Holly looks around to make sure she’s alone. She is, but she lowers her voice anyway. “It’s dead. Tell him it’s dead.”

“Are you sure?”

She thinks of that final look of surprise and fear. She thinks of the scream as he—it—went down. And she thinks of the abandoned clothes at the bottom of the shaft.

“Oh yes,” she says. “I’m sure.”

“We helped? Grampa, he helped?”

“Couldn’t have done it without either of you. Tell him he may have saved a lot of lives. Tell him Holly says thanks.”

“I will.” Another watery intake of breath. “Do you think there are more like him?”

After Texas, Holly would have said no. Now she cannot be sure. One is a unique number. When you have two, you may be seeing the beginning of a pattern. She pauses, then gives an answer she doesn’t necessarily believe . . . but wants to believe. The old man watched for years. For decades. He deserves to go out with a win under his belt.

“I don’t think so.”

“Good,” Brad says. “That’s good. God bless, Holly. You have a merry Christmas.”

Under the circumstances she can’t wish him the same, so she simply thanks him.

Are there more?

She takes the stairs rather than the elevator.

December 25, 2020

1

Holly spends thirty minutes of her Christmas morning drinking tea in her bathrobe and talking to her mother. Only it’s mostly listening, as Charlotte Gibney goes through her usual litany of passive-aggressive complaints (Christmas alone, achy knees, bad back, etc., etc.), punctuated by long-suffering sighs. Finally Holly feels able, in good conscience, to end the call by telling Charlotte she will be there in a few days, and they’ll go see Uncle Henry together. She tells her mother that she loves her.

“I love you, too, Holly.” After another sigh that indicates such loving is hard, hard, she wishes her daughter a merry Christmas, and that part of the day is over.

The rest is more cheerful. She spends it with the Robinson family, happy to fall in with their traditions. There’s a light brunch at ten, followed by the exchange of gifts. Holly gives Mr. and Mrs. Robinson certificates for wine and books. For their children, she was happy to splurge a little more: a spa day (mani-pedi included) for Barbara, and wireless earbuds for Jerome.

She, in turn, is given not only a $300 gift card for the AMC 12 cinemas close to her, but a year’s subscription to Netflix. Like many deeply committed cineastes, Holly is conflicted about Netflix and has so far resisted it. (She loves her DVDs but firmly believes movies should first be seen on the big screen.) Still, she has to admit she’s been sorely tempted by Netflix and all the other streaming platforms. So many new things, and all the time!

The Robinson household is normally gender-neutral and everyone-is-equal, but on Christmas afternoon there’s a reversion (perhaps out of nostalgia) to the sexual roles of the previous century. Which is to say, the women cook while the men watch basketball (with occasional trips to the kitchen for tastes of this and that). As they sit down to an equally traditional holiday dinner—turkey with all the trimmings and two kinds of pie for dessert—it begins to snow.

“Could we join hands?” Mr. Robinson asks.

They do.

“Lord, bless the food we are about to receive from your bounty. Thank you for this time together. Thank you for family and friends. Amen.”

“Wait,” Tanya Robinson says. “That’s not enough. Lord, thank you so much that neither of my beautiful children was badly hurt by the man who attacked them. It would break my heart if they weren’t at this table with us. Amen.”

Holly feels Barbara’s hand tighten on hers, and hears a faint sound from the girl’s throat. Something that might have been a cry, had it been set free.

“Now everyone has to tell one thing they’re grateful for,” Mr. Robinson says.

They go around the table. When it’s Holly’s turn, she says she’s grateful to be with the Robinsons.

2

Barbara and Holly try to help with the washing-up, but Tanya shoos them out of the kitchen, telling them to “do something Christmassy.”

Holly suggests a walk. Maybe to the bottom of the hill, maybe all the way around the block. “It will be pretty in the snow,” she says.

Barbara’s up for it. Mrs. Robinson tells them to get back by seven, because they’re going to watch A Christmas Carol. Holly hopes it will be the one with Alastair Sim, which in her opinion is the only one worth watching.

It’s not just pretty outside; it’s beautiful. They are the only ones on the sidewalk, their boots crunching in two inches of new-fallen powder. Streetlights and Christmas lights are surrounded by swirling halos. Holly sticks out her tongue to catch some flakes, and Barbara does the same. It makes them both laugh, but when they reach the bottom of the hill and Barbara turns to her, she’s solemn.

“All right,” she says. “It’s just the two of us. Why are we out here, Hols? What did you want to ask?”

“Just how you’re doing with it,” Holly says. “Jerome I don’t worry about. He got clobbered, but he didn’t see what you did.”

Barbara takes a shuddering breath. Because of the snow melting on her cheeks, Holly can’t tell if she’s crying. Crying might be good. Tears can be healing.

“It’s not that so much,” she says at last. “The way he changed, I mean. The way his head seemed to turn to jelly. It was horrible, sure, and it opens the gates . . . you know . . .” She puts her mittened hands to her temples. “The gates in here?”

Holly nods.

“You realize anything could be out there.”

“See ye devils, then shall ye not see angels?” Holly says.

“Is that the Bible?”

“It doesn’t matter. If what you saw isn’t troubling you, Barb, then what is?”

“Mom and Dad could have buried us!” Barbara bursts out. “They could have been at that table alone! Not eating turkey and stuffing, they wouldn’t want anything like that, maybe just S-Sp-Spam—”

Holly laughs. She can’t help it. And Barbara can’t help joining in. Snow is gathering on her knitted cap. To Holly she looks very young. Of course she is young, but more like a twelve-year-old than a young woman who will be going to Brown or Princeton next year.

“Do you see what I mean?” Barbara takes Holly’s gloved hands. “It was close. It was really, really close.”

Yes, Holly thinks, and it was your regard for me that put you there.

She embraces her friend in the falling snow. “Sweetheart,” she says, “we’re all close. All the time.”

3

Barbara starts up the steps to the house. Inside, there will be cocoa and popcorn and Scrooge trumpeting that the spirits have done it all in one night. But there’s a final bit of business that needs to be done out here, so Holly takes Barbara’s arm for a moment in the thickening snow. She holds out a card she put in her coat pocket before leaving for the Robinsons’, in case it might be needed. There’s nothing on it but a name and a number.