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Grant Saber peered through the wide plate glass s of St Nicholas Hardware, searching the darkness for signs of life

He cupped his gloved hands around his eyes to cut the glare fro off the snow and searched the shadows This crazy-ass little toas dressed up for Christmas three hundred sixty-five days a year As a kid, that had seemed fun As a teen, it had seemed just plain stupid As an adult… Well, he’d bailed on this place as soon as humanly possible

And he sure as shit didn’t want to be here now

“I know you’re in there, da somewhere in the back

His breath created a billow of condensation, obscuring his view He shifted fro in his veins He ht spend half his life on the ice, but the exertion and adrenaline of hockey always kept hi his ass off

Grant yanked off a ski glove and rapped his knuckles against one of the double glass doors again, then blew into his palm to warm it and raised his voice to yell, “Hello?”

No

Grant pulled out his phone and checked the time One minute after six pm They’d closed early Typical

“Damn hick town”

He shoved his phone back into the pocket of his jacket and his hand back into his glove, then turned and looked both directions down Main Street It was deserted on this bitterly cold night just a couple of weeks before Christ—one that belonged at Santa’s workshop in the North Pole But Grant had been gone long enough for the sugary-sweet gingerbread on every building toa little And he was sure Holly dorid frohts anddecorations residents added for the holidays As if they needed more

Across the street, a lone hued from the shadowed storefronts and shuffled across the street “Whatcha need there, son?”

That was just like this place—everyone up in everyone else’s business

The voice identified him as an older ht a look at his face beneath the hood of his jacket, confir he was in his sixties

“Christonna be pissed”

The man harrumphed and narrowed his eyes “Which mama would that be?”