Page 44 of A Newport Christmess

“Hey, Dad.”

The sound muffled momentarily, like Mom had passed him the phone. “Hey there, sweets. It sounds like you need to go, but real quick, I wanted to touch base with you about the receptionist job at my office. I don’t need to know right now if you want it, but I will soon—probably in the next week or two—so just keep that at the forefront of your mind. I think it would be a great position for you, and it has benefits.”

I closed my eyes, drawing in a slow breath. “Thanks, Dad. I’ll think about it.”

“I hear the East Coast is hunkering down for a big winter storm. Do you have enough food to last you a couple of days?”

The beauty of non-perishable groceries. “I do.”

“That’s my girl. Stay warm, and—” The soft hum of my mom’s voice in the background had me trying to hear what she was saying. “Yes, and let us know when you hear about the tickets.”

I rolled my eyes. “Love you, Dad.”

“Love you, kid.”

It took me a minute to regather my desire to continue decorating, but once I put on the next episode of my podcast—a seasonal one about the Stalking Stuffer, who’d leave a stocking full of coal at the crime scene of those who had made his naughty list—the royal icing was flowing again.

Boom!

My hand stilled, the piping bag hovering above the roof of the gingerbread house. What was that sound? I muted the podcast and quieted my breathing, listening for any unfamiliar noises. The blood pumped through me, whooshing past my ears as it went. Besides the low hum of the wind, the house was quiet. I moved to the window and peeked out the curtain. Falling snow billowed in the wind. That must have been what the noise was—something blowing in the storm.

I let out a sigh of relief and started toward the table when another boom stopped me mid-step. That one sounded like it came from upstairs. But no one could be upstairs. I’d been here all day. Unless ... What if someone was trying to get in? It was an illogical thought, most likely prompted by the image of a Santa-like stalker entering houses through open windows. Or was it illogical? I’d not finished the episode. Maybe the Stalking Stuffer was still on the loose.

As silently as I could manage, I moved to the table and grabbed my phone to type a quick text to Landon. Before I pressed send, reason seemed to return, in part, when I noticed the time in the corner. Eleven-thirty? I couldn’t text him this late about something that was most likely nothing. Besides, he was probably sleeping. And I was hesitant to keep him from his sleep—again. With new resolve, I put the phone down. If someone was trying to get inside, I doubted they’d try to enter through a locked third-story window in a snowstorm.

But there was a chance—though slight.

As some sort of middle ground, I retrieved the trusty iron skillet I’d threatened Landon with that first night and placed it next to me on the table. Perhaps it hadn’t been the best night to break my true-crime podcast fast, however much it took my mind off Landon.

A third bang echoed through the house, and instinctively, I snatched up the phone and pressed send on the message I’d typed out. Landon could get sleep later.

Quinn: Hey! I don’t know if you’re still up, but if so, do you keep hearing that loud noise?

While I waited for Landon’s response, I stared at the stairs to the third floor, refusing to let a perpetrator catch me unaware. The phone chimed, and I startled.

Landon: I haven’t heard any loud noises. Maybe it’s the storm?

Quinn: Maybe.

Quinn: If I don’t get murdered in my sleep tonight, we’ll know that was it.

Landon: I’m on my way up.

Landon’s knock came so soon after his text arrived that I realized he’d probably already been planning to come to my rescue even before my melodramatic text.

“Is it you?” I asked through the door.

“It’s me.”

I opened the door, wearing a sheepish smile. “I’m sorry to bother you—”

A scent of warm spices lingered on his clothes, and I barely refrained from full-on sniffing him as he stepped inside. “I think we’re going to need to write I’m not an inconvenience on an index card and attach it somewhere you’ll be forced to read it several times a day.”

I bolted the door behind him. “Thanks for coming.”

“So, what sounds are you hearing?”

“I’ve heard it three times now. It’s a loud—” I made a low guttural sound that barely resembled it. “I think it’s coming from upstairs.”