Page 42 of A Christmas to Die For

This wasn't a total failure. But it wasn't supposed to getthismessy. I wasn't supposed to bleed. I wasn't supposed to leave DNA.

The basement beneath the cabin holds every item I brought in case things veered off course.

The gash in my back is deep and sticky, but the adrenaline has kept the worst of it at bay. Down in the basement, I peel off my jacket and press gauze against the wound. I can't see the damage—it might even need stitches, but that's a problem for later.

Right now, all that matters is disappearing.

Maybe I'm being paranoid, dousing the snow and steps in bleach like a lunatic, but I've gotten away with worse. Nine victims before tonight, and not one shred of DNA left behind. I'm methodical. Careful. And I won't let what happened here ruin that. Twelve women are dead because of me, and I've never felt more alive.

I'm not even "here," not really. My car is parked up the street, where no hint of civilization lives. It's a dead-end road, and I know once my job is complete here, I'll drive out of here using the tire tracks Sabrina and Mara made. Chains are a great way to hide the exact tire tread and make, not that I have toworry about that. I bought this beat-up Ford Explorer for five thousand dollars, and it's not even registered to anyone. I'm not concerned with it being traced back to me.

I'm lucky Albert's truck is still here—makes framing him for what happened almost too easy. I heard Mara tell Phoebe what happened, and if this is the case, it might all just be the perfect bow on this successful Christmas Eve.

I just have to make it out of here alive—if the fates allow.

The blood has been cleaned to the best of my ability, and I really don't have much time to waste now that the sky has turned smoky gray. The bottles of bleach, acid, and a few other materials used to set each trap have been carefully placed in Albert's truck bed.

Three dead bodies spread out on the first floor like shrapnel after an explosion.

Sabrina is still trapped in the gas-filled bathroom.

Mara lies crumpled near the back door, her skull cleaved cleanly in two.

And Phoebe's limp, purple, bloating body lies at the base of the stairs among the loose floorboards. It doesn't matter about the traps that weren't set off; they'll burn down with the rest ofthe house. I am sad at the waste, though. Those took time to set up, and they weren't even used.

After that happy reunion, I walk around the outside of the house and stand at the top of the basement stairs, the final trap waiting to be set off.

I flick open my Zippo lighter, a spark catching and burning in my hand. I connect the flame to a fuse line, and it ignites, curling like a snake as it feeds downward, disappearing into the black. I know where it leads—straight to a pile of gasoline-soaked rags at the bottom.

I step back, watching the orange glow stretch across the dark stairs. It's perfect. The fire won't catch immediately. That's by design. It needs time, just enough for me to slip away.

The rags will burn first, the flames creeping through the pile before leaping to the other junk down there. Dry timber, cardboard boxes, and the old generator with its last remnants of gasoline—all of it will feed the fire.

Soon enough, the flames will crawl up the walls, reach the first floor, and find the acid, the bleach, the chemicals. They'll burn fast, wild and hungry. By the time anyone notices the smoke, it'll be too late. The heat will erase everything—the evidence, the memories of everything that happened here, and finally, the cabin itself. Nothing will survive.

I exhale, my breath controlled and steady. My chariot awaits me, as does the anticipation of Christmas morning tomorrow.

I'll slip back into my carefully curated life, the same routines, the same smiles, the same mask I've worn for a decade. No one will suspect a thing. To them, I'll just be another face in thecrowd among jolly little idiots. But beneath it all, I'll carry the truth like a secret: I got away with it, all of it.

I look back up to the cabin one last time as I buckle my seatbelt, a line from an old Christmas carol leaping to mind.

"See the blazing yule before us, fa la la la la, la la la la!"