Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 95107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
“No need. Any signature from the household will do.” He hands over the phone and a plastic pen. After Grace’s dad scribbles his signature, the delivery man bids us goodbye and hurries back to his truck. No doubt eager to get home and see his family.
“Who’s it from?” I ask.
Tim checks the return label. “No name. Just a P.O. Box in Boston.”
The package is about two by two feet, and when Tim gives it to me, I notice it doesn’t have much heft. I narrow my eyes. “What if it’s a bomb?”
“Then it will explode and we’ll die, and the atoms of which we are composed will find new uses elsewhere in the universe.”
“And Merry Christmas to us all!” I say with exaggerated holiday cheer, before rolling my eyes at him. “You’re a real buzzkill, sir, you know that?”
“What’s that?” Grace demands when we enter the living room of the big Victorian home.
“Not sure. It just showed up.” I hold out the box. “For you.”
Grace does that cute lip-biting thing she does when she’s thinking. Her gaze travels to the beautifully decorated tree and piles of perfectly wrapped presents beneath it. “I don’t think we can put it under there,” she finally decides. “My OCD would never allow me to get through tomorrow morning knowing there’s one stupid box that doesn’t look magical.”
I snort. “I can go wrap it if you want.”
“There’s no wrapping paper left.”
“So I’ll use newspaper. Or parchment paper.”
My girlfriend stares at me. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.”
Her father laughs, because he’s a traitor.
“Fine, then just open it now,” I tell her. “We don’t even know who it’s from, so technically it might not be an official Christmas present. Fifty percent of me thinks it’s a bomb, but don’t worry, gorgeous, your father assured me our atoms will be repurposed after we explode.”
Grace sighs. “I don’t understand you sometimes.”
Then she flounces off to the kitchen to look for scissors.
I admire her ass, which looks great in her bright red leggings. She paired the leggings with a red-and-white striped sweater. Her dad is clad in a similar sweater, but his is green and red and has a badly knitted representation of a reindeer, which I first thought was a cat when he strolled in earlier wearing it. Apparently Grace’s mom knit the horrific thing for him when Grace was little. As someone who didn’t have many good holidays with my family, I have to admit I’m really into the weird Ivers traditions.
“All right, let’s see what we’ve got here.” Grace sounds excited as she slices through the strip of packing tape on the box.
Me, I’m on guard, because I haven’t completely ruled out the notion that this could be an assassination attempt.
She opens the cardboard flaps and pulls out a small notecard. A frown furrows her brow.
“What does it say?” I demand.
“It says ‘I missed you.’”
My guard shoots up ten feet higher. What the fuck? Who the hell is sending my girlfriend gifts with cards that say I missed you?
“Maybe it’s from your mom?” Tim guesses, looking equally perplexed.
Grace reaches inside and rummages through a sea of packing paper. The frown deepens when her fingers connect with whatever’s inside. A moment later, her hand emerges with its prize. All I glimpse is a flash of white, blue, and black, before Grace shrieks and drops the item as if it burned her palm.
“No!” she growls. “No. No. No. No, no, no, no.” Her rageful gaze turns to me. She jabs her finger in the air. “Get rid of him, John.”
Oh boy. Realization dawns as I approach the box. I have a pretty good sense now of what it contains, and—yep.
It’s Alexander.
Grace’s father wrinkles his forehead as I lift the porcelain doll from the cardboard. “What is that?” he inquires.
“No,” Grace is still saying, pointing at me. “I want him gone. Now.”
“What exactly would you like me to do?” I counter. “Throw him in the trash?”
She pales at the suggestion. “You can’t do that. What if it makes him angry?”
“Of course it will make him angry. Look at him. He’s perpetually angry.”
Trying not to shudder, I force myself to look at Alexander’s face. I can’t believe it’s been almost seven blissful months since I’ve seen it. As far as disturbing antique dolls go, this one tops the list. With a porcelain face so white it looks unnatural, he’s got big lifeless blue eyes, weirdly thick black eyebrows, a tiny red mouth, and black hair with an extravagant widow’s peak. He’s wearing a blue tunic, white neckerchief, black jacket and shorts, and shiny red shoes.
He is the creepiest thing I ever did see.
“That’s it,” Grace says. “You’re not allowed to be friends with Garrett anymore. I’m serious.”
“In his defense, Dean started it,” I point out.
“You can’t be friends with him either. Tucker’s okay to keep because I know he hates this as much as I do.”