My Secret Santa Clayton (Silver Ridge Christmas)

2. Grace

TWO

Grace

Just a false alarm…right?

I ran the rest of the way home, back to the old house I’d shared with my sister and parents growing up on the edge of Whispering Pines Forest. I couldn’t wait to get back inside to safety—or at least, perceived safety.

I swung my front gate open, the creak making me jump. My heart was still racing, not from the run but from the shadows that felt all too close, even in broad daylight. I fished out my phone and punched in my editor Rob's number, needing to hear something—anything—to drown out the echo of unseen footsteps from the woods.

“Rob? It's Grace.”

“Grace! Hey, what’s up?”

“I’m just…” I paused outside the front door, chewing on my dry lips. “Feeling a little trapped here. Any updates?”

“Not right now,” Rob replied. “You're doing good, just keep laying low.”

“Rob, I really think this story is too important to?—”

“Listen, you're safe there and it’s my job to take care of this,” he said. “I can’t have my reporters taking risks like you did. You got out, remember? Just keep your head down and let this blow over.”

“Keep my head down…yeah, sure,” I said. I peeked through the window in the front door, finding my sister Mariah working at the small dining room table. “I’m just worried about our security here. My sister is pregnant. Maybe I should skip town, go somewhere else…”

“Grace, you know the drill,” Rob replied with an edge of impatience. “Any other movement will just draw more attention to you, so stay put. I’m handling it. This will all wrap up soon.”

“Right, 'soon,'” I echoed, unconvinced.

“I’ve gotta go, but take it easy, Gibson,” Rob said. “Think of it like a vacation.”

“Easy for you to say,” I said, but laughed softly. “Keep me updated.”

“Will do.”

I hung up the phone and stepped inside Mariah's house, the scent of a cinnamon apple candle greeting me. Mariah was perched at the table with a cup of tea, her laptop open in front of her, one hand resting on her belly. Ike, the orange tabby with delusions of grandeur, paraded across the wooden surface.

“Off the table, Ike,” I said, but it was half-hearted; Mariah just let him do as he pleased.

“Let him be, Grace. He's practically decorating the place,” she quipped, not lifting her gaze from her screen. “Nice run?”

“Sure, it was decent,” I said as I shrugged off my sweat-dampened jacket. “Ran into Clay Hawthorne on my run. Do you know how long he’s been back?”

“Your ex?” Mariah looked up from her laptop, her eyebrow arched in surprise. “Yeah, he's been back for a while. Swapped his Marine uniform for power tools—runs his own construction gig now. Pretty low-key, keeps to himself mostly.” She watched me with a knowing look, a half-smirk playing on her lips. “Why do you ask?”

A thousand reasons why throbbed at the edges of my mind, but I shoved them aside, locking them down tight as I pivoted to the bathroom to get showered—and to escape this conversation. “No reason.”

I walked into the bathroom, stripping off my sweat-drenched clothes with more force than necessary. My mind was a battlefield, Clay's sudden reappearance detonating landmines I thought I had defused long ago. The military had chiseled him out of the lanky, shy boy I once knew—he was all man now. Closing the shower door behind me, I let the hot water cascade down, attempting to wash away the shock and the resurrected heartbeat he caused.

“Damn it, Clay,” I muttered under the stream, “Why'd you have to go and look like every damn hero from every war movie ever?”

His swift move to protect me flashed through my mind again, and I balled my hands into fists, trying to will away the warmth that memory sparked.

The sound of the bathroom door creaking open barely registered over the spray of the water until the whir of the blow dryer cut through the noise. “Seriously?” I shouted, yanking the curtain aside to poke my head out. Mariah stood there, hairbrush in one hand, blow dryer in the other, completely unfazed by my dripping glare. “Can't you give me five minutes?”

“Sorry, sis, I've got a meeting.” She didn't even have the grace to sound apologetic, just clicked the dryer off and on mockingly. “And five minutes is a fantasy. You are the queen of long showers.”

“Ha-ha,” I replied, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Your meeting can't be that important.”

“Every meeting's important when you're trying to be professional from your kitchen table,” she shot back. “And it’s kind of nostalgic, right? Getting ready for school in this bathroom, fighting over counter space.”

I sighed, resigning myself to the invasion of privacy as I shut off the shower. “Nostalgic? You mean claustrophobic.”

“Tomato, tomahto.”

“Can you at least toss me my robe?” I asked, half-hidden behind the shower curtain. A bundle of terrycloth flew over the rod, and I caught it before it hit the wet floor.

“Thanks.” I slipped into the robe, cinching it tight at the waist. My skin was flushed from the heat, but I couldn't blame it all on the shower. Clay's image lingered stubbornly in the back of my mind, the memory of his hands steadying me more vivid than I cared to admit.

“Welcome,” Mariah replied absently. “Now hurry up. I need this mirror and it’s all fogged up.”

“Bossy,” I teased, stepping past her, our elbows bumping in the cramped space. “You’re the one who came in here before I was done…so this doesn’t really seem like my problem.”

“Admit it, you love me!” Mariah shouted as I left the bathroom to head to my bedroom.

I did, of course. More than she knew.

And it was for that exact reason that I didn’t know if I should even be here.

I dressed quickly then went to the window, sliding the blinds open just enough to see outside. It was still foggy, the neighbor’s Christmas lights glowing through the wisps of cloud. The neighborhood was small and a bit too quiet for comfort, with Whispering Pines looming a couple blocks away.

I used to find it charming, but today, the Christmas lights twinkling across the street didn't do shit for the knot in my gut. The fog made everything feel close, too close, like walls closing in on me.

And just beyond those walls, the unknown lurked, ready to pounce.

Yanking the blinds shut with a swift tug, I collapsed onto the bed. My heart was hammering against my ribs, each beat threatening to burst into panic. I pressed my palm over my chest, urging the rhythm to slow down as I scanned the room for something—anything—to distract me from the clawing terror.

The bed felt familiar beneath me, the same one I’d cried myself to sleep in the night Clay broke my heart. I ran my fingers over the quilt, the fabric soft from years of washing, the sensation grounding. It was just fabric, just threads woven together; it couldn't save me from my fears, but for a moment, it was enough to hold them at bay.

My gaze flitted across the dresser, where dust didn't dare settle on my single framed photo of our family—me, Mariah, Mom and Dad. They smiled at me from behind the glass, their frozen happiness a stark reminder of simpler times.

Times before monsters were real and wore human faces.

I’d seen a lot in my career—been to war zones, covered the worst of human suffering. I’d covered wars in the Middle East; I’d photographed traumatized soldiers; I’d worked the crime beat in the underbelly of Boston. But this…it was more terrifying than anything else I’d endured. Because in those war zones, death was on the periphery.

Now, death was after me, calling my name.

And I had this horrible feeling it was here in Silver Ridge.