Silent Night (Twisted Holidays)

12. Hayley

TWELVE

HAYLEY

The hours following the accidental murder are a whirlwind of emotion. Once Saint escaped, I truly broke down, which made my call to the police more believable. Then I called Mom, feeling horrendous when having to tell Dean about his son’s death over the phone. They hopped on the first available flight and will be home later today.

The police and ambulance show up, and everyone seems to accept the story I feed them, which is mostly the truth, sans Saint. That Bentley arrived home drunk and started attacking me. I fought back, using every bit of strength I mustered. At one point in the struggle, I pushed him at the window, which happened to be harder than I believed, and Bentley crashed through. I ran outside to check on him, and then called 9-1-1.

The coroner, who followed a short while later, confirmed he was dead on contact with the ground, the snow not quite enough to cushion him. The medics confirmed the prints on my neck, the mark on my cheek, and the blood on my hands all coming from the fight, which left the police to believe me, though I still had to go downtown for this to all get sorted.

When I arrive, a lawyer is already waiting for me, courtesy of Mom. The lawyer tells me to remain silent on anything else, that this was purely self-defence, and that charges should be avoidable. After a long conversation with the police chief, she returns to tell me they’re not pressing charges since they feel if I didn’t fight, it’d be me in the morgue instead, and the fall was a consequence of the fight.

I wait around the station for Mom and Dean. The second they enter, Dean is a complete wreck on the floor, gaining a large audience. I step around Mom, who isn’t comforting her husband beyond her fake tears, to apologize. He lost his son, even if that son was a piece of shit.

“I’m really sorry,” I say. How else do I address the fact I’m behind his son’s murder?

Dean looks up long enough to scan my face and neck. His expression pinches before he murmurs, “So am I. I-I didn’t realize he’d be capable…I’m sorry you did what you felt you needed to.”

The conversation doesn’t end the storm inside me, the wonder of how much he truly hates me now. How much he’s blaming me. How we’ll all go on from this.

I leave him when the police officers who answered my 9-1-1 call go to talk to him and return to Mom’s side, who merely fusses with my neck. “Makeup will cover that up.”

Jerking my face away, I reply with a glare. After everything that’s happened, she’s still only focused on outward appearances.

Once the police discharge me to go home, she trails me out, insisting she’ll drive me home rather than stay with Dean. I assume, she’s avoiding. Her marriage just got more real, and if I know Mom, she’ll be running soon.

“I’m tired,” is all I say when we get home. I enter the front door and head to the staircase without looking toward the tree, or into the bathroom. Anywhere that reminds me of him . I hope he’s gone. Far away and safe, robbing other homes.

Thankfully, Mom doesn’t follow and I shut my door with a heavy sigh. The room is still chilly from the broken window but warming with assistance from the house’s high temperature settings. After the forensics team got what they needed from my window, they were nice enough to tape up plastic and keep the winter weather from coming inside.

I head straight for the bed, driven by pure longing and curiosity. Before the police took me to the station, they cleared out of my room so I could change out of pyjamas and into clothing more weather appropriate. In their absence, I wrote a note and hid it beneath my pillow, feeling the intended owner would return for it.

When I lift my pillow, holding my breath, the note is gone. The scrap of paper with only my name and number. Which means, amidst the crime scene, the police being in and out, he risked returning.

In its place is something else. Something explaining his reason for coming back.

A pink, leather-bound journal with a note on top.

So you can write down all your wishes and figure out what it is that you want.

—S.

It’s not the journal that brings tears to my eyes, or even the note left behind, or the fact he risked coming here to deliver it. It’s that my thief in the night who steals from houses, gave something to another person.

To me .

I hug the journal to my chest and wander toward the window, gazing at the dulled evening sun through the thick sheet of plastic, wondering where he is. Hoping he’s safe.

Missing him.

The twenty-seventh finally comes, but leaving isn’t without hesitation. When I showed up here the day before Christmas Eve, I assumed I’d be bored until my flight home. Now that it’s come, I stare longingly at the room again, recalling when Saint woke me up before licking between my legs. Or when I was upside down, sucking him down my throat. Or everything else that happened here.

Downstairs, it’s more of the same feelings. The tree has become a place of every sin possible and I feel my cheeks heating as I turn away. Mom and Dean haven’t noticed the missing gifts, but then again, they’ve hardly been around. Mom’s been in and out, while Dean spent the past day at his brother’s house, who lives in town, working through his grief.

The kitchen is where I nearly broke down. It’s where it all started.

Mom meets me outside after loading my suitcase into her car, twirling the keys with impatience. The moment I get in the passenger seat, she explodes, like she was clinging to whatever she has to say until able to let it out.

“Dean served me divorce papers. Apparently , he thinks it’s not right for two people to remain married when one of their kids killed the other.”

She says it so offhandedly, like a man’s life wasn’t the price. Sure, he was a piece of shit, but still her stepson. It might be ironic, considering my role in the cover-up, but at least I pretended for Dean’s sake. Understood that no matter the person Bentley was to me, he was a son loved by his father. At least I had compassion , but Mom acts like the entire thing is an inconvenience.

“What?” she demands, spotting my glare.

“So you blame me?”

She doesn’t reply right away, but her lips purse, probably debating the answer herself. After a few moments, she still doesn’t reply but launches into a whole spiel about a new dating app she’s heard good things about.

Great. Another stepdad in the near future .

She rambles on and on the entire drive and I let her, tuning her out as I imagine where Saint’s gone off to. How many towns has he managed to get through in the passing days. Where his destination will be. Where the next house he’ll rob will be.

At the airport, I give her a one-armed hug, which she barely returns. “Do better, Mom,” I mutter at her before turning away.

The check-in line is long but goes quickly.

Security is shockingly easy and painless.

I find my gate quickly, thankful it’s near the bathrooms for those last-minute trips. I claim a seat by the window to watch them load the plane. I wonder if Saint has ever been on a plane, but guess he hasn’t, based on his story.

I wonder a lot about him.

While pretending he didn’t steal the most important thing from me.

My heart.