Free The Santa Society by Kristine McCord

even want to think about what that means. Worse, I’ll never use or think the word “reason” again without thinking of my brown eyed, stubbly-haired realtor and wondering how he smells.
    I close my eyes, and despite myself I imagine the scent of peppermint—peppermint and rain.
     

Chapter 10
     
    I SPEND MOST OF THE NEXT DAY cleaning. The harder I work, the less I notice the work crew outside: the drilling, banging, and male voices shouting to each other. And the less I notice my phone not ringing.
    The smell of pine permeates the air. I have several candles burning, all of them Christmas-tree scented. I breathe it in and think of the camping trips we used to take before my dad died. It smelled like this. It also reminds me of the obvious: Christmas Trees.
    I don’t have one. Christmas will be here soon, and I haven’t cared one bit about anything except forgetting. But now I’m starting to want to remember things. Like how we always went to the local tree sale, and Dad hauled in a fresh tree each year, always the biggest one he could fit through the door.
    Last year we used my mother’s artificial tree, the one she bought after we lost my dad. Not having a tree in this living room at Christmas is like a birth with no baby. It doesn’t matter if I choose to cancel Christmas, the rest of the city won’t. I’ve just been trying to ignore it, but it’s not working.
    I return the mop bucket to the laundry room and drift over to the small kitchen radio that hangs under the cabinet, just above the can opener. I twist the knob. An articulate, measured voice comes through the static, a Noah Weather Station meteorologist. He calls for a rapid drop in temperature followed by a fifty percent chance of snow here in Merry Valley County.
    I remember standing in this very spot, with this exact radio, praying for a forecast like this as a kid. But now I dread snow’s ethereal silence—when I’ll look through the window, gaze out from my cave of loneliness onto an eerily quiet earth, where everyone else has retreated to warmth and family. It’ll be like the worst kind of insomnia or being encased in a snow globe, separated from life and all other living things. I cross my arms, wondering if the temperature has dropped inside too.
    The sound of the weatherman’s voice depresses me. Maybe music will help. I scan the stations, but I only hear Christmas music. The best thing playing is Jingle Bell Rock, so I leave it there.
    Goose-bumps prickle my arms. It really does feel cold in here . I head for the thermostat in the hallway. As I move through the living room, I pause at the window to lift the faux wood slat and peer through the blinds. The workmen have all gone home. The lawn still looks like it’s been flayed. A huge stack of piled sod leans awkwardly toward the real estate sign. Yellow tape still connects the trees, blocking the stairway leading up from the sidewalk, and they’ve carved a fresh ditch in the ground with a mountain of unearthed soil next to it. Taken as a whole, it looks like a crime scene.
    A horrifying thought occurs to me: What if it starts to smell like human—my—human waste? Have I been flushing the toilet straight into the front yard? I swallow. The Collins family will know. Reason will know. I drop the slat and turn my back.
    In the hallway, the thermostat reads 62 degrees. I increase the heat setting and cross my arms, waiting for the furnace to kick on. While I wait, I see the digital numbers drop another two degrees. The house waits in silence. I increase the temperature again. The furnace still doesn't come on. I slide the switch off and back on again, hoping it just needs to start from scratch. Nothing happens.
    Except now the digital display shows 59 degrees. This can’t be happening. I close my eyes. When I open them again—58.
    I scramble for the phone book in the kitchen. I refuse to freeze all night. My watch says 5:30, so I know I don’t have much time. My mother always stuck the