Chapter 4
Four
Present day
Mistletoe Pines Gazette
The family of a local teen who was murdered on Christmas Eve four years ago is hosting their annual candlelight vigil at the community center. They ask all friends and family to join them in remembering Scotty Mann.
This case remains unsolved, and the investigation, though cold, is ongoing.
Hadley
Scotty stares back at me from the front of the local newspaper. His snarky grin and messy brown hair never changing. He’s frozen forever in time at the age of seventeen. He didn’t even have his driver’s license when he died.
A tragic story.
Remembered as a cautionary tale.
A legend that haunts our small community.
A nightmare that has followed me for the past four years.
I was one of the last people to see Scotty alive.
He’d asked me out on a date. At least I thought it was a date, but really, I was a stupid bet between him and his friends. He humiliated me. Made me a laughingstock in his friend group. I never wished death on him, though. I’ve always wondered what really happened to him.
The police have questioned me several times over the past four years. My story never changes. During the middle of the movie we’d met up to watch at the theater, he tried to stick his hand up my shirt.
I slapped him, and his friends were all sitting a few rows back filming and laughing. Making me their joke.
Scotty told me his friends dared him to feel me up to see if my boobs were real or if I’d been stuffing my bra. I ran out of the theater and went home, vowing that boys were stupid and that I hated them all. He came by my house later to apologize.
That was the last time he was seen alive.
His family thinks I know more than I say.
I don’t.
If I had answers, I’d give them.
I want more than anyone for his murder to be solved.
For his killer to be the one carrying this guilt that haunts me.
Sometimes when I close my eyes, I still see him standing in my doorway, all red-faced and out of breath. I thought it was from the cold, but what if he was running from someone or something? If I’d invited him in and not slammed the door in his face, then maybe he’d still be alive today.
My cell phone buzzes, breaking my focus from the past.
Unknown: I can’t get you off my mind.
I stare at the message, debating on texting back.
Unknown: What would you do if I chased you?
For the past few years, I’ve been having a textual relationship with someone having any clue who is on the other side of the messages.
They know me. That much I do know. They tell me things about myself that only someone watching me…
stalking me would be aware of. Things like the books I read.
Passages I highlight. Fantasies I dream of happening to me in real life.
Sometimes they leave me gifts.
Sometimes I think they watch me sleep.
I even installed a camera trying to catch them, but I swear they know my code and erase the videos.
My finger hovers over the on-screen keyboard. Blush stains my cheeks as I think of a naughty reply.
Beep. Beep. Beep. The smoke detector sounds. Shit. I lay my phone to the side and turn the burner off. I was boiling water to make some pasta before I got caught up reading the newspaper and didn’t realize I turned the wrong knob. I’ve melted my butter container lid to the burner.
The smell is dreadful.
My phone pings with a new text.
Unknown: Should I call the fire department for you?
I glance around my kitchen and gulp.
Outside my kitchen window, I catch a glimpse of a dark figure at the edge of the woods.
I should be scared, and yet the thought that my mystery man is watching me excites me.
Unknown: you didn’t answer my question.
Hadley: Which one?
Unknown: What would you do if I chased you?
Hadley: I guess you’ll have to find out...
The text bubbles move and then stop.
I wait for a reply that doesn’t come.
Is it still considered ghosting if you don’t know who you’re talking to?
The scent of cinnamon, apples, and citrus permeates the air of my small kitchen, replacing the scent of melted plastic.
It’s a true Christmas miracle. The simmer pot recipe I came across while late-night scrolling on my phone did the trick.
I’d tried everything. The scented oil wall plug-ins.
Air freshener. Leaving my windows open. Burning matches.
Lighting candles. Finally, I can breathe again and focus on pretending that I love Christmas and am not the town’s Grinch.
I probably am.
Who could blame me after being accused of being an axe-wielding psychopath?
I’m one of the only homes without an inflatable in my yard. Honestly, they creep me out. I have this nightmare that someone is actually inside of them waiting to jump out and scare the living daylights out of me.
I don’t even own a single strand of lights, and Christmas is less than a week away.
I couldn’t have less holiday spirit if someone paid me to.
Since my Meemaw retired to Florida with her boyfriend George, leaving me her house, I’ve been lonely.
“I’ve spent the past fifty years in this house, I don’t plan on dying in it.
” Those were her parting words as she slid into the passenger side of George’s Buick Regal wearing oversized sunglasses and a big floppy hat.
She looked ridiculous and utterly happy.
As much as I didn’t want my only family to leave, I’m thrilled for her.
I should have gone with them, but this is my home, and despite the nasty murder business of four years ago, I love living here.
My cell phone chirps, alerting me to a new text message.
I turn the stove burner off and grab my phone on my way upstairs to my bedroom.
Technically, it was my Meemaw’s room, but when she moved out, I took over her room.
It’s the larger of the two up here. I turned my old room into my closet, and the spare room downstairs is now my library.
It’s my favorite room in my house. Selling the furniture and whatnots that Meemaw no longer wanted and didn’t match my style fetched me enough profit for my floor to ceiling bookcases. The room is every dark romance girly’s dream. I spend more time there than I do in any other room in the place.
My phone chirps again with another new text message. Both are from Sydney, my bestie.
Sydney: On my way.
Sydney: Do you need me to stop for anything…
I type out my one-word response.
Hadley: No.
Sydney: This costume is ah-mazin!!
Oh, God.
I groan and flop back onto my quilted blanket.
Syd is my opposite. She never uses proper spelling or punctuation. The brand of chaos she brings into my life would send most running for the hills, but I adore her fire. She has more passion for life than most hold in their pinky finger.
I’d be lost without her. Lonelier than I already am.
From the house next door, I can hear the shouts of my neighbors as they wrestle with dragging the box of their latest addition to their inflatable collection from the back of their truck.
Heavy, fat flakes of snow stick to my bedroom window as I watch the scene unfold. Rob wants to put the giant reindeer at the end of their driveway, while Paula thinks it should go in front of the porch.
I wonder if I’ll ever fall in love or am I destined to be alone. My neighbors bicker all the time, but they always make up quickly. Rob kisses Paula and then smashes a snowball into the side of her head. She shrieks, and they start hurling snowballs at one another before he tackles her.
I look away, not wanting to intrude on their moment any longer than I have.
I smile to myself and mosey into my bathroom and gather my dark hair into a messy but functional bun.
I can’t believe I allowed Sydney to talk me into going through with this.
I give up on taming my flyaway strands and head back down the stairs to greet her as she barrels through my front door and goes sailing across the floor of the entryway on the welcome mat with the grace of a professional ice skater.
“Hadley!” she screeches my name with excitement as the rug catches on the carpet of the living room and her performance comes to a halt.
“Hey Syd.” Nervousness flutters in my lower belly like the wings of moths flapping around the attic. I shouldn’t have skipped breakfast. I think I’m going to be sick. This whole thing is stupid. I’m nauseous thinking about this whole thing.
“Look what I have.” She slides her oversized purse off her shoulder.
She walks around with half of her apartment in that thing.
I’m certain of it. After rummaging around the bag, she pulls out a slip of green velvet fabric that looks like it’d fit a small child or maybe a large dog.
“Isn’t it fabulous?” Her blue eyes sparkle with pure delight as she thrust the soft material into my arms.
“What is it?”
“Your costume, goober. Hurry up. Try it on.”
“I haven’t even started on my makeup yet.
” I give her a lame excuse trying to stall.
It’s not too late to back out of this foolish scheme.
I hold up the dress, attempting to stretch the material past its limits.
“Are you sure this is the right size?” I look for a tag, but there’s not one. Not that I can find, anyway.
“We don’t have time for this. The bazaar starts in like ten minutes. You know those feral crotch goblins will be all sugar crazed and foaming at the mouth for their chance to tell Santa what they expect under their tree. Leave your makeup to me.”
I grumble under my breath, stomping back up the staircase.
I never dress sexy. Not even since I dropped fifty pounds.
I’ve always hidden my body behind oversized hoodies.
Ever since sixth grade, when all the boys would make lewd comments about the size of my bra.
I’m naturally big-chested. Always have been.
Dieting and working out did nothing to change my cup size. I’m still a double D.