I expect it to be cold outside and judging by the sparse sprinkling of guests, so does everyone else. Instead, I’m greeted by warmth radiating from above. I look up in awe and Linden laughs.

“Infrared heaters,” he explains. “My mom and dad had them installed last year, but no one sees them, so no one ever comes out here. All the better for me. For us,” he amends to my delight, then leads the way to the far end of the porch.

I set my dishes down on the table, and Linden pulls out my chair for me. Again, something I’ve only seen in movies. I definitely could get used to this, and as I look out at the cloudy sky and spot one star struggling to show through, I make a quick wish on it that maybe I’ll get the chance.

“I’m starving,” Linden says with a sigh, and I notice that while my plate is full, his is piled. The formality of the party melts away and I grin as he digs in. For a few minutes neither of us speak.

“Thank you again for coming. And on such short notice,” Linden says once he slows down.

“Of course,” I almost choke to reply. I take a second to actually swallow then gesture at his house. “It’s really beautiful.”

“Mom and Dad love Christmas,” he says softly. “They always go all out. I just . . . can’t get into the spirit this year.”

I nod somberly and a movement catches my attention from the corner of my eye. Linden notices and we both watch as a uniformed security guy ambles down a well-worn path in the snow that follows the perimeter of the porch and then disappears around the corner.

“That’s a new addition though,” Linden says, and I hear that catch in his voice I heard on the phone earlier today. “I just, I can’t believe she’s gone. They’re gone. Both of them. And that they haven’t found a single thing to help catch the killer. Maybe even killers.” He laughs mockingly. “Killers.” He turns and looks at me. “It feels surreal, doesn’t it? Talking about murder in Coldwater?”

I nod, but let him talk.

“Every morning, I wake up and run to the internet to look up the news. I keep waiting for something to happen. Either they find evidence or . . . or another kid dies.” His voice is a whisper as he finishes and he throws back what’s left of his drink. “This isn’t what I meant to talk about,” he says, and changes the subject by gesturing to a miniature wedge of cheese on my plate. “You should try that one; it’s my favorite.”

I ask him about the other foods I haven’t gotten to yet and he tells me what they are. When he points at a crème-topped cracker and dares me to pop the whole thing in my mouth I do—and gag before spitting it back out.

“Sea urchin pâté,” he says after he recovers from laughing. “One of my dad’s favorites. As far as he’s concerned, the fishier, the better. I hate it. Worse than caviar. He drags it out for everything.”

I clear the taste from my mouth with a truffle or two . . . or three, before Linden stands and stretches his long arms over his head and says, “Back into the fray.”

He holds out his hand to me and when I slip my fingers into his, they’re warm and soft. He pulls me up very gently. I reach for my plate but he assures me I’m supposed to leave it there for the serving staff.

“We’ll get you another one to carry around if you’ll share,” he whispers close to my ear. His breath meets the edge of my cheek and curls around it like a caress. He smiles down at me before again tucking my hand into the crook of his arm. When he leads me from the dimly lit porch into the glittering world of candlelight and crystal that waits for us inside the house, I feel like Cinderella.

FIFTEEN

I wake up with the last vestiges of my perfect dream still flitting at the edges of my consciousness. It’s starting to fade, but I lay still and hold it close like a well-worn teddy bear. In my dream it was Christmas day, just like now, but I was at Linden’s house.

And there was kissing. A lot of kissing.

What a perfect Christmas that would be. I close my eyes and start to imagine the scene all over again when I hear a knock on my door.

“Seriously, Char, you’d think I was the little girl and you were the mother. Get out here!”

My mom is such a kid on the inside. Especially when it comes to Christmas presents. “Coming,” I say, and flip my comforter back, grabbing for my bathrobe, my toes inching toward my slippers.

That’s when the darkness starts to close in. The pressure that builds in my head is almost instantaneous, threatening to explode within seconds. I sprawl back down on my bed and close my eyes. I’m learning to recognize the violent force of the truly horrendous foretellings even as they build, and this one absolutely has it. I try to relax and let the vision overtake me despite my jabbing certainty that whatever I’m about to see, it’s going to be awful.

I’m not outside this time; I’m not sure where I am. The vision seems to be having trouble stabilizing and I wait for the scene to come fully into focus. When it does, a scream rises in my throat as I take in walls splattered with the deep maroon of fresh, wet blood. Even the ceiling has gruesome stripes crisscrossing it.

My breathing is unsteady as I let my focus fall back to the ground. My vision self begins to retch uncontrollably when I see someone lying in several bloody heaps on the concrete floor.

I think it’s a girl. But it’s hard to tell. Not without picking through the pieces. I take two agonizingly slow steps. My shoulder blades hit a wall and my hands spread out on the surface behind me to catch myself.