Chapter 2
TWO
ACCIDENTAL
NOELLE
Seriously.
In the words of one of my favorite classic films: my work drama bullshit has a body count. As though some higher power had decided to make them pay for what they did to me, one by one, they’ve all fallen over the last year.
Evan was first. The man who dared to look me in the eye after the holiday party and say, “I don’t want to be involved,” when I accused him of watching as Dean and Grant double-teamed me was killed in a car crash on the way to last year’s Christmas party.
It was an accident, they said, and if I didn’t obsessively check in on the five, I don’t know if I would’ve even seen a report of his death. The road was slick, it had been icy, and he careened into a tree, the impact killing him instantly.
Grant was dead by January. Alcohol poisoning during a New Year’s Eve party which, considering he was the one who slipped the date rape drug into my cocktail before handing it off to Dean to give it to Charles to pass on to me… yeah, that was pretty fitting.
Another accident… or so I believed until today. Now? I’m not so sure.
There were more. Back in April, when Dean was found hanging in his office, I wondered if maybe the guilt had finally gotten to him.
Evergreen spread out on the mountain, the individual chalets are close enough to the ski village to justify their existence while also being far enough away to sense the isolation as snow falls around the chalet.
I can spend as much time alone inside as I want in front of a roaring fire, and if I want to chat or be active, I can head to the lodge or one of the nearby restaurants so long as the weather holds.
If not, part of the price is that it should be fully stocked with essentials—food, bedding, treats—and I can bring anything else I need.
I was all set to head out when that Google alert came in.
The last thing I needed to do was pack enough clothes for the week and I was ready to go, and though I got a late start because I was still stunned over the unexpected announcement of Charles Dutton’s accidental poisoning, I stopped at the liquor store to pick up a celebratory bottle of champagne to sip by the fireside once I made it to the chalet this afternoon.
Ding, dong, my rapist is dead. How’s that for a Christmas wish?
It’s a two-hour drive out of the city. Just like I’d expected, the flurries begin when I’m about an hour in.
It’s not heavy, though the greyish tinge to the otherwise white sky suggests that it will turn sooner or later.
Due to the elevation, the mountain is usually covered in snow from November to April.
It’s another reason I love it, and instead of being annoyed when it starts to stick, I just laugh joyously, crank up the volume on the radio as the holiday songs fill my car, and pay close attention as I drive.
By the time I’m finally pulling into the driveway outside of the rustic yet modern structure, it’s coming down hard enough that it brings a hush with it.
Or maybe that’s because I had to turn the radio off, Last Christmas playing for the countless time as I wound my way up the mountain.
No one came out to plow the narrow path before my arrival; the layer of salt that had been down helped, but it was a slushy mess as I went higher and higher.
It’s a relief when I park, grabbing one of the two duffel bags I packed. I’ll go back for the other one later. For now, I just want to get inside, shake the snow out of my hair, and sink down on the comfy couch in the living room while the fire roars.
Though the fireplace is unlit, the chalet is warm when I unlock the door and enter the front room.
The lights are already on, like it’s been waiting for me to get here.
Just like last year, there’s a Christmas tree in the corner; small and tasteful, it’s strung with white lights that almost twinkle.
It fits the understated holiday decor, with just the right amount of cheer that I can’t forget that it’s Christmas.
Dropping my bag by the door, I exhale. Already it feels like a huge weight’s been lifted off my shoulders.
Safe. That’s why I enjoyed my week-long stay last year so much.
The cozy chalet with its fancy bathroom on the second floor, plus the two bedrooms it came with—because, for some reason, none of the chalets available for rent had a single—had given me the one thing I really wanted for Christmas: a handful of days when I felt safe for the first time since those five men turned sheltered, na?ve Noelle Halliday into a guarded loner who gave up on dating and abandoned her friends because she saw ghosts every fucking where.
Even before anyone died, I saw them, and I only hope I don’t during this getaway.
This is important to me. Especially since, while I didn’t make a Christmas list this year, I’ve been focusing on my New Year’s resolutions.
I want to get back out there. Find a job that uses my communications degree. Start dating again. Get in touch with the friends I ghosted. Those assholes stole two years of my life. Now that they’re all dead, maybe it’s time I start living again.
I’d already come to that conclusion before I found out what happened to Charles Dutton. Now? I’m even more determined, though I have a handful of days left to this year before I’m ready to become Noelle 2.0, the new and improved version.
For the moment, I plan on drinking my champagne—I refuse to get drunk again, but a slight buzz won’t hurt—and curling up in front of the fire once I get it going, gorging myself on the cheese board that I ordered for my first night in the chalet, and basically just enjoying the fact that I’m still here.
I survived. It’s Christmas again, and nothing will go wrong.
And I get to believe that for about an hour before the unexpected knock at the front door of the chalet has me jolting in place, spilling half my glass of champagne onto the hardwood floor.