Chapter 1: The Stranger on the Shore

San Eli 's winter beach stretched before us like an accusation. The December wind carried both the bite of frost and whispers of approaching snow, each gust a reminder of how exposed we were. Beside me, Nora Anders walked with the determined stride of someone trying to generate warmth, her silver hair catching what little light struggled through the overcast sky.

"Only you would choose today for a walk," she said, but the warmth in her voice belied the complaint. After a decade of following my mysteries - both fictional and real - Nora  knew better than to question my instincts. Still, even I had to admit the beach felt different today. Waiting.

I'd just sent my latest manuscript to my publisher yesterday, and the entire holiday season stretched before me - a blank canvas of possibility. Or it should have felt that way. Instead, something about the empty beach nagged at my writer's instincts.

Behind us, Christmas lights lined the boardwalk in defiant cheer - strings of red, green, and gold that seemed to mock the gray December day. In two weeks, San Eli would transform into "Alaska's Most Festive Christmas Town," its streets filled with tourists seeking their picture-perfect holiday moments. But today, the celebration felt like a thin veneer over something darker. That's when I saw it.

My hand shot out, grabbing Lou's arm. She froze instantly, years of friendship having taught her to trust my instincts. Fifty yards ahead, where the waves met the shore, lay a dark shape that refused to resolve itself into driftwood or seaweed. Something deliberately human-shaped. Something still.

We reached him in seconds that felt like hours, our boots leaving frantic imprints in the wet sand. He lay face-down at the water's edge, expensive clothes were soaked and torn, dark hair matted with salt and blood. The waves lapped at his legs with terrible indifference.

"Reilly ..." Nora 's voice carried a tremor I rarely heard.

Training took over as I knelt beside him - not the careful plotting of a mystery writer, but the rapid assessment of the EMT I'd been before. Pulse: weak but present. Breathing: shallow, labored. Face: bruised and lacerated, suggesting a recent struggle. His right hand was clenched into a fist, knuckles white even in unconsciousness.

"He's alive," I said, already shrugging off my coat to cover him. "But barely."

Nora   was already on her phone, her voice clipped and precise as she gave our location. Twenty years of managing high school crises had made her experienced in emergencies.

His fist had resisted at first, then slowly yielded to gentle pressure. The paper inside was soaked but not destroyed, protected by his death-grip. Three words stood out in desperate scrawl, the ink bleeding but legible: "Jensen Harbor" followed by "murder" and "danger."

My hand shot out to catch Nora 's arm as she finished her call. One look at my face and she went still, reading the gravity in my expression before I could speak.

The wail of sirens cut through the winter air. I slipped the note into my pocket just as emergency vehicles pulled into the beach parking lot, their lights painting the scene in alternating red and blue. Sheriff Nick Santos 's figure emerged from the swirling snow, moving with the purposeful stride I'd come to know well over the past year.

"Miss  O’Malley ." His voice carried equal parts resignation and concern. "Can’t you even take a morning walk without stumbling into a crime scene?"

"Crime scene?" I kept my voice neutral, though my pocket seemed to burn with the weight of the note. "We don't know that yet, Sheriff."

His eyes met mine, and I saw he wasn't fooled. Nick  Santos  hadn't become sheriff by missing details - including the way my hand hovered protectively over my pocket.

"Jenkins," Eddy's tone was professional as he assessed the scene. Into his radio: "Secure a hundred-yard perimeter. No one in or out. Get forensics here now." He turned to the uniformed officers arriving. "Full documentation of the scene. Every footprint, every piece of debris."

He crouched beside Fletcher's unconscious form, noting details in his notebook while paramedics worked. "Track down every boat that docked in the last 24 hours. Check security cameras at the marina. And get me the Coast Guard reports - if he came in by water, there might be more victims."

I started to reach for Fletcher's clenched fist, but Nick  stopped me. "Evidence first, Reilly . We do this by the book."

I nodded. He was right. I stood up and moved back to where Lou now stood.

The paramedics worked with practiced efficiency, their movements precise in the strengthening snow. I watched them load our mysterious stranger onto the stretcher, noting how his expensive wool coat had been cut in specific places - not torn, but slashed with purpose.

"His clothes suggest money," Santos  said quietly, following my gaze. "But no wallet, no ID, no phone."

"You weren't expecting any of those, were you?" I studied his face, seeing the confirmation I'd feared. "This isn't the first, is it?"

Instead of answering, he pulled out his phone and showed me a news alert: three similar incidents along the coast in the past month. All involving well-dressed men. All found near water. All with evidence of calculated violence.

"Reilly ." His use of my first name caught my attention. "Whatever you're not telling me right now - whatever you found - it's going to come out eventually. And when it does..."

"I know." The note felt heavier with each passing moment. "But not here. Not yet."

He nodded once, sharply. "My office. One hour."

As I watched the ambulance pull away, its sirens silent now in the thickening snow, I couldn't shake the feeling that our peaceful harbor town was about to be dragged into something far darker than its cheerful Christmas preparations suggested. In my pocket, those three words seemed to pulse with ominous promise: Jensen Harbor. Murder. Danger.

The festival committee would be meeting soon to finalize plans for the holiday celebration. Wreaths would be hung, lights strung, carols practiced. But somewhere in our picture-perfect town, someone was planning a very different kind of Christmas celebration.

And this was only the beginning.

The antiseptic smell of San Eli Medical Center hit me before I'd taken three steps through the automatic doors. Room 212 felt a world away from the beach where we'd found our mystery man just hours ago. Outside the window, snow continued to fall, transforming our coastal town into a deceptive picture of winter tranquility.

The steady beep of monitors provided a grim counterpoint to the cheerful Christmas music drifting in from the hallway. Our John Doe had been unconscious for six hours, and I couldn't shake the feeling that every minute mattered. The note from the beach burned in my pocket, its three words - Jensen Harbor, murder, danger - echoing Sheriff Santos 's revelation about similar incidents along the coast.

"You should go home, get some rest." Nora 's voice startled me. She stood in the doorway, two cups of coffee in hand, dark circles under her eyes betraying her own exhaustion. "The sheriff's got deputies posted. He's not going anywhere."

"Three others, Nora ." I accepted the coffee, letting its warmth seep into my still-cold hands. "Three other well-dressed men found on beaches in the past month. Santos  showed me the reports. None of them survived."

The vinyl visitor's chair creaked beneath me as Nora  pulled up its twin. Through the window, Jensen Harbor's winter landscape stretched like a blank canvas - steel-gray ocean meeting snow-dusted pine forests and rocky shorelines. Soon the town would transform into a postcard of Alaskan charm, with twinkling lights and festive decorations promising warmth against the bitter cold.

"What did you find?" Nora  nodded toward the evidence bag on the side table - the contents of our John Doe's pockets, carefully dried and cataloged.

I spread them out: a high-end leather wallet, soaked but salvageable. A gold money clip holding several hundred-dollar bills. A manila envelope, its contents protected by wax paper. But no phone, no ID, nothing to tell us who he was or why he'd been attacked.

The envelope drew my attention. Preliminary examination revealed a collection of newspaper clippings, their edges crisp despite the water damage. Each one dated exactly thirty-five years ago. Each one about Jensen Harbor.

"Look at this." I pointed to a black-and-white photograph tucked between the clippings. It showed a group of people standing in front of an old building, their expressions serious. Something about the image tugged at my memory, but before I could place it, a voice from the doorway made us both jump.

"Still here, Miss  O’Malley ?"

 I looked up to find Dr. Edwards  in the doorway, his silver hair slightly disheveled. In a town as small as Jensen Harbor, everyone knew everyone, and James  Edwards  had been our family doctor for over twenty years.

"Someone should be here when he wakes up," I said, trying to sound more casual than I felt.

Dr. Edwards  nodded as he moved his slightly overweight girth into the room with the practiced grace of a small-town physician who'd seen just about everything. He checked the various monitors, his fingers moving with a precision that spoke of decades of medical experience.

"If he wakes up," Dr. Edwards  corrected, checking the man's vitals. "The hypothermia was severe, and those injuries..." He shook his head. "Someone worked this fellow over pretty thoroughly before he ended up in the water."

The bruising was extensive—deep purples and sickly yellows that mapped out a story of violence. Defensive wounds marked his forearms, suggesting he hadn't gone down without a fight. Professional, I thought. Not someone unused to conflict.

I leaned forward, studying our patient's face. The bruising had darkened over the past few hours, but beneath the injuries, I could see strong features, probably handsome when not battered. Mid-fifties, I guessed, with the kind of calluses on his hands that came from regular gun use. Not a sailor then, despite where we'd found him. The hospital room felt charged with potential energy, like a manuscript waiting to be unraveled. Every detail seemed significant—the way his left hand occasionally twitched, the scar above his right eyebrow that suggested a past encounter with serious danger.

"Any luck with identification?" I asked, though I'd been here when the nurses had gone through his waterlogged belongings.

"Sheriff Santos  is running his fingerprints," Dr. Edwards  replied. "Though---"

A sudden change in the monitor's rhythm interrupted him. I stood as our mystery man's eyelids flickered. Dr. Edwards  moved quickly to the bedside, checking his pupil response with a small light.

"Sir? Can you hear me?" he asked, his voice clear and professional.

The man's eyes opened fully, darting around the room before fixing on me. They were an unusual shade of gray, sharp and alert despite his condition. He tried to speak, coughed, and tried again.

"Where...?" His voice was rough but carried an educated accent—the kind that suggested years of professional training, perhaps law enforcement or academia.

"San Eli Medical Center," Dr. Edwards  answered. "You were found on the beach. I'm Dr. Edwards , and this is---"

"Reilly   O’Malley ," the man interrupted, his gaze still locked on mine. "I was... looking for you."

A chill ran down my spine that had nothing to do with the hospital's temperature. In my career as a mystery writer, I'd received my share of fan mail and even a few stalkers, but something about his tone suggested this was different. This was urgent.

"Who are you?" I asked, stepping closer despite Dr. Edwards 's cautioning look.

"Marcus Fletcher. Private investigator." He coughed again, and Dr. Edwards  offered him water. After a sip, he continued, "I need... need to tell you about the Christmas Killer."

The words hung in the air, heavy with implication. "The Christmas Killer?" I repeated, my writer's instincts humming with anticipation as I leaned closer.

"Thirty five years... thirty five towns... always at Christmas." His words were becoming slurred, fatigue clearly winning. "Found the pattern... too late. Jensen Harbor... next..."

Dr. Edwards  was checking the monitors again. "He needs rest. Whatever this is can wait until---"

"No!" Marcus tried to sit up but fell back with a groan. "The festival... have to stop... December twenty-fourth..." he pointed to his wallet. “The key.. Reilly  take the key-” I reached for his wallet and remove an ornate gold key from its folds, sliding it into my pocket. 

The monitors began beeping more rapidly. Dr. Edwards  pressed the call button, and I heard the quick steps of nurses in the hallway as they rushed to the room.

"Wait," I said quickly, "Marcus, what about December twenty-fourth?"

But his eyes were already closing. Just before he lost consciousness, he grabbed my wrist with surprising strength. "Check... check the wreaths..."

Then he was out again, and the nurses were politely but firmly ushering us from the room. I stood in the hallway with Nora , my mind racing. Christmas Killer? Wreaths? None of it made sense, and yet...

I glanced back at Room 212, now a flurry of medical activity. Marcus Fletcher had been looking for me, had fought through unconsciousness to deliver his warning. But why me? And why Jensen Harbor? The cheerful Christmas music playing softly through the hospital speakers suddenly seemed discordant, almost menacing. Thirty five towns, he'd said. Always at Christmas. And now he was here, in my town, as we prepared for our biggest Christmas Festival ever.

# Chapter 2 

Early the next morning, Nora  and I hurried through the hospital's decorated corridors, the cheerful Christmas music now seeming more like a twisted soundtrack to our mounting dread. The key Fletcher had insisted I take, felt heavy in my pocket, its ornate crest catching against the fabric.

"Wait." Nora  grabbed my arm, pulling me to a stop near the hospital's main entrance. Snow swirled beyond the automatic doors, but that wasn't what had caught her attention. She pointed to the hospital's directory board. "Look at the foundation date."

There, beneath the hospital's name, was an inscription: "Established 1989 through the generous donation of Blackwood Pharmaceuticals."

The same year as the orphanage fire.

My phone buzzed - another message from Sheriff Santos :  Don't leave the hospital. Coming with new information about Fletcher. And Reilly ? Watch the wreaths.

Before I could show Nora  the message, Dr. Edwards  burst through the stairwell door, his face ashen. "Fletcher's gone."

"What do you mean, gone?"

"He's disappeared. Walked out during shift change. Left this." He handed me a crumpled piece of paper. On it was a crude drawing of a wreath with five berry clusters. One was colored black.

Through the hospital entrance, I could see Sheriff Santos 's truck pulling into the parking lot, lights flashing but the siren was silent. Something about that silence felt more ominous than any wail of emergency signals.

We met Nick  at the door and followed him

Dr. James Edwards  stood in the doorway, his normally composed demeanor showing subtle cracks. In twenty years as our family doctor, I'd never seen him this unsettled. His fingers tapped an irregular rhythm against his clipboard - a gesture so uncharacteristic it set off warning bells.

"You need to see this." He closed the door behind him, voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "The tox screen came back. Found traces of a compound I've never seen before. Something engineered."

A change in the monitor's rhythm made me look up from Katherine's photograph. Marcus Fletcher's eyes snapped open, gray and sharp with an unsettling clarity that belied his condition. His gaze locked onto me immediately, as if he'd known exactly where I'd be.

"Reilly   O’Malley ." His voice was raw but carried an educated accent. "Finally. Been looking... looking for you."

Dr. Edwards  moved to check his vitals, but Marcus batted his hand away with surprising strength. "No time. They'll be coming. Have to... have to tell you..."

"Who's coming?" I leaned closer, ignoring Dr. Edwards 's warning look. "Who are you running from?"

"Christmas Killer." His hand shot out, grabbing my wrist. "Thirty-five years. Thirty-five towns. Always at Christmas. Pattern... I found the pattern too late."

Nora   was already taking notes, but Marcus's next words made her pen stop. "The wreaths... black berries. Count them. When all five are black..." His voice trailed off as another wave of pain hit him.

"Mr. Fletcher," Dr. Edwards  tried to intervene, "you need to rest."

"No!" Marcus struggled to sit up. "December twenty-fourth. Have to stop... stop them before..." His hand fumbled under his pillow, producing a small key. Ornate, old, with what looked like a family crest worked into its design. "Hospital archives. Records from '89. Truth about the trials..." he leaned back, his eyes on mine. "Not just hospital archives... Katherine's private records. The ones they didn't burn."

His monitors started screaming as his body went rigid. The last thing he said before losing consciousness was: "Some gifts... keep giving... year after year..."

Dr. Edwards  and the nurses pushed us out, but not before I'd pocketed the key. In the hallway, Nora  was already researching Christmas deaths in coastal towns.

"Miss  O’Malley ." Dr. Edwards 's voice made me jump. He'd followed us out, his expression troubled. "A word?"

He led us to his office, checking the corridor before closing the door. The Christmas music playing over the hospital speakers seemed suddenly discordant.

"Marcus Fletcher's tox screen." He pulled up results on his computer. "I've never seen anything like it. The compound in his system... it's similar to digitalis, but modified. Enhanced. Someone with extensive pharmaceutical knowledge engineered this."

"Digitalis?" Nora  looked up from her phone. "Like the heart medication?"

"A very specific formulation." Edwards  lowered his voice. "One that was discontinued thirty-five years ago. Manufactured by Blackwood Pharmaceuticals until..." He hesitated.

"Until what?"

"Until Katherine Blackwood died. She was leading the research team. After her accident, the project was shuttered." He handed me a printout. "But here's what concerns me. This same compound showed up in another tox screen. From Howard Chen's pharmacy. Regular prescriptions, dating back decades."

My phone buzzed - another text from an unknown number: *Some medicines cure. Some kill. Ask Dr. Edwards  about Project Christmas Angel.*

I looked down at the key still gripped tightly in my hand and held it up to the light. The key's brass surface was darkened with age, its bow elaborately crafted with a crest showing intertwined serpents around a pharmaceutical flask. Apparently it somehow tied into the mystery that seemed to get more complicated with each passing hour.

Through the office window, I could see someone hanging a wreath in the hospital lobby. Five clusters of berries. One painted black.

The hunt wasn't just beginning. It was coming home.

"The festival starts tomorrow," Nora  whispered.

And somewhere in Jensen Harbor, a killer was preparing to come home for Christmas.

# Chapter 3: Dark Tidings

The call came at 6:47 AM, just as I was starting my second cup of coffee. Morning light struggled through the heavy snowfall, casting weak shadows across my kitchen table where evidence from the hospital lay spread out: Fletcher's drawings, the ornate key, and photographs from the envelope.

Three hours had passed since Fletcher's disappearance, each minute stretching with the weight of unanswered questions. The sheriff's revelation about Fletcher's past still echoed in my mind - former police detective, driven off the force while investigating a series of deaths eerily similar to our current situation.

The ceramic mug Nora  had given me last Christmas - baby blue with hand-painted snowflakes - warmed my hands as I stared out at Jensen Harbor's main street. Festival preparations were already underway, strings of lights being hung between buildings like a web of twinkling anticipation.

My phone's shrill ring shattered the morning quiet. Sheriff Santos' voice carried a tension I'd rarely heard before: "Miss  O’Malley ? We need you at the Blackwood estate."

"What's happened?"

"James Blackwood is dead." A pause heavy with unspoken implications. "And Reilly ? There's a wreath on his study door. Five clusters. One painted black."

The Festival committee would be meeting in an hour to finalize decorations. Including the wreaths.

Sometimes the most dangerous gifts come wrapped in holiday cheer.

The Blackwood estate loomed against the snow-laden sky, its Victorian architecture a testament to old money and older secrets. Red and blue lights from police cruisers reflected off ice-covered windows, creating an eerie Christmas light display that felt more like a warning than a celebration.

My Volvo crunched to a stop on the gravel drive, wheels spinning slightly in the fresh snow. Nora  was already there, her laptop open in her car, the blue glow illuminating her focused expression. She'd been researching all night - I could tell by the empty coffee cups littering her passenger seat.

"Reilly." She didn't look up from her screen. "You need to see this. I found something in the old newspaper archives about Blackwood Pharmaceuticals."

Before she could continue, Sheriff Santos  emerged from the house. The grim set of his jaw told me this was worse than we'd imagined.

"Digitalis," he said without preamble. "Preliminary tox screen shows massive levels. But here's the twist - it's not any known formulation. The lab's saying it's been modified, just like the compound we found in Fletcher."

The connection hit me like a physical blow. "The discontinued heart medication Dr. Edwards  mentioned."

Santos  nodded. "Manufactured by Blackwood Pharmaceuticals until 1989. The same year as-"

"The orphanage fire," Nora  finished, finally looking up from her research. "That's what I found. The orphanage was running medical trials in partnership with Blackwood Pharmaceuticals. Children with heart conditions were being treated with an experimental drug."

Officer Jenkins appeared in the doorway, his young face unusually pale. "Sheriff? You need to see this."

We followed him through the house's service entrance, past evidence techs photographing every surface. The study door stood open, and the wreath hung there like a macabre Christmas greeting. Five clusters of holly berries, one painted black, with a card nestled among the leaves: "First gift of Christmas" in elegant calligraphy. 

"Full lockdown," Nick  ordered into his radio, studying the wreath on Blackwood's study door. "No one leaves the estate. Jenkins, start with the staff interviews. Peterson, coordinate with forensics." He turned to the gathered officers. "This matches our beach victim's warning. We're treating this as a connected case."

He pulled out his phone, bringing up a photo of the previous wreath. "Document everything. These aren't just decorations anymore - they're signatures. Get me surveillance on everyone who had access to the Festival decorations."

"But the Festival committee-" I started.

"Will be fully investigated," he finished firmly. "Nobody gets a pass on this, Reilly . Not even prominent citizens."

But it was what lay behind the door that stopped us cold. James Blackwood sat at his massive mahogany desk, head tilted back, looking for all the world like he'd dozed off while working late. Except for the blue tinge to his lips and the crystal whiskey glass, still half-full, on his desk.

"The whiskey's been laced," Santos  said quietly. "Same modified digitalis compound. Someone who knew exactly what they were doing."

I moved closer to the desk, my writer's eye cataloging details: scattered papers suggesting interrupted work, reading glasses askew as if they'd slipped from his face, a manila folder open to reveal what looked like old medical records.

"Nora  ," I called, seeing something tucked beneath the folder. "Look at this."

It was a photograph, yellowed with age. A group of people stood in front of the old orphanage, including a younger James Blackwood. But what caught my eye was the figure at the edge of the frame - a woman in a lab coat, holding what looked like medical files. The date stamp read December 23, 1988.

"One day before Katherine Blackwood died," Nora  whispered. "James's wife. The one who-"

A sudden crash from somewhere above made us all jump. Santos  drew his weapon, signaling Jenkins to check the upper floor. But I was focused on something else - a shadow I'd caught moving in the garden below, just visible through the study's frost-covered windows.

A figure in dark clothing, hanging another wreath on the garden gate.

The hunt wasn't over. It was just beginning.

It was escalating.

"Sheriff!" Jenkins' voice carried down from upstairs, tight with urgency. "Master bedroom. Now."

Santos  took the stairs two at a time, gun still drawn. I followed Nora  close behind, our footsteps muffled by thick carpeting. The bedroom door stood ajar, early morning light spilling across polished hardwood floors.

Inside, Jenkins stood by an open wall safe, its heavy door hanging askew. "Found it like this. But look." He pointed to the safe's interior, where five mounted hooks stood empty except for small labels beneath them. The last label read: "Project Christmas Angel - Final Reports."

Nora   photographed everything with her phone while I studied the labels. "These dates - they're all from 1989. The same year as-"

"The orphanage fire," Santos  finished. "But there's more." He held up an evidence bag containing a single sheet of paper. "This was on Blackwood's nightstand. Lab results from thirty-five years ago. Patient trials for a drug called AC-1224."

"The modified digitalis," I said, pieces clicking into place. "They were testing it on the orphans."

A sudden draft made us turn. The bedroom window was open slightly, curtains stirring in the winter wind. On the sill, barely visible against the white paint, was a smudge of black - the same shade as the painted berries on the wreaths.

My phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number: Some gifts keep giving, year after year. Ask Angela Rios  about Katherine's last Christmas.

"Angela Rios ?" Nora  was reading over my shoulder. "The Festival Committee chair?"

"And former board member of the orphanage," Santos  added, his expression darkening. "She would have known about the trials."

Before anyone could respond, dispatch crackled over Santos 's radio. Another body had been found.

"I'll drive," Sheriff Santos  said, his hand lightly touching my elbow as we left Chen's Pharmacy. The gesture seemed protective, almost intimate, and I tried to ignore the warmth that spread from that simple contact. "You look exhausted, Reilly ."

The use of my first name didn't escape Nora 's notice. She shot me a knowing look before diving into her car with her laptop, mouthing "Call me later" with exaggerated emphasis.

"I can drive myself, Sheriff," I protested, but even I could hear the fatigue in my voice.

"Eddy," he corrected softly. "After everything that's happened, I think we're past formalities." His Santos  eyes held mine for a moment longer than necessary, before professional concern took over. "Besides, there's something you need to see."

In his truck, the tension shifted from professional to personal. The coffee he handed me - fixed exactly how I liked it - suggested he'd been paying attention to more than just the case.

"Jack Murphy's been asking questions," he said as we drove, referring to the harbor's restaurant owner. "About the old orphanage property. Says Blackwood was acting strange at last week's council meeting, especially when the topic of development came up."

"Jack's always looking for real estate opportunities," I countered, though something about Murphy's interest nagged at me. "But why would-"

My words cut off as we passed the harbor. There, on the main dock, stood Jane Pencotti, the librarian and Historical Society President, having what appeared to be a heated argument with Annie Gillespie from the bed and breakfast. Both women fell silent as we drove past, their expressions guilty.

"Add them to the suspect list," Nick  muttered. "Jane  worked at the library in '89. Would have had access to all the records about the orphanage. And Annie's late husband was on the medical board that approved the trials."

I opened my mouth to respond but was distracted by movement at the church. Father Michael stood in the doorway, watching us pass with an unreadable expression. He'd been new to town in '89, arriving just weeks before the fire.

"Too many suspects," I sighed. "Too many secrets."

"Welcome to small-town police work." Eddy's laugh held no humor. "Everyone's connected. Everyone has something to hide."

We pulled up to Angela Rios ' house, but the driveway was empty. Through the window, I could see a wreath hanging in her study. Five clusters. One painted black.

"No," Nick  breathed, already reaching for his gun.

The front door stood slightly ajar.

Inside, Margaret's study looked like a hurricane had hit it. Papers everywhere, drawers pulled out, computer screen smashed. And there, propped against her desk lamp, was a familiar manila envelope labeled "Project Christmas Angel."

"Sheriff Santos ?" The call came from upstairs. Jenkins again, his voice carrying that same tension from the Blackwood house.

Angela Rios  lay unconscious on her bedroom floor, an empty syringe beside her. On her desk sat an old photograph I hadn't seen before - Katherine Blackwood with the five orphans, but this copy showed something the others hadn't. In the background, partially visible, was a figure in a dark coat. They were hanging a wreath.

"She's alive," Jenkins reported after checking her pulse. "But barely. Same poison as Chen and Blackwood."

My phone buzzed. Unknown number: *Third gift delivered early. Some presents can't wait for Christmas. Ask Father Michael about Katherine's last confession.*

"We need to get to the church," I started, but Eddy's hand on my arm stopped me.

"No." His voice was firm but gentle. "We need to get you somewhere safe. The killer's not just targeting the past anymore. Those texts, the timing of each death - they're watching us. Watching you."

As if to confirm his words, another text arrived: *Keep digging, Miss  O’Malley , and your next story will be your last.*

Through the window, I could see Annie Gillespie hurrying past, clutching what looked like old medical files. At the corner, Jack Murphy was engaged in an intense conversation with Father Michael. And there, across the street, Jane Pencotti stood watching the house, her expression unreadable.

"I won't hide," I said, meeting Eddy's concerned gaze. "Not while people are dying."

His hand moved from my arm to my face, the gesture so unexpected it made my breath catch. "Then let me help you. Not just as the sheriff. As someone who-" He stopped, professional mask slipping back into place as Jenkins returned.

But the unfinished sentence hung between us, heavy with possibility.

"A courier just delivered this to the station," Jenkins reported, holding up another wreath. Five clusters. One black. The card read: *Fourth gift coming. Some stories write their own endings.*

The sound of Christmas carols drifted in from outside. The Festival committee would be meeting soon to plan tomorrow's opening ceremony. And somewhere in town, a killer was planning their next delivery.

"I'll drive," Sheriff Santos  said, his hand lightly touching my elbow as we left Chen's Pharmacy. The gesture seemed protective, almost intimate, and I tried to ignore the warmth that spread from that simple contact. "You look exhausted, Reilly ."

The use of my first name didn't escape Nora 's notice. She shot me a knowing look before diving into her car with her laptop, mouthing "Call me later" with exaggerated emphasis.

"I can drive myself, Sheriff," I protested, but even I could hear the fatigue in my voice.

"Eddy," he corrected softly. "After everything that's happened, I think we're past formalities." His Santos  eyes held mine for a moment longer than necessary, before professional concern took over. "Besides, there's something you need to see."

In his truck, the tension shifted from professional to personal. The coffee he handed me - fixed exactly how I liked it - suggested he'd been paying attention to more than just the case.

"Jack Murphy's been asking questions," he said as we drove, referring to the harbor's restaurant owner. "About the old orphanage property. Says Blackwood was acting strange at last week's council meeting, especially when the topic of development came up."

"Jack's always looking for real estate opportunities," I countered, though something about Murphy's interest nagged at me. "But why would-"

My words cut off as we passed the harbor. There, on the main dock, stood Jane Pencotti, the librarian, having what appeared to be a heated argument with Annie Gillespie from the bed and breakfast. Both women fell silent as we drove past, their expressions guilty.

"Add them to the suspect list," Nick  muttered. "Jane  worked at the library in '89. Would have had access to all the records about the orphanage. And Annie's late husband was on the medical board that approved the trials."

I opened my mouth to respond but was distracted by movement at the church. Father Michael stood in the doorway, watching us pass with an unreadable expression. He'd been new to town in '89, arriving just weeks before the fire.

"Too many suspects," I sighed. "Too many secrets."

"Welcome to small-town police work." Eddy's laugh held no humor. "Everyone's connected. Everyone has something to hide."

We pulled up to Angela Rios ' house, but the driveway was empty. Through the window, I could see a wreath hanging in her study. Five clusters. One painted black.

"No," Nick  breathed, already reaching for his gun.

The front door stood slightly ajar.

Inside, Margaret's study looked like a hurricane had hit it. Papers everywhere, drawers pulled out, computer screen smashed. And there, propped against her desk lamp, was a familiar manila envelope labeled "Project Christmas Angel."

"Sheriff Santos ?" The call came from upstairs. Jenkins again, his voice carrying that same tension from the Blackwood house.

Angela Rios  lay unconscious on her bedroom floor, an empty syringe beside her. On her desk sat an old photograph I hadn't seen before - Katherine Blackwood with the five orphans, but this copy showed something the others hadn't. In the background, partially visible, was a figure in a dark coat. They were hanging a wreath.

"She's alive," Jenkins reported after checking her pulse. "But barely. Same poison as Chen and Blackwood."

My phone buzzed. Unknown number: *Third gift delivered early. Some presents can't wait for Christmas. Ask Father Michael about Katherine's last confession.*

"We need to get to the church," I started, but Eddy's hand on my arm stopped me.

"No." His voice was firm but gentle. "We need to get you somewhere safe. The killer's not just targeting the past anymore. Those texts, the timing of each death - they're watching us. Watching you."

As if to confirm his words, another text arrived: *Keep digging, Miss  O’Malley , and your next story will be your last.*

Through the window, I could see Annie Gillespie hurrying past, clutching what looked like old medical files. At the corner, Jack Murphy was engaged in an intense conversation with Father Michael. And there, across the street, Jane Pencotti stood watching the house, her expression unreadable.

"I won't hide," I said, meeting Eddy's concerned gaze. "Not while people are dying."

His hand moved from my arm to my face, the gesture so unexpected it made my breath catch. "Then let me help you. Not just as the sheriff. As someone who-" He stopped, professional mask slipping back into place as Jenkins returned.

But the unfinished sentence hung between us, heavy with possibility.

"A courier just delivered this to the station," Jenkins reported, holding up another wreath. Five clusters. One black. The card read: *Fourth gift coming. Some stories write their own endings.*

The sound of Christmas carols drifted in from outside. The festival committee would be meeting soon to plan tomorrow's opening ceremony. And somewhere in town, a killer was planning their next delivery.