Chapter 7
I SEE THE FIGURE on my porch when I’m half a block from my house. For a second, my heart leaps. Tall, broad-shouldered. I’m certain it’s Malcolm. But when he glances around—in a way that looks more than a little guilty—I know it can’t be.
Besides, Malcolm has a key.
I park the truck three houses from mine, slip out, and ease the door closed. The temperature has dropped, so I tug my hood up and over my head. My boots squeak against the snow. In the quiet, the sound is loud, but whoever is on my porch doesn’t seem to notice.
By the time I reach the end of my walkway, he’s doing something with the mistletoe wreath, the one that I haven’t bothered to take down and toss on the compost heap. Beneath the glow of the porch lamp, his hair gleams. I take a deep breath. Then I yell out.
