Chapter 15
Carol
Evervale still looks like a snow-globe, same twinkle lights, same fake cheer, same me trying to act like I’m not coming apart after Humbug just said he couldn’t see me anymore. The days that follow Humbug’s disappearance from my life bleed together like snowmelt and dirty footprints.
At work, I smile for tourists, pour drinks that taste like sugar and nostalgia, and laugh at jokes I don’t hear. People say I look tired. They say I need rest. What I need is noise. What I need is Humbug’s voice telling me something rough and real.
Instead, I get Blake.
He’s been patient, too patient, and guilt has a way of turning patience into pity. One night, he comes over with takeout and a movie, the kind that tries too hard to be romantic.
“You’re still not yourself,” he says, watching me pick at my food.
“I’m trying,” I lie.
“You could try harder.”
That hurts, mostly because he’s not wrong.
He reaches across the couch and takes my hand. “You know what might help? Distraction. Something new.”
That’s how I end up in his car the next morning, hands trembling on the wheel like I’m about to commit a felony.
“You’ve really never driven?” he asks, half amused, half horrified.
“Never needed to. Walked everywhere. Or took the bus.”
He grins. “Well, lucky for you, I’m a great teacher.”
He’s not.
By the third stop sign, I nearly send us into a snowbank. By the fourth, he decides prayer might be more effective than instruction. Still, he keeps showing up, patient as a saint, and every day I get a little better at pretending this is normal life.
For a while, Blake and I fall into a rhythm.
Weekend mornings are driving lessons in his fancy car, afternoons I’m at Sno-Globes where tourists still ask if we serve peppermint martinis even though Jimmy collected enough money to raise a big billboard out on the highway shaped like one.
And our nights are spent watching whatever Blake put on TV.
I lay my head on his lap like old times. Let him feed me popcorn. But something in me refuses to thaw. Or to really warm to him again. Blake catches me staring out the window at the falling snow.
He starts talking about the future again.
“Maybe we can take a trip,” he said one night. “Get out of this little Christmas town.”
“Maybe.”
“You don’t sound thrilled.”
“I like it here.”
“You liked it here,” he corrects. “Now you look like someone waiting for permission to leave.”
I have no answer for that. Maybe because he’s right.
Everywhere I go, I see reminders of Humbug. The corner of the bar where he used to sit. The road where his bike idled that first night, I rode off with him. Even the old jukebox at Sno-Globes, it switches songs one afternoon, unprompted, and lands on “O Holy Night.”
I laugh until I cry, then blame it on allergies.
The month crawls by. The days all look the same, gray, cold, quiet.
Even the town seems tired of pretending.
The lights dull, the tourists thin out, and the snow turns to slush that sticks to boots and ruins moods.
By the time the calendar flips, I convince myself it’s over.
I bury what happened deep enough it can’t claw its way back up.
It's morning, gray sky, breath you can see. Typical day in Evervale. I step off my porch, tugging my scarf tighter, when I hear the crunch of boots behind me.
Humbug? My throat goes dry. But I turn, and it’s not him.
“Carol, right?”
A woman stands at the bottom of the steps, a plastic bucket in one gloved hand. I know who she is before she says another word. Pictures didn’t do her justice. Trina’s the kind of pretty that knows it, sharp around the edges, like beauty’s her only weapon and she has had to use it well.
“Can I help you?” I ask, already uneasy.
She smiles, a tight, mean smile and lifts the bucket. “Yeah. You can stop pretending you don’t know who I am.”
Before I can answer, she flings it.
Red paint hits me square in the chest, cold and thick, splattering across my coat, my scarf, my hair. I gasp, stumble back, catch myself on the railing.
“What the hell?”
“You think you can steal my husband and play innocent?” she screams. “You think nobody talks in this town? I know what you are.”
I freeze, paint dripping down my front like blood. “You need to leave.”
“Or what? You’ll call him?” she sneers. “He won’t come.”
Anger surges through the shock. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”
“I know enough.” Her eyes glint, hard and hollow. “You’re a home wrecker. A Christmas whore.”
The words hit like a slap. My fists clench. “You’re one to talk. Weren’t you caught fucking Santa Claus?”
“You’re gonna be dead next time we meet.” Trina laughs, sharp and ugly, then drops the bucket and runs.
I follow her to the edge of the sidewalk, breath clouding in the cold, watching her disappear into the trees behind the building. That’s when I see it, red letters scrawled across the side of my apartment in dripping strokes.
WHORE
The paint glistens against the brick, bright and obscene. My neighbors are already starting to peek through their windows. A curtain twitches. Someone steps out and whispers my name.
Humiliation burns hotter than the cold ever could. I turn, stomp back inside, strip off my ruined coat, and march straight to the bathroom. The mirror doesn’t soften it. My reflection looks like a crime scene.
Good thing Blake’s gone visiting family.
Half an hour later, I’m at the police station.
The receptionist blinks when she sees me. Probably at the faint traces of red still clinging to my hairline. “Ma’am, are you hurt?”
“No. I need to report an assault.”
They sit me down in a small room that smells like burnt coffee and printer ink. A young officer with too much gel in his hair clicks his pen and says, “Tell me what happened.”
So, I do. The paint. The shouting. The writing on the wall. The deadly threat.
“And you’re sure it was Trina Winter?”
“Yes.”
“She’s married to…?”
“Humbug Winter,” I blurt out.
The officer’s eyes flick up. “You’re acquainted with Jack Winter?”
“Humbug?”
Here it comes.
“I know him,” I say carefully. Or did I? I didn’t even know his name is Jack.
“In what capacity?”
“He’s… a friend,” I try.
“Close friend?”
I hesitate, the lie catching in my throat. “He helped me after the robbery last month.”
“Helped you how?”
“He stopped it. Protected me. I work at Sno-Globes.”
The officer nods, scribbling notes. “You are aware that Mr. Winter is currently under investigation for that robbery?”
My stomach drops. “What?”
“Any recent contact with him?”
“Not for weeks.”
“You’re sure?”
I stare at the floor. Paint still staining my boots.
“Yes,” I say, it’s the truth. Humbug hasn’t called once since he said his club put him on probation.
The cop studies me for a long moment, then sighs. “We’ll file a report. Vandalism, assault, harassment. You’ll need to sign a statement. You want a restraining order?”
“Yes,” I say quickly. “Please. She said she’s gonna kill me.”
He hands me a clipboard. My hands shake as I sign.
When it’s over, I step outside into the cold again. The sky’s clear, sun hitting the snow so bright it hurts to look at. I stand there for a long time, watching my breath fog in the air, wondering if Humbug already knows what happened. If Trina would brag first.
That night, the phone stayed silent. No calls. No messages. No voice on the other end checking on me.
I curl up on the couch, red paint still staining my nails, and stare at the blank TV screen.
The town’s still lit up for Christmas, still pretending everything sparkles. But I no longer hum.