Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 122216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 611(@200wpm)___ 489(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 611(@200wpm)___ 489(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
I swear it all happens in slow motion as he stumbles and falls backwards. I wince as I watch his head connect with the side of my worktable before he tumbles to the floor. I stand there in shock, unsure of what to do. He lies on the concrete floor with his eyes closed. I rush over to him, dropping to my knees to check his pulse. What have I done? The man was only reaching for glitter!
His eyes flutter open, and he smiles up at me. “You have to find the new Santa now.”
“Okay, Santa, sure.” I agree, going along with his crazy. “How many fingers do you see?” I hold up two, but he doesn’t answer me.
“It’s a special job, but I think you’ll find that perfect someone. You must hurry. Christmas Eve is near. The children are depending on you.” His eyes start to close again.
“No! Don’t close your eyes.” I jump up and run inside to get my phone to call 911. I snag it off the kitchen counter and dash back to the garage. I almost hit the call button, but I come to a stop when I see he’s gone.
“Holy shit! Santa guy, where are you?” I frantically look everywhere for him, but the only thing I see is his hat.
I pick it up and look at it. The tag inside says it was made at the North Pole. I glance around the room again, but the man is nowhere to be found. Even the glitter is gone.
“What the hell is happening?” I rub my cheeks and stare at where I could swear the Santa cosplayer fell. But no. There’s nothing. No glitter. No lunatic Santa.
Maybe I’m the crazy one after all.
5
MAC
I watch out my window as Jocelyn moves from room to room in her house. All her lights are on. Even the ones in her garage. It makes me nervous. Why is she burning every light in the house?
“What’s the deal?” I pet Sylvester as he watches me from his cat tree I put against the front window. “She’s freaked out or something.”
Pacing in front of my window, I keep an eye on her yard and her shadow as it passes from room to room. Why is she so antsy? Something’s wrong. Oh, shit. Does she think there’s a prowler? Is she scared?
Just the thought of someone creeping around her house has me grabbing my coat and knit hat, lacing up my boots and stomping out to my porch.
The moon’s up now, the night clear and chilly. I head down my front steps and stride past the busted mailbox stake. A bitter wind whips down our street, and though there aren’t any clouds, the air promises snow.
Her lights are still on, though her Christmas décor seems to have been forgotten. After a quick circuit around her house where I don’t see anything except an owl looking down at me from the strip of woods beyond Jocelyn’s back fence, I return to the front. No prowler. Not even a nosy neighbor. It’s too cold out here for anyone except me.
The blowup Santa is deflated, and none of lights are glowing on her bushes. She may be able to do everything for herself, but this is something I can at least help with. I find the outdoor plug along her front foundation and look around for her extension cord. It’s in the brittle grass behind me.
Grabbing it up, I finish attaching all the strands to the power strip, and then I plug it in. Everything lights, and the Santa on the front porch inflates with a whir. He’s not lined up right, probably got turned around from the wind. Instead of facing the street, he’s looking right into Jocelyn’s living room.
I hop up the steps and grab him when I hear a bloodcurdling scream.
“Jocelyn!” I forget the Santa inflatable and bang on her door. “Are you okay?” I turn the handle, but it’s locked. “Jocelyn!”
She doesn’t answer. Fuck! I’m already in motion before I’ve thought it through. Pulling back, I heave forward with my shoulder and bust through her front door, wood splinters flying as I stumble inside and almost knock her over.
“Jocelyn.” I grip her shoulders and pull her tight to me as I look around the room. “Is someone here? What’s wrong?”
She presses her face to my chest, and I swear I feel warmth blooming from that little bit of contact. “I-I’m fine. I just saw …” She doesn’t finish her sentence.
The wind blows through her busted front door and rustles the garlands on her small Christmas tree.
“Shit. I’m sorry about your door.”
She shivers. “It’s okay.”
I don’t want to let her go, but she’s shaking. So I strip off my coat, drape it over her, then turn and close the door as best I can. The chilly air still seeps through the busted frame, but at least I can throw the deadbolt and keep the door in place.