Page 51

Well, Mother… that’s no trouble to me at all.

“Merry Christmas, everyone,” I say over my shoulder.

Then I’m gone.

I pause for a moment on the stoop. The night is tranquil. A maze of dark houses with red and white Christmas lights flashing. So many of these windows capture happy families laughing together. Not the one behind me, but that’s alright.

Maybe Dad took the happy times with him.

Or maybe the less-than-happy times were badly overdue.

I thought I’d be tired once everything was said and done, but I’m suddenly full of energy. I want to move.

So I start to walk, winding my way out toward the street.

The driveway is a disaster. People left their cars everywhere, as if the invitation said park like animals—two on the lawn, one blocking the mailbox, somebody’s Honda nose-to-nose with Uncle Johnny’s minivan. My car is in there somewhere, but I’m not going to look for it, because I don’t want to sit down and I don’t want to drive back to a house in Sheepshead Bay that no longer feels like mine.

Matter of fact, I don’t want to be inside anything with a roof on it. I want open sky above me.

I’m going to walk. Where to? No idea. I’m just going to keep walking until there’s water in front of me and no more road, and then I’ll figure out the rest.

I make it four steps before someone stops me.

“You gave them hell.”

I stop.

He’s between two cars with his hands in his coat pockets, watching me come down the steps.

The Green-Eyed Pantry Ghost.

Except now that there’s a porch light and a streetlight and no shelving between us, I can get my first real look at him.

He’s enormous. That part I knew from the dark. What I didn’t know is the rest of it. How well he’s dressed, in a black overcoat, black shirt unbuttoned to the chest, black and silver rings on his fingers and a black chain around his throat. His jaw is savagely sharp, covered with dark stubble, and the black hair raked off his forehead is messily perfect, like he did it with one hand and never bothered checking the result because he already knew he looked fucking good.

But the eyes are what bring it all together.

They’re greener than green, brighter than bright. Not an ounce of dilution or shadow in them.

And they’re pointed straight at me.

“I’m glad you enjoyed the end of my life as I know it,” I answer hoarsely. “So happy to please.”

His lips quirk.

“Which part of this is funny to you?” I say, suddenly mad.

“Oh,” he sighs, “it’s so hard to choose just one.”

I scowl. “You must not have heard the ‘end of my life’ part.”

“Believe me, I heard it. I listened to every word that passed your sweet lips, sladkaya.”

My eyes roll upward of their own accord. “There you go again with the smooth lines. I’m really not in the mood.”

Inside the house, something made of glass hits the floor and a man starts yelling.

The Pantry Ghost tips his head toward the sound. “Sounded expensive.”