Chapter 3 - Christmas Morning in Lakeside
The morning sun broke through the gray winter clouds at 7:30 AM, casting blindingly bright rays across the fresh snowdrifts piled against the front porch.
Inside, the house smelled of cinnamon, melted butter, and roasting coffee.
Jason was the first one awake. True to his nine-year-old nature on Christmas morning, he didn’t walk into the hallway; he practically sprinted, skidding across the linoleum in his oversized dinosaur socks.
“Dad! Dad, wake up—wait, they’re awake!”
Thomas emerged from his small bedroom, wearing a flannel shirt and a tired smile. He walked into the living room just as Lucy and Lily were sitting up on the sofa bed, blinking sleepily against the morning light.
For a terrifying second, neither twin moved. Their eyes darted around the room—the small plastic tree with its mismatched ornaments, the smell of breakfast, the absence of Aunt Patricia’s sharp, early-morning voice demanding chores.
Then memory returned. They weren't in Lakeside’s split-level basement. They were here.
“Merry Christmas,” Thomas said softly, walking over with a plate of warm blueberry pancakes.
Lily pulled the gray cotton T-shirt—Elizabeth’s old shirt—tighter around her shoulders. “Is it... is it really Christmas?”
“It really is,” Jason chimed in, holding up a remarkably lumpy, badly wrapped package tied with yellow yarn. “And I made you guys something. Well, Dad helped with the scissors, but I did the tape.”
The twins stared at the package as if it might detonate. Finally, Lucy reached out, her fingers trembling slightly, and peeled back the paper. Inside was a hand-painted wooden block carved into the shape of a dog, its paint slightly smeared where Jason’s fingers had pressed too hard.
Lucy’s breath caught. She didn't look at the toy; she looked up at Jason with eyes shining with unshed tears.
“Nobody ever made me a present,” she whispered.
Jason puffed out his chest, trying to look very old and very brave. “Well, you live here now—I mean, for today! So you get presents. That’s how Christmas works.”
Thomas watched them from the doorway, a heavy, bittersweet lump forming in his throat. He remembered Christmas mornings with Elizabeth, the quiet joy of watching Jason unwrap his first train set, the warmth of a life that felt secure and permanent. That life was gone, but looking at the two little girls sitting on the sofa bed, eating pancakes with genuine, unguarding smiles, he felt a spark of something he hadn't felt in years.
Hope.
Just as they were finishing breakfast, the sound of an engine crunching over the unplowed snow in the driveway broke the holiday quiet.
Thomas walked to the front window and peered through the blinds.
A black sedan—an unmarked Ford Taurus with standard municipal plates—was idling at the curb. The driver’s door opened, and a tall man in a heavy wool coat stepped out, adjusting a woolen scarf around his neck.
It wasn't a police cruiser. But the man walking up the shoveled path had the unmistakable, heavy-footed stride of authority.
Thomas felt his stomach drop.
The doorbell rang. Two sharp, echoing knocks.
In the living room, the twins froze. The color drained completely from their faces. Lily dropped her fork; it clattered loudly against the ceramic plate.
“She found us,” Lucy whispered, her voice a terrified squeak. “She told us she always finds us.”
“Stay here,” Thomas said, his voice dropping into a low, steady register that brooked no argument. He shot a reassuring look at Jason. “Buddy, keep an eye on them in the kitchen.”
Thomas walked down the short hallway, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He unlocked the front door and pulled it open.
The man standing on the porch was not Patricia Vance.
He was in his late forties, with iron-gray hair cut military-short, sharp hazel eyes, and a trench coat that had seen better winters. He didn't look like a local cop or a county caseworker. He looked like an investigator who spent his life uncovering things people paid good money to keep buried.
“Thomas Grayson?” the man asked. His voice was deep, gravelly, and carried the flat cadence of someone used to giving orders.
“Who’s asking?” Thomas replied, planting his feet firmly in the doorway, blocking the man’s view of the interior.
The man pulled a leather badge case from his inside pocket and flipped it open for precisely one second. Private investigator credentials. State of Ohio licensed.
“My name is Marcus Vance,” the man said.
Thomas felt the blood rush to his ears. Vance.
“Patricia’s husband?” Thomas asked, his hand curling into a fist behind the door frame. “Ex-husband,” Marcus corrected flatly. “Divorced three years ago. Which is why I haven’t been living in that house of horrors on Maple Street. But my daughters have.”
Thomas stared at the man.
“Your daughters?” Thomas repeated, his skepticism dripping from every syllable.
May you like
Marcus let out a tired, bitter sigh, running a gloved hand over his face.
“I know what it looks like,” Marcus said, holding up both hands in a gesture of surrender. “I know what Patricia is. And I know she told them I abandoned them. But Mr. Grayson... I’ve been looking for my little girls for six months.”
