The Girl and the Black Christmas Read online

  Copyright © 2020 by A.J. Rivers

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  The Girl and The Black Christmas

  A.J. Rivers

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Epilogue

  Staying In Touch With A.J.

  Also by A.J. Rivers

  Prologue

  Seventeen years ago…

  He shouldn’t be doing this.

  Everything in him told him to stop. Everything in him told him to keep going.

  He couldn’t help himself.

  This moment was going to happen. Nothing could have stopped it.

  His eyes touched her skin before his hands did. He let them be his fingertips, exploring the slope of her neck and the length of her thigh. The hem of her skirt was too high for the steps she walked down, for the sunlight shimmering bright on her skin.

  It brushed just inches beneath the apex of her thighs.

  She wasn’t the only one there. Countless others drifted in and out of the buildings, cluttering streets that felt new beneath their feet but would soon hold the impressions of their repeated steps. But he only saw her. Among them all, she stood out.

  He shouldn’t be doing this.

  That wasn’t a question. It wasn’t as if he didn’t know, or that there was any ambiguity. She shouldn’t have been there, and his fingertips should never have replaced his eyes.

  That should have been the end of it. When he watched her walk down the sidewalk and reach out for a slip of pink paper offered up by a hopeful future friend, he should have left everything just as it was. He shouldn’t have imagined himself in that touch.

  If he had stopped then, this wouldn’t be happening. If he had just turned away, her belly wouldn’t be trembling under his hand and his breath wouldn’t be mixing with hers, streaming in and out of each other’s lungs.

  But he didn’t look away. He didn’t remind himself she wasn’t there for him. He let himself watch her and fall under her spell. When she glanced up as if she felt his stare brush through her hair and along the length of her spine, it was done.

  Her mouth was slightly open then, her full lips parted, touched with afternoon sunlight locked in the gloss she was still young enough to wear. There was a smile there. He couldn’t see it yet, but it would come.

  Her mouth was open the same way now. Just enough for the breath to come in and out. Long eyelashes swept just beneath her eyes as they fluttered closed. His lips touched each of them softly, then brushed down along the curve of her jaw.

  He knew those curves. He knew how the shadow played where her chin dipped. How the light pooled down her throat, her thin skin shivering from her pulse between her collarbones.

  She should have been somewhere else. Not there filling his palms. He closed his eyes and wondered where else she should be. All he could hear was his own breath and the drumbeat of his heart.

  His hands ran along her sides, counting the ripple of each of her ribs until they found softness. She was warm and smooth. Fulfillment. Undoing.

  He shouldn’t be doing this. But he couldn’t help himself.

  She didn’t walk out into that afternoon sunlight for him, but the moment he saw her, he knew it would come to this. Nothing would keep her from his hands. Nothing would stop her taste from rolling across his tongue or her smell awakening his brain.

  He would have her. It was as simple as that. He knew he shouldn’t. There was never a question in his mind that he shouldn’t. That was the thing no one would understand. Just because he didn’t stop himself, just because he did what flowed through his veins and parked along the paths in his brain didn’t mean he didn’t understand it was wrong.

  The choice was never right or wrong.

  It was never her or not her.

  It was then or now.

  He made that choice every time he looked at her. With each glimpse he caught from across the open square, or from the hallway with marble floors the same color of her eyes. She was everywhere.

  He made that choice every time.

  Then or now.

  He ran his hand from the tremble of her belly to the dance of her heartbeat. Breath shuddered up between her lips. He caught the sound of her gasp with his own mouth, so it flowed into him. He didn’t have to share it with anyone.

  He’d made that choice so many times. Then or now. Then or now. He’d waited so long. No longer.

  He took his time, wanting to savor every touch and the brush of her hair. He wanted the taste of salt and the sound of her breath changing. He’d dreamed of this for so long. It was his; he wouldn’t waste a single drop of it.

  Intensity filling him, his hand moved up to her throat. It was so tender, so delicate. It fit perfectly wrapped in his fingers. Her back arched as his grip tightened. He relished the feeling of her fingernails digging into his back.

  He could have stopped. But why? It would have meant nothing at that point. It was done from the moment he saw her. There would be no difference now.

  She suddenly surged up, but he caught her, held her close. He buried his fingers in her hair and felt the silk of the strands tangle around his knuckles. The heel of his hand pressed against the dip of her collarbones that held her pulse.

  He felt it, connected to it as it raced and peaked and slowed.

  Later he walked down the hallway with marble floors the color of her eyes. She was everywhere. His fingertips ran along the wall beside him, counting the ripples of the tile. Cool and smooth.

  Thirteen years ago …

  Second Week of November

  Monday: Literature paper due.

  Tuesday: Math study group for final. Visit at three (Mom: volunteering at hospital). Was late. Didn’t go over well. Didn’t believe me, but I think I fixed it. Don’t want to feel like this anymore. Wish it was like it used to be.

  Wednesday: Application due. Visit at noon (Mom: volunteering at hospital). Sociology class meeting at gal
lery. Was I not supposed to pretend I didn’t know he was there? Did he expect me to just walk away from my class and run up to him for a hug? There are times when I just don’t understand what’s going through his head. I wish I did. I don’t want to upset him, but I can’t figure out how not to.

  Thursday: Exams.

  Friday: Lunch with Emma.

  Saturday: He didn’t show up until forty-five minutes after he said we were going to meet, then acted as if he was on time. In a really good mood. Too good?

  Sunday: Packing was harder than I thought it would be. I’m not ready for this holiday season. Is it ever going to be normal?

  Chapter One

  Now

  “But he knows the answer,” Sam insists.

  “I’m aware of that,” I say.

  “It’s right there. Literally right in front of him.”

  “I know,” I reply. “Give him a second.”

  “We’ve been standing here for an hour,” Sam points out. “That’s a lot of seconds.”

  “Three thousand six hundred,” Xavier clarifies. “But we’ve actually been standing here for an hour and twelve minutes, which makes it four thousand three hundred and twenty.”

  “How does he know that? Can he use the cornstalks as sundials?” Sam asks.

  Xavier held his phone up over his shoulder to show the display of the time in bright green across the black screen.

  “Has he figured it out yet?” Dean asks, coming up behind us with a bottle of water.

  He lifts the bottle to his mouth, and I stare at it longingly. Another bottle appears from his back pocket, and I sag with relief. Dean notices my expression and tosses it over to me.

  “He figured it out an hour ago,” I say, taking a refreshing gulp.

  “An hour and twelve minutes,” Xavier says. He glances at his phone. “Thirteen minutes.”

  “He figured it out an hour and thirteen minutes ago,” I say.

  “Then why are we still standing here?” Sam asks.

  I hand him the bottle and he takes a sip.

  “I’m in an emotional quandary,” Xavier says.

  “See,” I say, holding my hands out to him. “It’s a quandary, Sam.”

  “The question says, ‘The First Thanksgiving was celebrated in Plimoth, Massachusetts in November of Sixteen Twenty-One. True or False?’,” Xavier reads from the weathered pale blue sign in front of him.

  “Yes,” Sam says. “It’s true.”

  “No,” Xavier says, shaking his head. “But yes.” He nods.

  “And there’s your quandary,” I say.

  “Drink this,” Dean offers, taking another bottle out of his other back pocket and putting it in Xavier’s hand. “Are you doing okay? I have peanuts.”

  Xavier’s hand shoots out from his side and Dean reaches into another pocket to pull out a bag of peanuts. He rips the top open and hands it to Xavier as Sam walks around me toward Dean.

  “What else do you have in there?” Sam asks.

  My cousin rummages through his pocket and pulls out one of Sam’s favorite candy bars and hands it to him. He then offers me a bag of roasted chickpeas but puts them away when I shake my head.

  “The first reference to a time of thanksgiving in what would eventually become this nation was from Virginia. Settlers were sent to Berkley Plantation from Bristol, England in September of Sixteen-Nineteen. It took more than two months before they got to the Chesapeake Bay. Then there were storms, and it took another week to finally get to shore. They recorded falling to the knees and calling out to God in thanks. I would probably do that, too, if I was sent as the backup team for a group best known for something called the ‘Starving Time’,” Xavier explains.

  “There sure are a lot of facts rattling around in that head of yours,” Dean notes. “You have all the pie pieces.”

  Xavier holds up his hand. “Peanuts.”

  “No, pie pieces. Like in Trivial Pursuit,” Dean tells him.

  Xavier shakes his head. “Never played it.”

  “No?” I ask.

  “No. So, no pie.” He glances over at Dean. “Incidentally, there was also no pie at the first Thanksgiving.” He lets out a sigh and opens his arms toward the sign in front of him. “Which brings me back to this.”

  “At least this time his facts aren’t about people dying,” Sam points out, taking another huge bite of his candy bar.

  I’m pretty sure he’s still trying to get over the walk with Xavier down the haunted trail in October.

  Xavier leans back just slightly, as if he’s trying to close the space between him and Sam.

  “It’s called the ‘Starving Time’, Sam. Lots of people died.”

  “Why no pie?” I ask.

  Dean sends me a withering look. “Emma.”

  “No sugar,” Xavier says. “Or eggs. Or milk.”

  Dean stares at him for a few seconds, then looks at me. “Actually, that wasn’t that bad.”

  “The crew that landed in Berkley had oysters and ham, more because they had to than anything, but they said that every year the date of their arrival should be marked with a day of Thanksgiving to the Almighty, and they kept up that tradition for two years,” Xavier says, then sighs. “Then the Powhatan attacked and slaughtered more than three hundred of them. The settlement was subsequently abandoned.” He looks over at Sam. “Oh, there you go, Sam. More people dying.”

  Sam’s face twists up into an expression somewhere between a cringe and a smile. “Thank you, Xavier.”

  “So, clearly, this statement is false. However, the capitalization of First Thanksgiving is a specific choice. The festive meal in Massachusetts two years later is usually stylized that way,” Xavier continues.

  “So?” Sam asks.

  “So, maybe that’s the hint. The sign is referencing the cultural phenomenon, not the historically accurate event,” Xavier says.

  “Does that mean we’re going to go with ‘True’?” I ask.

  “Yes,” Xavier says.

  Relieved, we follow the arrow next to the word “True”. We get approximately four steps.

  “But now that I think about it,” Xavier starts.

  He turns around and heads back to the sign. The rest of us let out a collective groan. I hold my hand out to Dean.

  “Give me the damn chickpeas,” I say.

  Xavier stares at the sign as I munch through a mouthful of the salty, crunchy beans.

  “It says Plimoth, Massachusetts, with an ‘i’,” Xavier says. “But the colony was Plymouth, with a ‘y’. The living history museum that’s there now is called Plimoth Plantation, but it’s in Plymouth, Massachusetts, with a ‘y’. Maybe that’s what the sign is asking. Not if the first celebration of giving thanks for surviving what arguably should not have been survivable was held in Massachusetts, but if the celebratory meal stylized as the First Thanksgiving, with the big letters, was celebrated in that year in Plimoth, with the ‘i’.”

  “And in that case, we’d be back to ‘False’?” I confirm.

  “Yes,” Xavier nods.

  “You know if we go down that path, it’s going to twist us all over hell and back,” Sam comments. “That’s the point of the signs.”

  “These signs are supposed to show us the way through the maze, right?” Xavier asks.

  “Yes,” Dean says. “You answer the question and follow the path that corresponds with your answer. The right answers will lead you through the maze.”

  “And the wrong ones?” he asks. “Where will they lead you?”

  Dean looks at me for guidance, but I shrug, holding up my hands. This one was on him.

  “The right answers will put you on the right path through the maze,” Dean tells Xavier.

  Coming to the corn maze today was a whim. We were already on the road when I saw signs for it and decided to detour. It’s supposed to be helping us through the trauma of the last corn maze we were all in together. Away from Harlan, away from the field of bones, and the now-empty house where Lilith Duprey lived
, this maze is thankfully non-haunted and grown without any form of human-based fertilizer.

  Xavier asked. Much to the displeasure of the man supervising the maze.

  It was an optimistic adventure when we first climbed out of the car and walked beneath the big arched sign welcoming us into the maze. Now that we’ve been standing here, stymied by the third question in the series, for more than an hour, I’m not feeling as enthusiastic about my self-growth exercise.

  I shift my weight and Sam looks at me with concern.

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  “Just hurts from being on my feet for so long,” I say.

  My injuries have healed well in the last couple of weeks, but I’m still a bit the worse for wear.

  “We need to choose a direction and go,” Sam says.

  “Let’s take the leap that the person who painted this sign isn’t as familiar with the story or language bugaboos you are, and go with ‘True’,“ I sigh.

  “That’s probably going to be the most direct way,” Dean says in the tone he uses when he’s explaining something to Xavier or trying to get him to think in a straight line long enough for the rest of us to stop feeling dizzy. “We want to make sure we pick the right path, so it doesn’t take as long.”

  “What is the right path, Dean? Is it the one that brings you most easily through the maze? The way that is expected of you? Or is it the one you follow because it’s the only one your feet can follow with righteousness?” Xavier asks.