I rub my face with the heel of my palms and wonder how bad I look right now. I pull myself off the couch and the wood floors creak beneath my feet. I wander to the mirror over the console table and look at the face reflected back at me in the glass. My dark hair is a little ratted and mascara has smeared underneath my bottom lashes, but not as terrible as I feared. I run my fingers through my hair and pull it into a low ponytail. I carefully wipe the mascara under each eye with my index finger and grab my purse for reinforcements. Thank God for Listerine strips and Rosebud’s lip balm.
I open the door and walk down the long wooded hallway toward the back staircase that leads to the kitchen. As I climb down the carpeted stairs, I can hear the clink of Luke’s metal spoon against the side of his ceramic cup. A few steps farther down, I pause. He’s whistling. I squish my toes into the thick carpet and listen. It sounds familiar: a Christmas carol I just cannot place even though the lyrics are on the tip of my tongue. I hear him whistle the last bar of the song. There’s about a two-second pause and he starts the carol again. I smile and bounce down the last few steps. When I enter the kitchen, he winks at me, keeps whistling, and hands me a cup of freshly brewed coffee. I love that he doesn’t stop whistling or even say good morning. It’s like we’re in the middle of a playful morning routine that’s been going on for years.
“A little early for Christmas carols, don’t you think?” I ask, taking a seat at the enormous white-and-gray marble island.
“I whistle that song all the time,” Luke answers, sliding the creamer and the four packets of sweetener (yes, four) he knows I have to have in my coffee toward me. “June, December, October. Doesn’t matter. It’s my go-to whistle.”
“I’ve never heard you whistle it before.”
“That’s because I usually only whistle in the privacy of my car or home. No need to subject others to my random whistling.”
“What’s that carol called again? I know it and it’s driving me up the wall that I can’t remember the name,” I say, glancing down at my coffee. Steam rises, licking my face, as I stir cream into the elegant white mug, transforming the almost black liquid into a warm caramel.
“‘Good King Wenceslas,’” Luke answers and begins singing the lyrics. “Good King Wenceslas looked out on the feast of Stephen.”
“That’s it!” I say and pick up where he left off. “When the snow lay round about deep and crisp and even.”
“Super random, I know,” Luke says, shaking his head and taking a sip of his coffee.
“So random but I love it,” I reply and blow at the rising steam before taking my first sip. I let the warm liquid coat my tongue and run down the back of my throat.
“You sleep okay?” Luke asks, reaching across the island and grabbing the creamer, adding a drop or two more to his cup.
“Yup,” I say with a nod. “How about you? I don’t snore or anything, do I?”
“No, no snoring,” Luke answers, his mouth curling into a half smile, his dimples threatening to crease. “You did sleep on me most of the night, though.”
“Sorry,” I say, my cheeks growing hot. “You make a good pillow.”
“Don’t worry,” Luke answers. “I’m happy to be your pillow anytime, Mac.”
I cover up my smile by taking another gulp of my coffee. I glance at the digital clock on the oven. “I better go get ready,” I say, hopping off the bar stool and grabbing my purse off the kitchen table. “Leave in like an hour or so?”
“You got it.”
“Taking this with me,” I say, raising the coffee cup in my hand.
“Okay, see you in a bit,” Luke says as I slip out the Weixels’ kitchen door and walk the eighteen steps to my back kitchen door (we counted that one too). With every step, my legs feel heavier and heavier. I hate being in my house alone. I put my key in the door and turn it. I push open the door and the alarm immediately wails. The high-pitched shrill pulses, bouncing off every wall and crawling underneath my skin. I have thirty seconds to turn it off before it bypasses police and sends a message straight to CORE. I slam the door, put my coffee cup and purse on the granite island, and run into the mudroom where the state-of-the-art security keypad is installed. I type in the ten-digit code and the alarm finally ceases its piercing cry.
I run my fingers along the slick countertops and look around the dark kitchen as I take another gulp of coffee. The refrigerator hums for a few seconds then clicks off. The house is quiet again. A shiver shakes my body. It feels a good ten degrees colder in here than it does at Luke’s but when I check the hallway thermostat, it reads seventy. I pull my sweater tighter across my body and climb the curved staircase toward my bedroom. The clack of my boots on the hardwood hallway fills the house and I picture Dad yelling out, “Elefanteeee.”
As I pass the open guest room door, something out the front window catches my eye. A gray van sits idle, exhaust spewing from its tailpipe. I walk into the room and creep closer, dropping to my knees to peer out from the right bottom corner of the windowpane. The van is parked three doors down in front of the Saldoffs’ house and in the driver’s side mirror, I can see someone sitting in the front seat.