Chapter Four
Seven Days Before Christmas
Maggie was fine. Really. She was totally and completely—
Resigned. Yeah. That was more like it. She’d learned long ago that the firsts are always the hardest. The first birthday.
The first round of holidays, cycling throughout the year. But the year was almost over, and her first Christmas was coming,
so she might as well experience her first party, soldier through and get it out of the way.
Because Maggie wasn’t fine—but she would be. As soon as her stomach stopped growling and her head stopped hurting and this
last first was finally over.
So she piled a bunch of cheese cubes on a napkin and grabbed a sparkling water that was probably going to make her burp. She
managed three whole minutes of small talk with two different Jens before Ethan Wyatt started a conga line.
“How’s it going, Marcie?” he shouted as he congaed by, and Maggie started doing Party Math in her head.
If she hid for thirty minutes, then waved at three more people on her way to the elevator, maybe no one would notice if she
spent the rest of the party hiding in an empty room, reading her Purse Book and eating her Napkin Cheese. It was a genius
plan, really. She should have thought of it from the start.
But as she darted down a darkened hall, looking for an open door, Maggie felt her footsteps falter. She had to stop. And stare.
Because, officially, the display might have been called the Wall of Fame, but according to Deborah, everyone at Killhaven
just called it The Eleanors.
Tucked away behind polished wood and (supposedly) fireproof glass stood ninety-nine novels by Eleanor Ashley. First editions,
unlike the used and frayed and dog-eared copies Maggie’s father had once called her only friends—a joke that would have been
funny if it hadn’t also been true. And for a moment, all Maggie could feel was wonder, followed quickly by shame because Eleanor
Ashley wouldn’t hide at parties. Eleanor wouldn’t have been tricked into coming to begin with. Eleanor would have—
“Yo! Ethan!”
Only a man who wears T-shirts that look like tuxedos could ever shout “Yo!” in a professional setting. Maggie barely had time
to dart into an office and hide behind a half-closed door before she heard two sets of footsteps come around the bend in the
hall.
“Lance. Hey. How’s it going?”
“Oh. You know.” Lance gave a coarse laugh. “I dressed up for the occasion.”
“I see that. Nice.”
If Killhaven were a high school, then Ethan was the golden boy, player of sports and breaker of hearts. The kind of guy who
could get voted prom king at a school he didn’t even go to. Meanwhile, Lance and the other Leather Jacket Guys were nothing
more than Ethan’s asshole acolytes. Or Assolytes, as Maggie liked to call them. She half expected Lance to offer to polish
Ethan’s leather jacket or do his homework. Maybe dispose of a body.
“Yo. Man. Did you see the ice queen?”
“Who?” Ethan sounded like he was only half listening—like maybe even the Assolytes were beneath him.
“That Maggie chick. You know. That one who thinks she’s the queen of the cozies.” Lance laughed and Maggie bristled. “I can’t
believe she came!”
“Why?” Was Ethan’s voice sharper than usual? She couldn’t tell. “Is she sick or something?”
“No, man. She got divorced. And her husband took everything . It was a whole thing. Messed her up. She went full arachnophobic and hasn’t left her house—”
“That’s agoraphobic—”
“—in like forever.” The hallway was a little too quiet for a little too long and Maggie started to worry they were going to
hear her heart trying to pound its way out of her chest.
“You know”—Lance’s voice took on a lascivious tone; he sounded like the reason they invented penicillin—“she’s probably starting
to get real lonely. Maybe I’ll go see if I can’t get her to stuff my stocking, if you know what I mean.”
“No, Lance. What do you mean?” Something about the sound of Ethan’s voice made it feel like the temperature was dropping fast. Like she was going
to see her breath.
“Come down her chimney? Mistle her toe.”
“Mistletoe’s poisonous.” Now Ethan sounded annoyed.
“She might need someone to frosty her snowman—”
“Leave her alone, Lance.”
“I’m just saying, it’s getting cold. She might want to share body heat.”
“She just left her husband, and she doesn’t need you—”
Lance gave a quick, sharp laugh that cut him off. “But that’s the best part. He left her . Wait. You look surprised, man.”
“No—”
“Lance!” someone called. There were voices at the end of the hall, followed by the sound of fading footsteps, and for a long
time, all Maggie could do was stand there, telling herself it was over. They were leaving. They were gone.
But then she heard a low, dark laugh. A subtle huff. And Ethan Freaking Wyatt saying, “No, I’m not surprised he left her.”
There was a roar in Maggie’s ears then. A rush of blood and gravity and rage. It felt like she was flying—faster and faster,
hurtling out into a vast and endless void. A black hole was swallowing her whole as the footsteps and the party faded away
and only the words remained.
I’m not surprised he left her.
There wasn’t enough tinsel in the world. No scissors sharp enough. No garland strong enough. She was going to kill him with
her bare hands. With her teeth. With her...
When Maggie stepped into the empty hall, she froze. Because what she saw in the glass surprised her.
The Eleanors were gone, replaced by a woman with Maggie’s hair and Maggie’s face, but she was little more than a shell, pale
and fragile. It was like looking at the ghost of a girl who had frozen to death twelve Christmases ago. Someone who was afraid .
Maggie didn’t want to be that girl—she’d shoved her down and hidden her away. She’d spent years clawing up from nothing to
that New York skyrise. She’d written and she’d bled, and she’d done it all on her own, no matter what Colin told his lawyers.
I’m not surprised he left her.
No. Even the great Ethan Wyatt had the story wrong, and Maggie wanted to shout it from the rooftops and shove it in his face.
She wanted to be stronger and tougher and... Eleanor. Maggie wanted to be Eleanor, but she’d settle for being the girl
in the reindeer sweatshirt.
And that was the thought that made her storm down the hall and back through the crowd and walk up right to Deborah.
And say, “So when do I leave?”
Three days later, Maggie was in the back seat of a town car, watching the skyline of Manhattan pass by the tinted windows.
They were almost to the airport when she felt the car slow and turn too soon.
“Oh, no.” She leaned up to talk to the driver. “I’ll need the main entrance. I’m on...” She twisted in her seat, looking
for her itinerary, but what she saw out the window made her stop. And stare. Because there was a private jet idling on the
tarmac.
She heard the driver say, “This is it, ma’am. You’ve arrived.”
And she thought, Maybe I have , as she crawled from the car.
And again as she climbed the stairs.
And once more as she stood in the cabin, surrounded by glossy wood and rich, soft leather, wondering if New Jet Smell was
a thing because, if so, this jet definitely had it.
It felt like more than just the start of a trip. It was the start of a new chapter. And for the first time in almost a year,
Maggie felt herself begin to smile. And hope. And wonder—
A toilet flushed. The lavatory door opened. And a deep voice exclaimed, “Marcie!”
Maggie spun around, but the jet door was already rising—already closing. It was too late to turn back now.