"You know what? I don't have to listen to this anymore. You're the one pushing me away, and I get it. I really get it, Sune. You're angry and bitter and sad and you have the right to be, but I can't keep doing this. I can't keep being your punching bag."

  He looked into my eyes. I searched for softness in them but found none. Where was my beloved Sune? Where was the boy I had fallen in love with, the funny, crazy wonderfully irresponsible Sune who always made me laugh and always looked positively at things?

  He smiled sarcastically. "Then, don't."

  33

  Next to the day that her brother died, this Saturday had to have been the worst day in Alyssa's entire life. Luckily, it was almost over, she thought to herself as she closed the door to her bedroom tightly, and finally let out the tears she hadn't dared to shed all day. She put her back against the door and slid to the floor, letting out a deep sigh. The days since her brother got stuck in the chimney had been like a nightmare that she couldn't wake up from. Her mother had broken down completely and could do nothing without Alyssa's help. She could barely even walk. Meanwhile, her father had completely shut down and barely uttered a word to any of them. Alyssa guessed he had to be in a state of shock of some sort. She had read a lot about it online in groups she followed about kids who lost a family member. She talked with a bunch of kids in there and asked for advice. She wouldn't know what to do without those kids to help her. They had no other family since all their grandparents had passed away and her mother was an only child. The only one they had left besides them was her uncle, her father's brother, but they hadn't spoken to each other since they had that argument over their inheritance after their parents’ death. Alyssa couldn't understand how money could destroy something as deep as being brothers.

  But that left Alyssa as the only one to take care of her parents. Who was going to take care of her?

  Alyssa sniffled, then walked to her computer and sat down. She wrote to her friends in the group chat.

  JUST BURIED MY BROTHER. WHAT A NIGHTMARE. MY PARENTS ARE A MESS. I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO. WILL IT EVER GET BETTER?

  She leaned back in her chair, thinking about her brother and how badly she missed him already. He was a pain in the neck, but of course she loved him. She was his sister, for cryin' out loud.

  She pulled out the desk drawer and pulled out a package of cigarettes. She walked to the window, opened it and lit one, blowing the smoke into the salty air coming from the ocean. She wondered if her mother would be able to smell it on her, smell that she had been smoking, then doubted she would even care.

  It was dark outside now. She had told her parents she was going to bed, but they didn't even react. The house had been filled with people after the ceremony, people bringing food and tilting their heads, asking her mother how she was holding up.

  No one asked Alyssa that same question.

  Alyssa blew out smoke into the darkness. She didn't really like smoking that much, but it calmed her down. She killed the cigarette in an old can, then closed the window as she heard a sound indicating that someone had replied in the chat.

  IT DOESN'T GET BETTER. BUT IT GETS EASIER TO LIVE WITH, someone wrote.

  That wasn't much of an answer.

  Alyssa sighed. She could hear her parents coming up the stairs now and they’d be getting ready for bed. Alyssa looked at her own bed and questioned whether she would be able to sleep at all after this day.

  SO THAT'S IT? I JUST HAVE TO LIVE WITH IT? THIS IS MY LIFE NOW?

  She wrote, tears piling up in her eyes. She didn't know how to live with this pain inside of her, with this somber darkness that had fallen upon her childhood home. She wanted it to go away. She wanted to wake up from this freakin’ nightmare.

  34

  Alyssa fell asleep at her desk and woke with a gasp. Disoriented, she looked at the clock on the computer. It was past midnight. Her head was hurting from sleeping like that and she felt groggy.

  Many of her friends had written in the chat, trying to cheer her up, but she didn't want to read what they said. It didn't make her feel any better anyway. Nothing did.

  Alyssa's stomach growled and she remembered that she hadn't eaten all day, even though the house had been filled with food carried in by all the friends and neighbors who had been at the ceremony and had come to the house afterward to pay their respects. There had to be at least fifteen lasagnas still somewhere down in the kitchen.

  Alyssa got up and walked out in the hallway, walking cautiously to not wake up her parents. As she passed Tobin's door, she paused. The door was ajar and, for just a second, it was like he wasn't gone. Like none of this had happened. She imagined him in there in his bed, sleeping, or maybe sitting at his desk, drawing under the light of his lamp. Alyssa poked the door and it opened up a little more so she could see inside. She peeked in, but of course, Tobin wasn't in his bed or sitting at his desk. Of course not. It hadn't all been a dream or some freakish nightmare.

  It doesn't get better. Just easier to live with.

  Alyssa sighed and walked down the stairs into the kitchen. She found a bunch of the lasagnas stabled on the counter. The rest were packed in the refrigerator and in the freezer. The ones left out were the ones that there was no room for.

  Couldn't people think of any other dish to bring? Alyssa couldn't stand lasagna and after this was over, she was never going to eat the dish again.

  It's not gonna be over, Alyssa. Only easier to live with.

  She grabbed a plate and cut herself a piece, then sat down at the breakfast counter and ate. It didn't taste like anything. No food had tasted good since her brother died. It all tasted like that awful smell that had been in their house on the morning they found him. The same smell the entire house still reeked from.

  The stench of burnt skin.

  They believe he had still been alive, the police had told them. That Tobin had gotten stuck and maybe passed out inside the chimney and then when the fire was lit, he had been suffocated by the smoke and his body burned. About-two thirds of it was completely charcoaled while the head and shoulders remained untouched.

  Alyssa shivered when thinking about it, and lost her appetite. She put the plate in the sink, then grabbed a glass of water and drank. As she swallowed the cold water, she thought she heard the sound of bells ringing, but shook it off as being ridiculous. When she put the glass down, it was there again, sounding even closer.

  It's probably coming from the road outside. Maybe someone is walking their dog with bells on the leash or collar.

  Alyssa spotted a box of chocolates and opened it. She unwrapped a piece and ate it when she heard the jingling again. This time, it sounded just like it came from the living room. She walked in there.

  "Hello?"

  Nothing.

  Alyssa shook her head and was about to walk away when she heard the jingling again. She gasped and turned around, realizing it was coming from the chimney.

  What the heck?

  "Hello? Who's there?"

  Still nothing.

  Alyssa sighed and walked back toward the kitchen to grab another glass of water. The chocolate had made her thirsty. It always did. She had almost reached the end of the carpet when she stopped. There it was again. The sound of darn jingle bells.

  "Hello?"

  Alyssa turned around and faced the chimney. Was this some sort of sick joke? Was someone playing a trick on her?

  "Who’s there?"

  A dripping sound caught her attention. Alyssa held her breath as she spotted the blood dripping from inside the chimney into the fireplace. She gasped and backed up, then turned around to run, when she stopped. In front of her stood her brother. He was holding a plate of cookies in one hand and a glass of milk in the other.

  "T-Tobin?"

  But it wasn't really Tobin. Looking into his eyes, she knew it wasn't. His eyes were dead. His lips were colorless, the skin on his face grey. He held out the plate of cookies toward her.

  "Christmas is my fa-a-vo-rite time of year," he said. "What's your fa-a-vo-rite time of year, Alyssa?"

  Alyssa stumbled backward with a loud whimper. Tobin remained still, staring at her with his soft brown—yet lifeless—eyes. She was paralyzed until the boy's mouth turned upward in a slow steady smile and showed off a set of very sharp teeth and soon wasn't a boy anymore, but a man, a grown twinkly-eyed man with red gleaming cheeks wearing a crimson red suit and a black belt holding in his plump stomach.

  "S-Santa?"

  Santa bent forward. He hissed at her and snapped his teeth, his breath smelling like candy canes and cookie dough. Alyssa stormed past him up to her room, slammed the door shut, blocked it with her chair, and pulled the covers over her head.

  As she lay there the rest of the night, wondering if she was going insane, she was certain she could still hear Santa's deep jovial laughter coming from downstairs.

  Part III

  35

  Sara Andrews—aka the Santa-Shooter—was small and skinny. If she had been beautiful, it was a long time ago. She was younger than me but looked like she could easily be ten years older.

  I had come as a reporter and told the prison I was here to ask her to tell me her story for an article. It wasn't completely a lie since I would write a story about the strange deaths in Cocoa Beach if there was a story there. I just didn't know who I would write it for. I doubted Jens-Ole would put it in our local paper back home since the people dying weren't Danish, but as the days passed, I got the idea that maybe I could sell the story to a newspaper over here and make a little money while on vacation. We sure could use it.

  Assuming there was a story to tell.

  Four days had passed since the funeral and things had gotten better at the house. Sune was still angry with me and at the world, but the kids and I had started to really enjoy our little vacation here in paradise. I was beginning to look forward to spending Christmas in the beach house and we had even bought a tree. It felt weird that it was so warm when carrying the tree inside and decorating it, but somehow, I enjoyed the change it provided. This was so different from any other Christmas we had ever experienced, and to me, it was quite exotic.

  The kids had been begging to go to Disney World soon and I had promised them we would. So far, we had been to Kennedy Space Center, which I found very interesting and so did the boys, whereas Julie found it boring and kept asking where the rides were. Somehow, she had gotten it into her head that it was like an amusement park and there would be roller-coasters and not just boring old rockets and old spacesuits worn by people so long ago she couldn't even imagine it.

  Those were her words, not mine.

  "I'm Rebekka Franck," I said and shook Sara's hand when she approached me flanked by two prison guards.

  We sat down. The guards retreated to the wall behind them. I smiled compassionately, yet a little anxiously. The woman was—for all I knew—a murderer. She had killed her ex-husband and maybe also her boyfriend and younger brother.

  "So, you're a reporter, huh?"

  "Yes."

  "From Denmark?" Sara scoffed. "Am I really so interesting that they'd send some reporter all the way from across the pond?"

  I nodded. "Well, I was here anyway, but I stumbled across your story by accident and wanted to tell it."

  "What story?"

  "That's what I was hoping you'd tell me."

  I reached into my backpack and pulled out a file of papers. Sydney had helped me get ahold of some things from her dad's stuff. Among them, a notepad, the one he had used to take notes when interviewing Sara Andrews. I flipped through the pages, then stopped at one, and showed it to her.

  "Last year about this time, you were evaluated by a psychiatrist."

  "Dr. Hahn, yes. He didn't believe a word I said."

  "You do know he is dead now, right?"

  Sara froze. Her big eyes stared at me. "No, I didn't."

  "He hit a tree with his car right after talking to you. They called it suicide, but his daughter is of another opinion. You were the last person to speak to him."

  Sara rubbed her face. "I'll be…"

  I showed her the picture of Dr. Hahn's neck that Sydney had given me. "He had these red marks," I said and watched her reaction. It was violent. Her shoulders were shivering. Her eyes reached mine.

  "I thought you might recognize them?"

  "I…I…"

  She didn't say any more, only shook her head like she didn't believe what she had seen.

  "The last thing Dr. Hahn wrote on his notepad when he spoke with you was," I continued, while reading up from the notepad: "SANTA, AN ANAGRAM FOR SATAN, followed by a question mark."

  I paused and looked into her eyes again.

  "Now, why would he write that?"

  36

  Sara Andrews wasn't speaking at all. She was simply staring at me, her eyes wide and fearful.

  "When I read the notes, it seems that you kept mentioning Santa," I said. "Like here, when you speak about your younger brother who was killed back in ‘92, and your boyfriend when he disappeared, you told Dr. Hahn it was Santa who killed them, am I right? Was that why you were ready to shoot your ex-husband when he came down the chimney? Because you believed Santa was coming?"

  Sara Andrews shook her head. "I…I don't…"

  She stopped. I could tell I was losing her. Tears sprang to her eyes. "I’ve spent so much time trying to forget," she said. "Telling myself it wasn't true, that I made it up. I can't…I can't go back there."

  I looked at her, scrutinizing her. I didn't know what to think. Up until now, I had believed she was nuts, paranoid even, thinking Santa somehow was out to get her, but she didn't seem to be. I was still hoping she could give me something to move on.

  "So, what you're saying is you made up the part about Santa?" I asked.

  Sara still shook her head. Her eyes became distant. "No. No. I can't…I can't talk about it."

  "Why not?"

  Her eyes met mine, yet they still seemed far away.

  "Because I don't know. I don't know what happened. All I know is I saw him. I saw him in my brother's bedroom on the night he died, blood dripping from his teeth. The teeth that left that mark, the same as in that picture there on my brother's neck. I also saw him come out from between the trees in the park and attack Rob, who got so happy when he saw Santa that he ran to him. He used his…long pointy nails to rip open his vein, the one in his throat, the big one, and blood…blood was everywhere. I saw him, but I don't know if he was real. They tell me he wasn't. For years, that's what they have told me. That I made him up because of all the awful things I had done. That he was only in my head. That I made him up because I couldn't face my own actions. Every time I talk about it, bad things happen. Like me shooting John. I can't let this happen to me again or to anyone else."

  I bit my lip, trying to make sense of her and what she was telling me. I didn't know what I had expected from her, maybe a crazy bat crying loudly about Santa coming after her and wanting her dead, like the ones you'd meet in the subway. I knew she had blamed both deaths on Santa, as I had researched her trial in the local newspapers since they seemed to have a blast telling the story of the crazy lady blaming sweet jolly Santa for killing her brother and boyfriend. Heck, I even found it funny when reading it, but now I didn't find it as amusing anymore.

  I closed the notepad, wondering where I was even going with this. These deaths were all coincidences happening around December. It was just as detective Ryder had said. Christmas brought out all the craziness.

  "I am sorry," I said. "Maybe this was a mistake."

  Sara stopped me.

  "Wait. You're the first one to ever listen to me when I spoke about these things," she said. "Most people only laugh at me."

  "Well, can you blame them?" I asked.

  She shook her head. "No. I would laugh too. Only I’m the one it happened to, so I’m not laughing anymore. I'll tell you my story, in detail, but the thing is, once I do, he might come after you too."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Because you'll start believing in him. He only comes to those who believe."

  I chuckled. "I'll take that chance."

  37

  I left the prison feeling strange. I passed the tree where Dr. Hahn had been killed and recognized it from the photo in the police file. A chill ran down my spine when thinking about it and I accelerated, thinking about the stories I had just heard from this woman.

  I didn't believe a word of it since it seemed so far out; I had to stop myself from laughing while she spoke. How could anyone believe something that ridiculous? Santa as a bloodthirsty entity?

  But I didn't doubt for a second that Sara believed it herself. She had seen it and this was her story. I didn't know whether it brought me any closer to the real story, though, and I wondered about it as I drove back.

  There had to be an explanation for all this. There simply had to be. I wanted to find it and hand it to Sydney, so she could finally move on. Maybe it was for my own sake as well. Because I couldn't stop thinking about Jackie and her son in the chimney. I needed some closure as well. I needed to answer one simple question:

  Who started the fire?

  As I found the beach-line and drove toward Cocoa Beach, I speculated whether there was some smart killer on the loose, someone good enough to cover everything up, to make it all look like accidents. One who had been active for twenty-five years?

  But what about the marks, Rebekka? There were red marks on all of them.

  I shivered and decided I didn't want to think about it anymore, then turned up the radio, found a good song, and sang along. I reminded myself I was actually on vacation and maybe I should just let it go for now. There really wasn't much of a story, if you looked at it, and maybe I should focus more on my family instead. I realized as I reached Cape Canaveral and A1A, that maybe I had only thrown myself into this story because I didn't know what to do about Sune and me. To give myself an excuse to get away. Maybe it was because I didn't want to face the real issue here, which was that I was sick of the situation with Sune but saw no way out. There was nothing I could do to make things better. I couldn't make him walk and he wouldn't even talk about it anymore.

 

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