“So, that’s it?” I asked with a hard jaw. “I just deal with this shit?”
He gave a shrug. “He’ll get bored eventually.”
“And I’m just supposed to wait?”
“I mean…you know what your other option is.”
My eyes shifted away because that wasn’t an option at all. “I want to talk to him—set up a meeting.”
Bartholomew stared at me, the muscles of his hard body tightening. “Don’t be stupid, Benton.”
“I’m not going to kill him.”
“What will that accomplish—”
“Just set up the fucking meeting!” I slammed the bottle onto the floor, the glass shattering and spilling the contents of red wine.
Bartholomew didn’t even flinch.
I walked off, finished with all this bullshit.
His voice trailed behind me. “Ladies, I think my friend here needs a pick-me-up. Any volunteers?”
I didn’t turn back. “Fuck off.”
When I walked in the door early in the morning, Claire was still asleep.
Constance lay on the couch, her head propped on a pillow she’d taken from her bed, a blanket pulled to her shoulder. The lights were still off, and the Christmas tree glowed in the corner.
She didn’t hear me walk in, probably because she was exhausted from being awake all night, so I stirred her with the sound of my voice. “Constance.”
Her eyes opened, and she instinctively reached for the knife on the coffee table, the souvenir she’d brought back from the cult. With a heavy breath, she jolted upright, locked her gaze on me, and then closed her eyes in relief.
I fucking hated this.
She loosened her grip on the knife and returned it to the table. “Sorry…”
I shifted her blanket over and took the seat beside her.
She took a couple minutes to wake up, to let the terror circulate out of her blood.
“He won’t come into the house while you’re here.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because those were the terms—not to go anywhere near either of you.”
Her eyes were red and tired, like she didn’t sleep at all last night.
“Don’t be scared.”
“I wish he would come into the house…so I could kill him.”
Even with a weapon, she didn’t have much of a chance. He was a big guy—and he was smart. “You won’t need to after I talk to him.”
She slowly turned to me, her eyes wide. “When?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“I want to come.”
“We can’t kill him, Constance.”
“Maybe I can plead with him…”
“I think if he speaks to you, it’ll just make it worse. I’ll take care of it.”
She dragged her hands down her face before she rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “I guess I should make breakfast.”
“I’ll take care of it. Get some sleep.”
“You’ve been out all night—”
“And you’ve been up all night. I can take care of Claire.”
“You’re sure?” She turned to me, beautiful vacancy in her gaze, like she really was too tired to be fully present in the conversation. There were bags under her eyes, a tightness to her skin. But there was something about the way she looked early in the morning. This was one of the first times I’d gotten to see it.
I gave a nod.
“Can I take your bed…?”
I nodded again. “Always.”
“Dad, we don’t have any cookies.” Claire looked through the pantry, pushing aside cans of soup and boxes of cereal.
“Because we don’t need any.” She’d always had a sweet tooth, when I could barely tolerate the stuff. I joined in on the festivities like getting gelato after school just to bond with her, but it’d never been my thing. If a wine was too sweet, I didn’t like that either.
“What about Santa?”
“We’ll get some before he comes.” I stayed on the couch, one of her favorite shows on, our coloring books on the coffee table. I prided myself on being a good father, but I did drink when she was around, whether that was wine or scotch. It never inhibited my faculties, so it wasn’t like I was an absent parent.
“Dad, he’s coming tonight.” She ran back into the living room, giggling because she knew something I didn’t.
“Tonight?” I asked. “Wait…”
“It’s Christmas Eve!”
Shit. “It is?” I pulled out my phone and checked the calendar.
“Santa is coming tonight, and we don’t have any cookies. What if he doesn’t leave any presents?”
“He will. I’m pretty sure he’s full of cookies by the time he gets here.”
“But if I don’t have cookies, he’ll think I’m a bad girl.”
“No, sweetheart.” I brought her in for a hug and kiss on the forehead. “He could never think that. But we’ll make some anyway—just to be safe.”
“Yes!”
“What should we make?”
“Those cookies where we decorate them.”
“Sugar cookies?”
“Yep.”
“Alright.” I got off the couch and headed to the kitchen. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”
“Constance, we’re making cookies!”
She came into the living room, still in her tight leggings and a baggy shirt. Her eyes were still sleepy, but not exhausted like they were before. “You are? That sounds like fun.”
“Daddy forgot that Santa is coming tonight.”
“He did?” she asked with a chuckle. “That sounds about right…”
“Come on, help us.” Claire grabbed her hand and pulled her into the kitchen.
We worked together to make the dough, cut them into Christmas trees, reindeer, and gingerbread people, and then put them in the oven. After they cooled, we used the colored frosting to decorate.
“Look at my tree.” Claire showed Constance.
“Very nice,” she said. “What do you think of my reindeer?”
Claire stood on her platform so she could reach the counter, and she leaned over to see the cookie on the sheet. “What’s that red thing?”
“His nose,” Constance said.
“Ooh,” Claire said. “That’s really cool.”
“What about mine?” I’d decorated a sled, and I’d mixed red and black together to make this really deep color to decorate it.
Claire gave it a disapproving look. “I don’t like it.”
I grinned and put it down. “Just not as good as you are, sweetheart.”
Once all the cookies were decorated, the afternoon was long gone, and now it was dark outside.
“I’ll clean up everything and start dinner,” Constance said. “You can sleep for a couple hours.”
“I’m alright.” I dusted off my hands before I crumpled the parchment sheets and tossed them.
“Does that mean you’ll be home tonight?”
“I was supposed to go out, but I didn’t realize it’s Christmas Eve.”