Chapter 2

Tish kicked the dank cardboard box out of the way as she dragged the dry, better-left-for-dead evergreen to the corner of the bare living room and attempted to prop it up against the ancient plaster wall. The thing barely had any of its needles left, but somehow it had managed to leave a trail of them on the dirty, old hardwood floor.

“What a mess you're making, you crazy conifer.” She tried to prop it upright. Right here, in the corner, beside the huge opening into the back room of the small, war-time home, was where she wanted it. Even though the place was dark, moonlight and the odd streetlight washed in enough light for her to see in the abandoned house.

But she didn’t dare put on any lights of her own. The world in this part of the town wasn’t as friendly as it had once been. She needed to stay under the radar.

Which suited her fine. This night was for her, and for hiding out from the world.

She planted her boot on the tree’s trunk and shoved, hoping it would remain vertical. "Stay.”

But the thing didn’t. She winced. The tree, sad as it was, was her tree now. How to make it stand erect?

A rusty piece of grating, protruding from the broken plaster of the wall, caught her eye. Bracing her hand against the wall, she bent it, captured the top of the tree in its arc. Finally, she hooked the old metal onto the sharp end of a slat that was exposed on the other side. Hitched her breath as she released it, stepped back, and...

...the tree stayed.

Success.

A smile formed on her mouth, and she stopped for a minute, surveying it. Yes, it was a malformed piece of greenery, the very antithesis of holiday cheer.

But it was hers.

The wind suddenly rattled the old, ill-fitting windows at the back of the house as it whooped and circled around the tiny backyard of the old ramshackle home, reminding her where she was. The place was a holy mess.

But glancing at the tree from its top down to its bare branches at the bottom, a slow, steady warmth grew in her.

Yeah. Her tree.

All hers.

Already the place seemed less lonely. Less abandoned. As if a hobo of an evergreen was enough to give some Christmas spirit, some hope, even a smattering of joy to a home.

Tish sighed. Wasn't that why she'd come back here, tonight of all nights? Far from the glittering lights on the luxurious villa Christoff had just added to his roster of exclusive real estate in Italy?

She looked at the patches where the plaster had been knocked off the wall and the old wood strapping showed through. Faded, patchy.

This place had held all her dreams, just a few short years ago.

Then she looked down at the fourth finger of her left hand, and the pale band of skin, sighed.

Christoff was better off with it back.

And, she thought with a wince, she was better off here. Even if it meant pain—and it did.

She moved back from the tree, suddenly uncomfortable with her plan. She looked around the old room, and memories swirled.

Damn it all, she was determined to spend the night here, the way she'd intended to three years ago. Even if he'd never followed through on the plans they'd made so carefully together.

She was going to have the Christmas she'd wanted back then, even if she was alone, and divorced. She was going to remind herself that dreaming—even if it didn't go quite the way you wanted—was still the way she was going to live her life.

Funny, all that had died as soon as she'd lived three days with Christoff, despite the luxury, the sun, the beauty surrounding her.

And she never wanted to live that death again.

But the tree—it had no decorations. Didn't her sad little tree need decorations?

Scooping her scarf up off the floor where she'd tossed it earlier, she wound the creamy wool around the old branches. She stepped back and inspected it. “Yep, that'll do,” she whispered, and her words were strangely present, heavy, in the cold of the December night in the vacant room.

Satisfied, she sat on the opposite side of the room, on the floor.

She was going to stay right here, stare at that tree, and think about her life and where she intended to go from here. Until the answers came to her. She'd clicked the switch earlier for the furnace, and the old behemoth had sputtered into life and coughed some heat into the room. Yes, it was still chilly, but she wouldn't freeze.

And maybe, just maybe, her emotions would thaw too. Three years of holding on to someone was enough. Way enough.

A spurt of heat bellowed up through the ornately carved heat registers, blew a puff of dust up, and she welcomed the bit of warmth. A few more minutes, and she’d brave the upstairs and look for what she'd left here so long ago, to see if it was still there. See if it had any answers for her.

She pulled in a deep breath, plan set in place.

Suddenly, a loud creak invaded the atmosphere.

Her senses jumped to alert. The old place may have been her dream once, but she wasn't kidding herself. The neighborhood had gone down in the last decade. There was a reason big chunks of this block were on the demolition roster.

She sat, still. Waited. Listened.

Two more telltale creaks. They came from the porch, a scant ten feet away. She saw the footsteps in her mind's eye as they occurred, could picture the snowy boot. Watched the pressure exerted on the old wood. One step, and then the other. It could only mean one thing.

An intruder.

Hell. She should never have gone out there to get the damn tree. She’d known that. She felt her heart drumming hard, moving in that space where reality stretched. One second. Two.

But the desire for a tiny bit of cheer for her Christmas…

Pushing herself off the floor and quiet as a mouse, Tish turned toward the arched opening from the living room into the tiny hallway. A weapon. She needed something. She wouldn't go down easily. Determination grew in her. This was her house, wasn't it?

Her mind scanned possibilities, even as she thought of the best way to wreak the most damage on the intruder. Blow to the balls? The head? If it was someone hopped up on drugs, no way they were going to get her. Couldn’t be a burglar, could it?

Thoughts swirled as she scanned for anything at all she could use.

In the dining room at the back, she found it. A rusted piece of rebar lay on the floor, poking out into the doorway. She closed her mitted hands around it, hefted it. Then she crept back to the front, took up her station behind the front door, hunched over, and listened.

More creaks, solid ones, and her heart was beating into her throat now. Someone was on that porch.

Suddenly, the door danced in its frame, and she jumped back. Someone was shoving it hard. Fear spilled through her, but she intuitively raised the rod. Her breath came in bursts. And someone was still slamming it hard. Would it hold?

The old metal of the lock gave. With her heart in her mouth, she watched it open.

The scent of cold air assaulted her as the bulk of the intruder appeared and took over the space of the entryway. Assessing.

Her whole body moved as if orchestrated, and she lowered the rod wildly just as the intruder shifted and turned to her. He yelled. “Tish!"

“Eli?”