain slams the name into place on a delay, like a buffering video. Henry. Henry. Henry.
I explode.
I kick backward, heel connecting with shin, sending boxes and stock tumbling. I grab at the forearm crushing my throat and sink my teeth into the flesh, hard, tasting copper and something chemical.
It’s like a butterfly fighting a hurricane.
He laughs. Actually laughs. His arm tightens, forearm pressing into my windpipe just shy of cutting off air entirely. He hauls me deeper into the hallway, away from the faint muffled noise of Christmas carols and squeaky shoes.
“Still such a fighter,” he murmurs, amused. “I do so love that about you, smart little bird.”
I thrash harder, but my limbs feel uncoordinated, jittery. Adrenaline spikes, then fuzzes at the edges.
We stumble past the open stockroom door. I catch a glimpse of fluorescent light, metal shelving, the exit sign above the back door. I open my mouth around his arm and try to scream anyway, a garbled, animal sound.
“Shh,” he murmurs, and something sharp pricks the side of my neck.
No.
No, no, no, no—
The world tilts, gears grinding. My thoughts smear like wet ink. My legs kick once, twice, sending a tub of stuffed animals flying, plush bodies scattering like casualties across the floor.
Distantly, I register a dim crash from the front of the store. A bellow of rage that doesn’t sound human—deep and rough and full of murder.
Bran.
I try to claw toward that sound, toward him, but my fingers won’t obey. My hands are heavy. My eyelids are heavier.
“Go to sleep,” Henry says kindly, like he’s tucking a kid in. “We have such a long drive ahead of us.”
The hallway blurs. The boxes and walls smear into a gray smear. My own breath sounds far away, echoing down a tunnel.
Somewhere beyond the door, I hear chaos—the thud of feet, someone shouting my name, the crash of something big hitting something bigger.
I try to answer. I really do.
The darkness doesn’t care.
It swallows me whole.