For the second time that week, the gothic iron gate of the Reynolds estate opened up to her. Morgan held her breath as the bald tires of her grandpa’s Oldsmobile rolled over the packed snow. The sound made her teeth hurt.
She’d filled Bennett in last night on her current situation: cameraless, carless, and utterly mortified to explain to his mother that there would be no Christmas party photographs. He assured her everything would be all right, that it was no big deal, seriously, and invited her over. She accepted, only so she could return the money, and felt, now, like a rabbit hopping into a fox’s den to be eaten alive.
Bennett’s Porsche was parked in front of the guesthouse/garage combo. It was a modern iteration of Clive’s 1978 Widowmaker—smaller, sleeker, sans whale tail spoiler—and newly waxed, not a speck of salt disrupting its rich midnight-blue finish. How did he keep it so clean, she wondered, as she pulled up next to it. She began to wonder if the Reynolds family—Don included—had invisible force fields that protected them and all their possessions from Black Harbor’s grit and grime. Her own family did not have that immunity. She slammed the Oldsmobile’s driver’s side door and a clump of wet, grey snow plopped from the wheel well onto the cobblestones. Point proven.
The Land Rover was here again, and a gunmetal Tesla that looked like a bullet. Great, more people to eat her alive.
The wind off the lake rocked her back on her heels, and the chill cut straight to her bones. She shoved her hands into her jacket pockets and approached the back steps. The keyhole screamed silently at her. Morgan froze. Only her eyes moved to shoot a quick glance over each shoulder. Then, she pulled the key from her wrist cuff and inserted it in the lock.
Her heart shot up into her throat as she gave the key a twist. It turned halfway and stopped. Morgan frowned and tried again. The key wouldn’t turn any further. Her disappointment was palpable as a puff of vapor that hung in front of her face, taunting her. The excitement at the prospect of having an answer, a corresponding lock to this mysterious key, had built up more than she’d realized. Now that it was gone, she felt crushed. Defeated. Melancholic. And on Christmas Eve of all days.
She should leave. Just tuck the envelope under Bennett’s windshield wiper. Morgan pivoted to head down the steps, when the door suddenly swung away from its frame. Bennett stood in its place, looking much more comfortable in his own skin this time. He’d exchanged the cable-knit sweater for dark jeans and a light blue button-up with the sleeves rolled. His hair was expertly pushed to one side, giving his Neptunian eyes free range to roam Morgan as she stood on the porch.
What was it about him that stopped her in her tracks, made her feel as though her soles were glued to the step? Perhaps it was the way his face morphed into Clive’s when he smiled. “Morgan Mori. Long time no see.”
“Bennett Reynolds. It’s only been four and a half days.”
“But who’s counting?” He winked. The gesture made Morgan’s knees weak.
“Are you going to invite me in, or is there a toll?” When he looked perplexed, she tilted her chin up toward the mistletoe suspended from the beam overhead.
“Oh.” His cheeks colored when he followed her gaze. “There wasn’t a toll, but if you’re offering…”
“I’m not.” She smiled, though, like she might consider it in the future, and let him hold the door open for her. They paused, for a moment, in the vestibule, and Morgan felt Bennett’s hand slide down her sleeve. His fingertips found her hand then, and he tapped a subtle Morse code into her palm.
“I’m glad you’re okay, Morgan Mori. I wish you’d have told me. I would have come.”
And done what, she wondered. “Thanks, but … it became kind of a whole to-do. Cops wanted to talk to me, get a statement…”
Bennett nodded. He touched her cheek, then, and tucked back a piece of hair that had come loose from her red slouch hat. “Just promise you won’t get caught in the middle of any more crime scenes.” His voice was soft, sexy.
Morgan swallowed. She felt something stir inside her, a magnetic force, almost, pushing her toward him. She shivered, but not from the cold. If she kissed him, her life could change forever. And would that be a terrible thing? She stood on her tiptoes, a frog about to kiss her prince, when—
“Morgan!” Eleanor’s voice rang like a bell, instantly shattering the moment. “What a joy!”
Bennett dropped his arms as his mother cut between them to give Morgan a squeeze. The gesture was unexpected. Morgan shot a glance over the top of Eleanor’s head to catch Bennett’s perplexed expression.
“Oh, Bennett, don’t make her catch her death out here. Won’t you come in for some coffee?”
Morgan nodded, although she didn’t have much choice. Eleanor was already pulling her into the great room.
Bennett helped her out of her jacket before she could protest and hung it on an empty hook. She wasn’t planning on staying long. She did take her boots off, though. She’d already lost the woman’s photos. No sense adding insult to injury by tracking snow all over her floors.
The warmth and aroma of fresh-baked cinnamon buns greeted her as they entered the great room. Her stomach growled. All she’d had for breakfast were the remains of the Lucky Charms and the inch of dust that had collected in the bottom of the bag. Over the sound system, a melody of bells, guitar, and flute played a Celtic rendition of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.” It was both ominous and beautiful; Morgan felt a little as though she’d just wandered through a wardrobe and popped out the other side, in a realm where people wore perfect, unfrayed clothes and sipped espresso.
The family was in the living room. They looked miniature in comparison to the tree, whose branches glistened and glimmered with crystal icicles and fairy lights. Eleanor, a vision in a gold-sequined sweater, had already cozied back up next to Don on the love seat. A white-bearded man sat on the couch across from them, his mouth curved into a grin as he watched Charlie play with a bright-colored keyboard. Cora sat on the floor beside her son, smoothing his wisps of blond hair.
“Morgan, you remember Don…” Eleanor rested a hand on her gentleman’s chest. The man looked as dapper as he had Saturday night, and Morgan figured he was one of those people who always looked like that.
“Hello again, Morgan.” His voice was low but soft, slightly ridged. The lights from the tree reflected in his rectangular lenses.
“And Christopher, aka Kris Kringle.” Eleanor gestured to the old man in the blue turtleneck.
“Merry Christmas,” said Bennett’s uncle Christopher. “Tell me, young lady. Did you ever get your Butterfinger?”
The question immediately put Morgan back at the Fast Mart, reaching for the yellow wrapper when … Pop! Foil bags and windows and her eardrums all exploded at once.
Reassuringly, and out of anyone’s view, Bennett pressed a knuckle against the small of her back. That little touch kept her from falling over, from curling into a fetal position and lying still until everyone disappeared. Play dead. That was how she’d always survived before.
“I—” Her voice shook. “I’m sorry.” The warmth from the fire was suffocating. The edges of her vision blackened into tunnel vision, and she stared away from them, at a coat of arms displayed above the fireplace. It showed two tigers, mirror images of each other, claws poised to strike. A sword separated them, and at the bottom of the crest in gothic lettering was the name Reynolds. How pleasing and fearful it was to look at, perfect in its symmetry.
“S’okay,” Bennett murmured. How close was she that she could hear him so clearly? Or, how silent had they all fallen?
“I, um—” She swallowed but her throat was dry. “I lost the pictures.” The words spewed from her mouth like projectile vomit. “I— I was at the gas station when that cop got shot, and—”
“Oh my God, Morgan, for real?” Within seconds, Cora’s cashmere scarf brushed against her cheek. The scents of vanilla and plum enveloped her. She had the same straitjacket hug as Eleanor.
To Morgan’s disbelief, she tasted salt as tears streamed from her eyes into the space between her lips. She sniffled, and Bennett offered her a box of lotion-infused tissues.
She dabbed at her eyes, knowing full well that her eyeliner was probably smeared beyond repair. Fuck, fuckity fuck.
“Aw, my dear. Come sit.” Eleanor patted the cushion next to her and Don, and Morgan was seated before she even realized she’d told her feet to move. “What happened, darling? If you want to tell us. If not … we understand.”
Eleanor’s soft words summoned a waterfall of hot tears to flood from Morgan’s eyes. She hated herself for crying like this, in front of them, but then, this was good, wasn’t it? She’d played the woe is me card and hadn’t even meant to.
Maybe they’d go easy on her.
“You were there when that cop got shot.” Cora knelt in front of Morgan, her hand on her knee. “How traumatizing.”
Morgan nodded. “I’m sorry,” she finally managed to choke out. “I was inside wh—” She drew in a deep inhale, let it out. Eleanor rubbed her back. “When the man shot him an-and stole my car. He shot him and he left and he took my car. I hadn’t locked it because I was…” Why? Why hadn’t she locked her car? She simply hadn’t thought to. She’d only meant to get out and manage the whole transaction at the pump. She hadn’t been prepared to go inside. Stupid. She was so stupid.
Her shoulders slumped even lower. “My camera was in the car, with all the pictures from Saturday night. I’ve been in contact with the police, but…” But nothing. It had been almost a week. Her car was gone. Her camera was gone. Eleanor’s pictures, gone. She reached into her leggings’ side pocket and extracted the envelope of money. She held it out toward Bennett, who stood near Christopher. “I can’t accept your money. I ruined your Christmas.”
Ruined. The word tumbled from her mouth without any warning. My ruin. Whoever had left her the key had known what she was, what she was capable of. She ruined things.
“Morgan, darling.” Eleanor pulled her close and rocked her. She rocked her, like Morgan was a child and not a thirty-one-year-old woman. Headlines flashed through Morgan’s mind, snippets of articles she’d read over the years. MRS. REYNOLDS, MURDERESS; HOW TO GET AWAY WITH MURDER: BE A REYNOLDS; MRS. REYNOLDS PROVES KILLING HUSBAND YIELDS BIG PAYOFF, etc. How could any of them define the nurturing creature who embraced her now?
“Bennett, would you please get Morgan a cup of coffee?”
“I’ll get it.” Don patted Eleanor’s knee and stood. “How do you take it, Morgan?”
Morgan sat up a little, wiped at her nose. “With whipped cream.”
Everyone chuckled as though she was joking. Even Don, until he paused and asked: “You’re serious?”
A little sheepish now, Morgan nodded. She drank her coffee like most people drank hot cocoa—with whipped cream and marshmallows and cookie crumbles if there were any around.
Eleanor folded Morgan’s fingers over the envelope. “Keep it. We had you running around here like a madwoman.”
Morgan fought a twitch tugging at the corner of her mouth. If only they knew how mad she was. “Thank you,” she said. Her eyes were still wet, her vision blurry as she pulled away a bit so she could look at Eleanor. “I wish there was some way I could make it up to you.”
The lights from the tree sparkled in Eleanor’s eyes. Her snowy white brows peaked just a little when she said, “I have something in mind.”