Chapter 13
Holiday Hollow was in rare form. The snow from last night had been replaced by a spitting sleet that froze instantly on every exposed surface, glazing the already lurid holiday decorations with an armor of ice.
Lamp posts wore icicles like beaded flapper fringe, every yard boasted inflatables in various states of collapse, and the downtown banners all proclaimed WINTER WONDERLAND in letters already curling from the cold.
Olivia, in a coat so pale it was practically fluorescent, leaned into Grace’s personal space. “You know,” she said, voice pitched so only Grace and Anna could hear, “if we actually survive this holiday without a murder, it’ll be all because of you and your abilities”
Grace tried for a smile. “Or the murder will happen, and it’ll be all because I couldn’t stop it.”
Anna snickered. “You’ll stop it, besides I think Bryant secretly loves the drama. He acts all annoyed but he’s been listening to true crime podcasts in his office for years. This is his Olympics.”
Caroline cut in from the front. “You’d think the news lady would love a bit of real-life intrigue. But honestly, I feel like she’s going to sue us for loss of productivity if we take up more than five minutes of her morning.”
Grace watched the world outside strobe by, the happiness she’d been feeling just a moment ago disappearing as a familiar tension built as they neared the news station.
There was no more denying the visions, the threats.
There was just this: the cold, the determination, the knowledge that if she messed this up, someone was going to die.
The news station was a two-story red brick cube at the end of an industrial block, ringed by a sad chain-link fence and a perimeter of security lights that made the snow glare in patches.
The parking lot was nearly empty, save for a battered news van and a couple of sedans parked at reckless angles.
Caroline claimed the best spot, threw the car into park, and immediately started rifling through her purse.
“Chins up, ladies,” she said. “Smile like you’re here for the bake sale and not to tell someone they’re the next target in a murder plot.”
They filed out, the sleet hitting Grace’s bare face like a thousand tiny knives, and followed the walkway to the glass double doors.
Inside, the station was all gray tile and fluorescent light, a neutral zone that smelled of burnt coffee and microwaved popcorn.
A young woman in a Channel 5 polo sat behind the reception desk, typing with the speed and indifference of the truly bored.
“Hi!” Caroline beamed, shifting instantly into socialite mode. “We’re here to see Tessa Monroe. She’s expecting us.”
The receptionist barely looked up. “Name?”
“Caroline Shepard, with friends.” She gestured broadly to encompass the rest.
The girl tapped her keyboard, then handed over four visitor badges with a glare that suggested she suspected them all of shoplifting.
“Elevator to the second floor, left at the water cooler, end of the hall.”
“Thank you, darling.” Caroline led the charge, Grace, Anna, and Olivia trailing behind.
The elevator smelled like a locker room and jerked alarmingly as it climbed. Anna made an elaborate show of crossing herself, then laughed at Grace’s expression. “Don’t worry. If this thing goes down, I’ll just turn into a puddle and you can crawl out on top of me.”
Grace shook her head. “That’s not how mermaids work… is it?”
“You bet,” Anna deadpanned, then laughed. “Okay, well, not really.”
Olivia rolled her eyes, but Grace saw her fighting a smile.
The second floor was quieter, with a long hallway lined with framed news photos—ribbon cuttings, food drives, the mayor’s annual address. At the far end, a frosted glass door declared: TESSA MONROE, INVESTIGATIVE JOURNALIST.
Caroline rapped twice, then opened the door without waiting for an answer.
The office was a shrine to its occupant.
Wall-to-wall built-ins displayed awards, trophies, glass plaques in every geometric shape, and, most prominently, dozens of framed news articles.
Tessa Monroe stared out from every one, hair in a variety of lengths and colors but always styled to near-superhuman perfection.
There were photos of her with governors, with celebrities, with children and rescue dogs.
She smiled in all of them, except the oldest, where she looked genuinely pissed off.
The woman herself was not present. Instead, her desk, a modern slab of acrylic, was covered in color-coded folders, three separate laptops, and a Bluetooth headset so large it looked like part of a jet pilot costume.
“Wow,” Olivia said, running a finger along the edge of a shelf. “She really went for the Power Woman aesthetic.”
Anna was already peering at the nearest framed article. “She was writing crime in high school?” she marveled. “That is commitment.”
Caroline ignored the spectacle and flopped onto a chair beside the desk. “Let’s try to focus, shall we? We’re not tourists.”
Grace, meanwhile, found herself drawn to the articles. Up close, the headlines were a study in escalation:
LOCAL TEEN FOUND DEAD AT HOLIDAY HOLLOW LAKE: WAS IT MURDER?
The article painted Sam Bennett as “a troubled young man, best known for pranks and a near-legendary ability to evade authority.” The tone was strangely gleeful, as if the death were the inevitable outcome of poor choices, the town’s bad penny finally cashed in. Grace’s stomach twisted.
Above the article, a somber picture of a dock blanketed with police tape, the lake behind it a silver sheet under dawn light.
The article itself, neatly clipped and not a wrinkle in the paper, was classic Tessa: brisk, unsentimental, tinged with just enough outrage to guarantee readers’ sympathy but not enough to betray an opinion.
The last paragraph was underlined in blue pen, and Grace read it twice:
“While authorities have yet to determine whether the death of Samuel Bennett, 18, constitutes homicide or misadventure, it is clear that the community remains hungry for answers… and for justice.”
Below, in a margin note, someone (Tessa?) had written: “Motive is always money, sex, or secrets. Usually in that order.”
Next to it, another framed piece, this one about a missing boy found after five days in the woods.
The article was triumphant, heavy on quotes from search-and-rescue.
It made Grace uneasy, the way the kid’s ordeal was parsed into bullet points for maximum drama.
She looked up, searching for something less bleak, but most of the stories on the wall were the same: disasters, scandals, a town’s ugly laundry aired for all to see.
The one that stopped her cold was the Halloween murder. She recognized the name before she saw the headline:
HALLOWEEN PARTY HOMICIDE: MYSTERIOUS DEATH ROCKS HOLIDAY HOLLOW
Her gut turned, and she didn’t even read the article, she just looked away. It was all still too fresh. Too real.
Anna sidled up, peering over Grace’s shoulder. “You notice how every single one of these stories is about someone being ruined? She doesn’t do puff pieces.”
“That’s how you win Emmys,” Olivia murmured.
Anna nodded. “Or how you get murdered.”
Grace scanned the rest. The photos of Tessa at town events, at parades, on the annual float for the Snowflake Jubilee. It was all here, the life story of a woman who thought the best use of her own face was to put it everywhere, as often as possible.
A voice rang from the doorway, slicing through the examination. “If you’re looking for the Pulitzer, it’s in my gym bag. I use it as a paperweight.”
Tessa Monroe entered the office with all the theatrical presence of a TV anchor stepping onto set.
She wore a steel-gray sheath dress, matching heels, and a layer of makeup that was both flawless and oddly intimidating.
She barely registered the group before tossing her coat onto a nearby table, then eyed them with a predator’s wariness.
Caroline stood, hand extended. “Tessa! Thank you for meeting with us. This is Grace, and you know Anna and Olivia.”
Tessa looked at the hand, then shook it briefly, eyes moving to Grace with the sharpness of a camera lens. “Grace Baker. The psychic. Or are we calling it intuitive these days?”
Grace smiled, though the effect was more a baring of teeth. “Psychic’s fine.”
Tessa perched on the edge of her desk. “So, which of my past enemies has finally decided to take me out? Or is this more of a heads-up, in case I want to get my affairs in order?”
Caroline attempted a smile. “No one’s trying to be dramatic, dear. We’re just concerned. After the… incident at the ball—”
Tessa cut her off. “It was a malfunctioning light fixture, a clumsy near-fall, not a poltergeist. I’ve already talked to the police, the insurance company, and my grandmother. If there’s something else, let’s have it.”
Olivia cleared her throat, stepping forward with the poise of someone who dealt with difficult people for sport.
“Grace had a vision of you falling at the ball before it happened. She also has it on good authority that the fall was the work of someone with magic, and that that same person intends to kill you before Christmas night.”
Tessa gave a bark of laughter. “Someone wanting me dead isn’t exactly a newsflash. I’m always in danger, darling. It’s what happens when you report the truth in a town full of secrets.”
Grace crossed her arms. “You think that’s what this is about? Some story you did?”
Tessa arched an eyebrow. “You’re new here, right? Let me explain how it works. Everyone in this town has something to hide. Some are just better at hiding it.” Her gaze moved over the group. “I assume you’ve seen the news wall.”
Caroline nodded. “I noticed your story on Sam Bennett. I remember that one well.”
A shadow passed over Tessa’s features, gone in an instant.
“That one’s my favorite,” she said. “Broke me out of spotlight features and into prime time.” She tapped a manicured nail on the glass frame.
“Never did find the killer, though. Lot of rumors, lot of half-baked theories, but nothing stuck. Not for lack of trying.”
“And you did a story about the Halloween murder,” Grace ventured carefully.
“Yet another unsolved murder, although that one's recent enough that I’m still investigating it.”
Grace took a breath, then said: “What if it’s related? To what happened at the ball?”
Tessa’s smile faded. “You think it’s the same person?”
Grace hesitated. “Possibly.”
Tessa stared, the mask of indifference gone, replaced by something sharper, almost hungry. “You think a random attack on a loser at a Halloween party has something to do with me being attacked at the ball, how do you figure?”
“I had a vision of the Halloween killing, and then when I held a necklace involved with the Halloween killing, I saw you killed at the ball. I don’t know for certain the same person is involved in both killings, but I know they’re connected, somehow.”
Olivia stepped in. “We don’t know much. But it’s the best lead we have.”
Tessa considered this, then shrugged. “Fine. Let’s say I believe you. What’s your plan? Bodyguard detail? Should I hide in my panic room and wait for the magical person to get bored?”
Anna grinned. “Actually, yes. Maybe lay low for a few days. Christmas is coming. Grace thinks if you make it through, you’ll be safe.”
Tessa let out a snort. “Adorable. But I have a show to run, advertisers breathing down my neck, and a segment on the mayor’s ski accident to air tonight. I can’t afford to go off the grid.”
Caroline tried a soothing tone. “It’s just for a few days. Let us help you. Better to be safe than—”
“Than what?” Tessa interrupted, eyes glittering.
“Dead? Sorry. That’s not how news works.
If I start hiding, every other reporter in the region is going to sniff it out and bury me in clickbait.
No thanks.” She stood, tugged her dress into place, and squared her shoulders.
“But I do appreciate the concern. I really do.” She turned to Grace, her expression suddenly and disarmingly genuine.
“Thanks for saving me. Even if it means you get to say I told you so next time.”
Grace met her gaze. “I don’t want to be right. Just alive. Besides, I’m pretty sure Bryant will insist on you having some type of bodyguard assigned to you.”
Tessa rolled her eyes. “Let the cop do what he wants, but I won’t slow my life in the least bit.”
Caroline gathered the group, ushering them out with practiced ease. “Thank you for your time, Tessa. Stay safe.”
They retraced their steps to the elevator. Anna waited until the doors closed to say: “Well, that was productive.”
Olivia groaned. “She’s never going to listen. She’ll do the exact opposite just to prove a point.”
Grace watched the numbers descend. “She doesn’t have to listen. We just have to figure out a way to keep her alive.”
They walked out into the freezing air, the wind snapping at their coats. The parking lot was still empty, the world deceptively quiet.
Grace watched the station’s windows, waiting for a sign of movement, a flicker of shadow. She thought of the raven in the garden, its words clinging to her like burrs: Some people deserve to die.
But not today, she thought. Not if she could help it.
The four women got back in the car, cranked up the heat, and sped away, back into the town, back into the waiting unknown.
Grace had failed to convince Tessa, but she hadn’t lost hope. Bryant would assign someone to Tessa. And if that didn’t work, she could always hope for another vision… as much as she’d grown to dread them.