Ready to Die

Book 5: Alvarez & Pescoli Novel

by Lisa Jackson

Genres: Romantic Suspense; Suspense; Romance

Synopsis

One by one, he'll stalk them, then he'll squeeze the trigger, savoring the way each lifeless body crumples to the reddening snow. One down already. And then there were five…

When Detective Regan Pescoli drives to Sheriff Dan Grayson's house to present her resignation, she's prepared for an argument. She's not expecting to find Grayson shot and bleeding out on the frozen ground. The assassination attempt leaves Grayson barely clinging to life and the entire police department of Grizzly Falls, Montana, in shock. Every lawman has enemies, but something about this shooting suggests more than a simple grudge.

Now Pescoli feels compelled to stay on the force until the case is solved. She and Detective Selena Alvarez-who is torn between a new relationship and her loyalty to Grayson-work to whittle down the list of suspects. But the deeper they go, the more personal and dangerous the case becomes.

Then a prominent judge's body is found and the killer sends a sinister warning to the press: "Who's Next?" Headstrong and eager for justice, Pescoli has no intention of waiting around to find out. She'll track the scant clues on her own if she has to, but she has no idea where her search will lead.…

Two down, four to go…and now Alvarez and Pescoli are at the top of a killer's list. And when hunter meets prey, both must be willing to kill-and ready to die.…

Release date: July 11, 2012

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 384

Sample

Tick. Tick. Tick.

He was losing time.

Losing daylight.

The sun, threatening to set early this time of year, was disappearing behind a mountain ridge, the last cold shafts of light a brilliant blaze filtering through the gathering clouds and skeletal branches of the surrounding trees.

He felt the seconds clicking past. Far too quickly.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

By rote, with the precision he’d learned years before in the military, he set up in an open area that would allow a clean, neat shot.

Not that the bitch deserved the quick death he planned to mete. He would prefer she suffer. But there was no time for waiting. His patience was stretched thin, his skin starting to itch in anticipation.

He knew her routine.

Sighting through his scope one last time, he waited, breath fogging in the air, muscles tense, a drip of sweat collecting under his ski mask despite the frigid temperatures.

Come on, come on, he thought and felt a moment of panic. What if today she changed her mind? What if, for some unknown reason—a phone call, or a visit, or a migraine—she abandoned her yearly ritual? What if, God forbid, this was all for naught, that he’d planned and plotted for a year and by some freak decision she wasn’t coming?

No! That’s impossible. Stay steady. Be patient. Trust your instincts. Don’t give into the doubts. You know what you have to do.

Slowly, he counted to ten, then to twenty, decelerating his heartbeat, calming his mind, clearing his focus. A bird flapped to his right, landing on a snow-covered branch, clumps of white powder falling to the ground. He barely glanced over his shoulder, so intent was he on the area he’d decided would be his killing ground, where the little-used cross-country ski trail veered away from the lake, angling inward through the wintery vegetation.

This would be the place she would die.

His finger tightened over the trigger, just a bit.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

And then he saw her. From the corner of his eye, a tall, slim figure glided easily on her skis.

Good.

Reddish hair poked out from beneath her ski cap as she skied, ever faster. Recklessly. Dangerously. Tall, rangy, and athletic, she wound her way closer. She’d been called “bullheaded” and “tenacious,” as well as “determined.” Like a dog with a bone, she never gave up, was always ready to fight.

Well, no more. He licked his lips, barely noticing how dry they were. A hum filled his mind, the familiar sound he always heard before a kill.

Just a couple more seconds . . .

Every nerve ending taut, he waited until she broke from the trees. His shot was clear. She glanced in his direction, those glacial bluish eyes searching the forest, that strong chin set.

As if she sensed him, she slowed, squinting.

He pulled the trigger.

Craaaack!

With an ear-splitting report, the rifle kicked hard and familiar against his shoulder.

Her head snapped backward. She spun, skis cutting the air like out-of-kilter chopper blades.

She dropped dead in her tracks.

“Bingo,” he whispered, thrilled that he’d brought her down, one of the most newsworthy women in all of Grizzly County. “And then there were five.”

Just as the first few flakes of snow began to fall, he shoved hard on his own ski poles, driving them deep into the snow, pushing himself forward. In easy, long strides, he took off through the trees, a phantom slicing a private path into the undergrowth deep within the Bitterroot Mountains. He’d lived here most of his life and knew this back hill country as well as his own name. Down a steep hollow, along a creek and over a small footbridge, he skied. The air was crisp, snow falling more steadily, covering his tracks. He startled a rabbit a good two miles from the kill site and it hopped away through icy brambles, disappearing into the wintry woods.

Darkness was thick by the time he reached the wide spot in the road where he’d parked his van. All in all, he’d traveled five miles and was slightly out of breath. But his blood was on fire, adrenaline rushing through his veins, the thought of what he’d accomplished warming him from the inside out.

How long he’d waited to see her fall!

Stepping out of his skis, he carefully placed them inside the back of his van with his rifle, then tore off his white outer clothing. Ski mask, ski jacket, and winter camouflage pants, insulated against the stinging cold, were replaced quickly with thermal underwear, jeans, flannel shirt, padded jacket, and a Stetson—his usual wear.

After locking the back of the van, he slid into the vehicle’s freezing interior and fired up the engine. The old Ford started smoothly, and soon he was driving toward the main road, where, he knew, because of the holidays and impending storm, traffic would be lighter than usual. Only a few hearty souls would be spending Christmas in this remote part of the wilderness where electricity and running water were luxuries. Most of the cabins in this neck of the woods were bare-bones essentials for hunters, some without the basics of electricity or running water, so few people spent the holidays here.

Which was perfect.

At the county road, he turned uphill, heading to his own cabin, snow churning under the van’s tires, spying only one set of headlights before he turned off again and into the lane where the snow was piling in the ruts he’d made earlier. Yes, he should be safe here. He’d ditch this van for his Jeep, but not until he’d celebrated a little.

Half a mile in, he rounded an outcropping of boulders and saw the cabin, a dilapidated A-frame most people in the family had long forgotten. It was dark, of course; he’d left it two hours earlier while there was still daylight. After pulling into a rustic garage, he killed the engine, then let out his breath.

He’d made it.

No one had seen.

No one would know . . . yet. Until the time was right. Carrying all of his equipment into the house, he then closed the garage door, listening as the wind moaned through the trees and echoed in this particular canyon.

In the light from his lantern, he hung his ski clothing on pegs near the door, cleaned his rifle, then again, as the cabin warmed, undressed. Once he was naked, he started his workout, stretching his muscles, silently counting, breaking a sweat to a routine he’d learned years ago in the army. This austerity was in counterbalance to the good life he led, the one far from this tiny cabin. His routine worked; it kept him in shape, and he never let a day go by without the satisfaction of exercising as well as he had the day before.

Only then did he clean himself with water cold enough to make him suck his breath in through his teeth. This, too, was part of the ritual, to remind him not to get too soft, to always excel, always push himself. He demanded perfection for himself and expected it of others.

As his body air-dried, he poured himself a glass of whiskey and walked to the hand-hewn desk attached to the wall near his bunk. Pictures were strewn across the desktop, all head shots, faces looking directly at the camera . . . his camera, he thought with more than a grain of pleasure.

He found the photograph of the woman he’d just sent to St. Peter, and in the picture she was beautiful. Without a trace of her usual cynicism, or caustic wit, she had been a gorgeous woman.

No more. Tossing his hunting knife in the air and catching it deftly, he smiled as he plunged its sharp tip into the space between his victim’s eyes. So much for beauty, he thought as he sliced the photograph. Staring at its marred surface, he rattled the ice in his drink and swept in a long swallow.

“Bitch,” he muttered under his breath.

Turning his attention to the remaining five photographs, he felt his insides begin to curdle. God, he hated them all. They would have to pay; each and every one of them. But who would be next?

Sipping from his glass, he pointed at the first with the tip of his knife and moved it to the others. “Eeny, meeny, miney, mo . . .” But before he could continue and make his selection, his gaze settled on one face: Stern. Brooding. Contemplative. With a hard jaw and deep-set eyes. In that instant, he knew who his next target would be.

Dan Grayson.

Make that Sheriff Dan Grayson.

“Merry Christmas,” he said to the photograph as the wind picked up and rattled the panes of the old building. With his new target in mind, he took the last swallow from his glass and felt the whiskey warm him from the inside out. Deep in his heart he’d known all along that Grayson would be next.

He hoped the bastard was ready to die.

Grayson snapped off the lights of his office and whistled to his dog, a black Lab who had been with him for years. “Come on, boy.” With a groan Sturgis climbed to his feet and, tail wagging slowly, followed Grayson through the hallways of the Pinewood Sheriff’s Department.

The cubicles and desks were gratefully quiet tonight, the staff composed of a few volunteers like him, who had elected not to celebrate with their families so others could be with their loved ones.

“You outta here?” Detective Selena Alvarez asked. She was huddled over her desk, computer monitor glowing, a cup of tea cooling near her in-basket.

“Yeah.” He glanced at the clock. It was ten minutes after midnight and already a few of those who had either agreed to or who had drawn the short straw were arriving. “What about you?”

“Hmm. Soon.” She threw a glance over her shoulder and he noticed how her black hair shined under the fluorescents suspended overhead. As smart and dedicated as anyone in the department, Alvarez had proved herself time and time again on the field of duty, yet he knew little more about her than what was listed on her résumé.

He’d been sure to keep it that way. She had a haunted, secretive demeanor about her, and he’d been tempted to dig a little deeper into what made her tick, then had thought better of it. She’d been interested in him; he wasn’t so unaware not to recognize chemistry and attraction when it snuck up on him, and he’d considered returning the favor but had stopped himself. Business and pleasure didn’t mix, and he wasn’t ready to start a serious relationship again, even though his most recent divorce had been years earlier. But the sting of Cara’s betrayal had cut deep and now, with Alvarez, the opportunity had passed. His second marriage had barely lasted a year, again because Cara had never really been out of the picture, and though Alvarez may have thought she was falling in love with him, it was probably just a bit of hero worship on her part, unfounded, of course. He’d certainly felt her heightened interest, but before he’d reciprocated, she’d become involved with someone else, which was, he knew, best for all.

Still . . .

“Merry Christmas,” he said and sketched a wave.

“You too.” Her smile, so rare as to be almost nonexistent, touched a private spot in his heart. With a nod, he turned away. His dog at his heels, he flipped up his collar, yanked on his gloves, and walked the length of a long hall decorated with twinkling lights and silvery snowflakes, compliments of an overzealous secretary who took the holidays seriously.

Grayson barely noticed. His thoughts were still muddled and dark, all knotted up with images of Alvarez huddled over her desk. Silently, he wondered if he’d made a big mistake; the kind that could alter a man’s life. She’d almost died recently and he was just grateful that she was alive.

His steps slowed and he looked back down the hall. Maybe this was the moment to take that extra step and learn what she was about, see if there really was something smoldering there . . . maybe . . .

He caught himself and resumed walking, his footsteps sharper. “Stupid,” he muttered under his breath, giving himself a quick mental shake as he shouldered open the exterior door and stepped into the cold Montana night.

Aside for a few hours with his ex-sister-in-law and his nieces, he’d spend Christmas alone, he thought with a grimace.

It wasn’t the first time.

And probably wouldn’t be the last.

“I said, ‘I want for us to be together. Forever.’ ”

Standing in front of the woodstove in his old cabin, Nate Santana reached into the front pocket of his jeans and withdrew a small, velvet box.

“Oh, Jesus.” Regan Pescoli stared at the tiny box as if it were pure poison. She even took a step backward, but it didn’t stop him from dropping down onto one knee, opening the box, and holding it in his palm, the diamond ring within winking against white satin. Tears filled her eyes, burning, and reminding her of the sappy fool she was just under the surface of her crusty exterior. “You don’t . . . I mean, I can’t . . . Oh, Jesus.”

“Regan Pescoli, will you marry me?”

He looked up at her and her heart melted. Snow drifted against the windows, a storm brewing outside, but in this hundred-year-old cabin, it was just the two of them and Santana’s husky, who was sleeping on a rug in the corner of the room. “I guess I should have done this before I told you that I wanted you to marry me.”

“You mean, asked me first?”

“Yeah.”

“That would have been nice.” She tried to sound tough, to not allow him to see just how he’d touched her.

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“I know, I know . . .” She bit her tongue. The simple answer would be: “Yes, yes, a thousand times yes!” before throwing her arms around him and crying happily as he placed the ring on her finger, then carried her into his tiny bedroom where they would make love all night long.

She blinked back that particular fantasy. Her life wasn’t simple. And this wasn’t a fairy tale. She was a woman, no, make that a detective, with two nearly grown children and two marriages in her wake. Her first husband, Joe Strand, also a cop, had died in the line of duty. They’d been college sweethearts and she’d gotten pregnant, hence the hasty, often-rocky marriage and her son Jeremy, as bullheaded and handsome as his father. Then there had been marriage number two to Luke “Lucky” Pescoli, a truck driver who was as charming as he was good-looking and with whom both kids were spending Christmas Eve this year. That marriage hadn’t lasted long either, but the result was worth it: her daughter, pretty, smart, back-talking Bianca who, at sixteen, still believed the world revolved around her.

Two strikes.

Could she take another?

“For the love of God, Santana,” she said, clasping his hand and hauling him to his feet. “I’m not ready for this. You know that. What the hell are you doing?”

“Proposing,” he said dryly.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it, but . . .”

“But what?” he asked, and his eyes were sparkling a bit. Was it the reflection of the Christmas lights, a single strand he’d hung over the front room window, or her imagination that he might actually be amused at her confounded response?

“We’ve been over this before. I thought you understood. It’s not that I don’t love you—you know that I do—but me and marriage . . . it’s just never worked out.”

“Because you were always with the wrong guy.”

“Or they were with the wrong woman,” she said. When she saw that he was about to argue with her, she put out a hand to stop whatever arguments he came up with. “You know I don’t believe any one person is the blame of a marriage cracking or rotting. It takes two people to work really hard and . . .” She sat down on the old ottoman, so that now she was the one looking up, the one pleading, “Frankly, I just don’t know if I’m up to it.”

“It could be fun.”

“And it could be a disaster. My kids—”

“Will get used to the idea. You can’t live your life for them, you know. This is for you.”

“I know, but . . .”

“But what?” His playful attitude seemed to shift. “Either you want to get married or you don’t.”

“Oh, sure. If it were just that simple.”

“It’s as simple as you want it to be.” He arched a dark eyebrow and she felt her heart melt. In beat-up jeans, a dark T-shirt, and an open flannel shirt with the sleeves pushed to his elbows, he was earthy and male, whip-smart and cocky, a cowboy type with a murky past who had appealed to her from the moment their gazes first clashed.

It had always been that way with Santana. One look and he could turn her inside out. She was a strong, no-nonsense woman who couldn’t be bullied into anything, a hard-nosed detective who had been accused more often than not of being stubborn to the point of mule-headed. She’d never been the wishy-washy sort.

Except when it came to the subject of Santana and marriage.

She shouldn’t have been so floored. She’d seen this coming for a long time; a bullet she couldn’t dodge. She didn’t know if she was ready and truth be told, she wasn’t sure she ever would be.

“Come on, Pescoli,” he said with the slightest bit of irritation beneath his cajoling. “Is it that hard to say ‘yes’?”

She shook her head. “No, that part would be easy, it’s the rest. The believing it will work out, that we’ll always love each other, that it won’t turn into something ugly where all we do is try to get even.”

“That won’t happen,” he said, and for a second she believed him. “Not with us.”

“I think that’s what everyone who stands before God and family or a justice of the peace believes.”

For a second he didn’t say anything; then he snapped the box closed and set it on a table. “Tell ya what. It’s Christmas Eve. You’ve got one week.”

“You’re giving me an ultimatum?” She couldn’t believe her ears.

“You are a brilliant detective,” he said and smiled faintly as he leaned over to stoke the fire. Not bothering with gloves, he tossed a couple of chunks of pine into already-glowing embers, then stood and dusted his hands. All the while she’d noticed the way his battered Levi’s had stretched over his buttocks, and when she realized that she’d been staring, even fantasizing, she was annoyed at herself even further.

“I’m not going to be backed into a corner and forced to make a decision.”

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Yeah?”

“Okay. Fine. Think of it that way, then.” He shrugged as the fire popped behind him. “I’m not going to bug you about it. In fact, I’m going to stay out of your way; I’m not coming over to your house tomorrow. You have your time with your kids alone. But on New Year’s Day, I expect to hear that you’re ready to plan a future, that you and your kids are going to move into the new house with me, or . . . you’re not. If you can’t commit, then I think we’d better take a good, hard look at what we’ve got here.”

“And?”

“And if it’s not working out, then we’d better face it, don’t you think?”

“What I think is that we have a damned good thing going and even if it’s not . . . conventional . . . or even expected, it kind of works for us. No rules. You do your thing and I do mine. Everyone’s happy.”

His look called her a liar. “Then you’re not hearing me. What I’m saying is that I want to make you my wife. I want us to be a family. We’ve had our . . . fling.” She nodded, remembering their hot affair and how it had started, purely physically. “And it matured into this”—he motioned back and forth between them with one hand—“relationship that we’ve got now.” Her throat was tight, but she couldn’t help but agree. “And you’re right, it’s been great.”

“Really great.” Not only the best sex of her life, but a feeling of belonging, of trust, of letting this man see all the complex sides to her and loving him despite his flaws.

“So, now I want to take what we’ve got to the next level. Do you?”

The room seemed to shrink, to the point that it was just the two of them alone in the universe, which was just plain ridiculous because she was still a mother. Letting her breath out slowly, she said, “It’s not about want or desire. It’s not about not having dreams of us being together forever. It’s about being practical.”

He had the nerve to smile, that same slow, crooked slash of white that she’d found so impossibly sexy. “It’s about fear,” he countered, clasping her hands and pulling her to her feet. “Your fear.”

“Bullshit.”

“You know I’m right.”

She felt suddenly close to tears. Stupid tears. Woman tears. “I just don’t want you to end up hating me.”

He half-laughed and wrapped his arms around her. “Do you really think that’s possible?”

“Yes.”

“Then you really don’t know me, now, darlin’, do you?” Before she could answer, he drew her close and kissed her forehead, a soft brush of his lips against her skin. His breath was warm, his arms strong, and she felt the urge to melt into them. “It’s Christmas. Let’s not argue.”

“Is that possible?”

“Probably not.” When she tilted her face upward to stare into his eyes, she saw a spark of mirth, and deeper in those dark depths, something more, something that he quickly hid. She realized she should resist, that they needed to work this marriage thing out, but she was tired of arguing and besides, it would serve no purpose. And he was right: It was Christmas.

His lips found hers and as he kissed her, he swept her into his arms. “Wait . . .” she said, but Nate paid no heed as he carried her into the bedroom and dropped her unceremoniously onto his bed. “You’re presuming a lot, mister,” she pointed out, fighting her own smile.

“You bet I am.” He was already falling onto the old mattress with her and starting to unzip the front opening of her sweater.

“You know you’re a bastard, Santana.”

“Yep, and you love me for it.”

“Probably.”

“No probably about it, Detective.” He yanked both of his shirts over his head and tossed them into the corner. “And I think I’m going to prove it to you.”

She laughed. “That’s way too corny.”

“Yeah, I know.” Nuzzling her neck, he rolled atop her and, nose-to-nose, said, “I’ve got to find a way to convince you to marry me.”

“Good luck with that.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“What do you think?”

His hands, large and warm, pushed aside her sweater. “Good,” he murmured across the top of her breasts, “Because, darlin’, I’m definitely up for one.”

“You’re bad,” she said, holding her breath as her blood began to heat.

“The worst.” He kissed one of her nipples and looked up at her, his eyes glistening in the half-light.

Regan sighed, slowly sinking into sweet capitulation, at least in this.

“Hey, Alvarez! Give it a rest.” Pete Watershed’s voice nearly echoed through the quiet offices of the sheriff’s department. He’d been striding past her open doorway, the scent of tobacco smoke clinging to him, but he’d stopped and backtracked to her when he’d noticed her still at her desk, her computer monitor glowing with images of the victims of the latest serial killer to make Grizzly Falls his personal killing grounds as recently as two weeks before. He’d been dubbed the Ice Mummy Killer by the press and the name had stuck.

“Got any idea what time it is?” Watershed asked. A lanky road deputy with a perpetual scowl and propensity for crude jokes, he, too, had volunteered to work the night shift. She didn’t much like him, but he was a decent enough cop, and willing to give up his Christmas Eve so another deputy with a family could spend the night at home.

“A vague idea.”

“Yeah? So what’re you tryin’ to do, make the rest of us look bad?” He chuckled and his laughter turned into a cough, the result of a two-pack-a-day habit.

“Yeah, that’s it: My ultimate plan,” she said, and he laughed even more. “Fortunately with you, I don’t have to try very hard.” She half-smiled.

“Well, that was uncalled for.” The coughing attack slowly subsided.

“Actually, I’m packing it in.” Gathering up her keys and purse, Alvarez pushed her chair away from the desk. Her leg, from her most recent injury, pained a little, but she fought through it, barely wincing. Though she hated to admit it, Watershed was right, the digital readout on her computer monitor registered 1:16 a.m. She should have left the office over an hour earlier, but, of course, she’d put off going home. Again. A habit she’d tried hard to break. For years her job had been her life, and she’d seen nothing wrong with being known as a workaholic. It had suited her just fine until Dylan O’Keefe had barreled back into her life a little over a month ago. They’d been together ever since, and though their relationship was far from smooth, she was hopeful that it could develop into something permanent. Tonight, O’Keefe was with his family in Helena, so she was alone.

“Good, because I’m already on overtime and the department can’t afford us both.”

He wasn’t kidding. The sheriff’s department’s budget was stretched to the max. In early December there had been an intense, seemingly unending blizzard that had required extra man hours for road closures, electrical outages, and evacuations of the elderly. The recent serial killer’s rampage had added an extra strain to the resources of the department.

“If you’re so worried about the budget, why’re you still here?”

“Finishing up a report.” His eyes darkened a bit and he rubbed the beard stubble evident on his jaw. “Single-car accident out by Horsebrier Ridge.” Shaking his head, he added, “Nineteen-year-old kid.”

“Dead?” She felt a sudden chill deep inside.

“Nearly. Helluva thing for his parents to hear on Christmas Eve.”

“Or anytime,” she said, thinking of her own son in Helena, a boy being raised by another family as she’d given him up for adoption at his birth. Her heart twisted a little when she thought of Gabriel, the sixteen-year-old who had so recently come bursting back into her life.

Watershed asked, “So why are you still here?”

Slipping into her jacket, she decided to duck the question; the answer was just too personal. Since O’Keefe wasn’t returning to Grizzly Falls until the morning, she was avoiding her town house and all the ghosts of Christmases past. “Just tying up some loose ends.”

“On Christmas Eve?”

With a shrug, she wrapped a scarf around her neck and pocketed her keys.

“I thought you were on restricted hours or half time, or something.” He pointed at her leg.

At the thought of her struggle, how she’d nearly lost her life during her encounter with Grizzly Falls’s latest serial killer, she shuddered inwardly but forced a smile she didn’t feel. “The doc says I’m good to go.”

“And the sheriff?”

“Grayson knows.”

“Sure.” Obviously he thought her explanation was bogus, but he didn’t press it. “Okay, I gotta run. So, Merry Christmas, Alvarez. Have a good one, well, what’s left of it.”

“Got a whole day, Watershed. Or at least twenty-three hours left.” And it was going to feel like forever. She already wished the holiday was over.

Watershed didn’t hear her remark as he was already walking toward the area of the offices where the restrooms were located.

Usually the department was a bustle of activity, phones jangling, footsteps in the hallways, voices of officers and witnesses, keyboards clicking, the occasional burst of laughter or clink of chains on shackles, but tonight, with most of the lights dimmed and only a skeleton crew tucked inside, the offices were eerily quiet.

“Silent night,” she muttered under her breath as she slid her pistol into her holster and snapped off the lights.

Quickly, she zipped her jacket and headed toward the back of the building. Hopefully she wouldn’t meet anyone else and have to again dodge why she was here so late, why she had such an aversion to the holidays.

For the first half of her life, growing up in Woodburn, Oregon, in a large Hispanic family, she’d felt that special electricity that seemed to surround Christmas. Midnight mass with her family, the smell of tamales her grandmother created, the laughter and anticipation of her siblings as they decorated the tree, the anticipation of Christmas morning; it had been a magical, special time in an outgoing girl’s life.

And it had been stolen from her in an instant.

Her stomach soured when she thought of her cousin and how she’d been violated, how her innocence had been stripped from her.

“Get over it,” she whispered under her breath as she walked through the deserted lunchroom, but she knew she never would. There weren’t enough psychologists or antidepressants or kind, consoling thoughts to erase that particular pain. It would always be there, a scar that was just only lightly healed.

But she’d learned to deal and cope and now . . . even love again.

Maybe.

In contrast to the muted lights of the offices, the lunchroom was ablaze, fluorescent bulbs burning brightly overhead, while white Formica-topped tables seemed to reflect that very light. And everywhere, of course, shiny, silver snowflakes and gold wreaths, suspended from the ceiling and plastered to the walls, created weird mirrors.

Joelle Fisher, the department’s receptionist, was an uber Christmas enthusiast. Well, make that any holiday. She was up for celebrating all of the majors, like the Fourth of July and Christmas, as well as the minors, like Arbor Day and Flag Day. It seemed to be Joelle’s mission to find even the most obscure holiday and find a way to celebrate it here at the office. Joelle was never more in her element than around the