The Last Noel by Heather Graham

snow.
    He prayed for the snow to fall faster, the wind to blow harder, to cover all traces of her escape.
    Scooter and the others had nearly reached the car. The door she’d used was still open, and her prints were still obvious. With a desperate burst of strength, he dragged himself out of the car and let himself collapse into the snow, thrashing to cover her tracks, his thoughts tormenting him.
    Once upon a time, he had lived in a different world. He’d been in love with a gorgeous redheaded coed. They’d saved money by eating in and watching old movies on television.
    Bogie.
    Bergman.
    Casablanca.
    Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world…
    Run, Kat, run.

THREE
    E veryone left in the kitchen stared at Quintin except for Uncle Paddy, who continued to eat without even looking up. “Ye’ve outdone yerself, lass,” he told Skyler. “This is delicious. Isn’t it—Quintin? That’s yer name, right?”
    Quintin had been staring back at Skyler and Jamie, but now he turned his attention to Paddy. “Yes, it’s very good,” he said.
    â€œThank you,” Skyler said. Ridiculous. She was thanking a killer for complimenting her cooking. But they had to get through this somehow, and if being polite was what it would take, then she would be as polite as if she’d been valedictorian of a finishing school.
    â€œYou spend a lot of time cooking?” Quintin asked.
    â€œNot really,” Skyler told him, and without thinking, started to rise. He tensed. “Sorry. I just thought I’d have a beer,” she said.
    â€œI’ll have one while you’re up,” Quintin said.
    â€œHell, I’ll be joinin’ that party,” Paddy said.
    Even Brenda spoke up. “Mrs. O’Boyle, I’d love a beer, too.”
    â€œI’ll just grab a six-pack,” Skyler said. Poor Brenda. The girl was probably wishing herself miles and miles away right now.
    She could have been with her own family. In fact, Frazier could have been with them, as well.
    She was the reason they were here instead. She had subtly tried to make him feel guilty for even considering spending Christmas somewhere else. But, Frazier, you really should come while we still have the house. You know we’ll probably get rid of it soon, since there’s no sense keeping it now that you kids don’t really enjoy it anymore. Just this year…
    Just this year. So Frazier was here with her, along with Brenda, and now they might well die with her.
    Stop thinking that way, she commanded herself, but she couldn’t help it. Could these men really let them live? They seemed ruthless enough to have killed already. And if you were going to go to prison for life, hell, what difference did it make just how many murders you were being punished for?
    â€œI take it there will be dessert?” Quintin said, almost as if he were a real guest.
    â€œBlueberry pie, apple pie, chocolate-chip cookies,” Skyler said.
    â€œWow.”
    â€œMy parents own a pub,” Jamie said.
    â€œSo blueberry pie is Irish?” Quintin asked.
    â€œIt’s universal, I think,” she told him.
    â€œWhat about pumpkin? I thought that was traditional,” Quintin said.
    â€œThat’s Thanksgiving,” Jamie protested.
    â€œWe can have pumpkin pie for dinner tomorrow, if you like,” Skyler told him.
    â€œSure, I like pumpkin.” He frowned. “So where is this pub of yours?”
    â€œBoston,” she said.
    Quintin started laughing. “You live in Boston, and this is your vacation home?”
    â€œHey, we could use some help over here!” Scooter shouted from the front door, interrupting the conversation.
    They all leaped up and went rushing out. Between them, Frazier and David were supporting a semiconscious man, his eyes closed, his legs barely moving as they walked. The mysterious not-a-cop, Skyler assumed.
    This man clearly wasn’t like