Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 320(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 320(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
But I’ve always been alone.
I’m the oldest sibling, the one singled out to be my father’s captain when I was still too young to see over the wheel, let alone steer the ship. I bore the weight of his poor business decisions and numerous affairs on my shoulders, sheltering my siblings from the fear and uncertainty of those years before I took control of our family’s legacy.
I was the firewall between them and my feckless father, neither child nor adult, perpetually stuck somewhere between, guarding my secrets so fiercely I wouldn’t know how to share the burden if I tried.
And I don’t want to try.
I just want to get my hands on that stupid peg leg and hurl it into the closest fire. If I can make this ridiculous town even a fraction less ridiculous before I leave, then my time here won’t have been spent in vain.
“I’ll be home before midnight,” I say softly. “If the chauffeur doesn’t feel safe making the drive, don’t worry about the car. I’ll find my own way back.”
I turn and walk away, ignoring the sound of Elliot calling my name behind me.
Soon, I’m crossing the bridge, where the water rushing over the wheels of the old mill drowns out all other sound. The river is frozen at the edges but flowing freely elsewhere.
Old Man Winter is still playing his cards close to his vest this year.
As I make my way through the shadowy cemetery—the stones barely visible in the glow of the holiday lights from the building atop the hill—there are only a few inches of snow on the ground, and the promised freezing rain has yet to make its appearance. I have plenty of time to get up to the town hall, climb in through an unlocked window, confiscate the captain’s termite-infested leg from the display case, and burn it in the lobby fireplace.
I have no doubt I’ll find an open window.
That’s the thing about small towns like Silver Bell Falls—they’re full of trusting people who don’t see trouble coming until it’s too late.
Just like the Whos down in Who-ville…
I realize I’m making Elliot’s Grinch joke a reality, but that doesn’t stop me. After all, I’m not stealing children’s presents; I’m ridding this town of an eyesore. If the people of Silver Hell had a single functional brain cell between them, they’d celebrate the chance to put something less obscene atop the tree.
I won’t hold my breath on that, of course…
Not from people happy to worship at the altar of Kathy’s Kountry Store.
I circle the historic building, pushing at the bottom of each window until one slides up with a soft groan. I’m about to pull myself up on the ledge and climb inside when, on impulse, I decide to see just how trusting these fools are.
Mounting the snow-dusted steps to the rear entrance, I reach for the doorknob. It turns easily in my hand, swinging open without so much as a squeak of protest, let alone the blare of an alarm.
With a jaded grunt and a sliver of pity for these poor trusting country bumpkins, I step inside, closing the door behind me.
I start down the hallway toward the “museum” in the front room, where the leg is on display the eleven months of the year it isn’t giving the town square the middle finger. There’s enough illumination streaming through the windows from the outdoor lights to find my way, and I don’t want to risk attracting attention by lighting up town hall after hours.
Besides, it’s actually kind of enjoyable, skulking through the shadows…
I’m a hard no on “frolicking,” but skulking?
I think I could learn to enjoy a good skulk.
I creep down the hall into the museum space, weaving my way through display cases containing the scintillating artifacts of Silver Bell Falls’ history. There’s Captain Herbert’s taxidermy parrot, Susie Pie’s 1931 National Spelling Bee trophy, a photo of one of the dumber presidents taking a sleighride through the square, and a newspaper article chronicling the time an escaped convict holed up right here in the town hall root cellar for two weeks, getting drunk on the apple cider they were saving for the harvest festival.
Then, there it is—the peg leg.
Ole’ Stiffy.
Opening the case, I grimace as I reach for the prosthetic the captain once strapped to his stump every morning. I swear as I draw it out, I catch a whiff of festering flesh.
My stomach roils.
There’s a chance I haven’t consumed enough eggnog for this detour into memorabilia theft, but once I’ve fixed a goal in my mind, I never back down. So, I force myself to grip the leg more firmly, relieved to find it dry to the touch.
Very dry.
And likely highly flammable…
Prize in hand, I’m about to retreat to the lobby fireplace to get this embarrassment blazing, when a beam of light bounces off the window in front of me. I spin, clutching the artifact like a club, prepared to defend myself from another escaped convict or the ghost of Christmas past—both equally unpleasant propositions.