Page 8 of Holiday Pines

He set the phone down and rolled over, pulling the blanket up to his chin.

I’m not going to think about this. I’m going to sleep. Tomorrow’s Saturday. Busy day. I need sleep.

He thought about it.

About Jake’s steady voice sayingI save them.

About the monitoring app comment—My foster father had one.

About the way Jake had looked at the chainsaw carvings and saidThey’re good,like maybe he meant it.

Stop.

Wes closed his eyes.

It didn’t help.

Saturday was chaos.

Families everywhere. Kids running between the trees, parents arguing about height and fullness, someone’s dog got loose and chased Charlie through the lot. Wes spent four hours loading trees onto cars, tying them down, explaining for the hundredth time that yes, you need to water it, and no, it won’t last until New Year’s if you don’t.

By noon, his back ached, and his patience was gone.

He was securing a noble fir to the roof of a minivan when he saw the Audi.

Same silver sedan, same careful navigation of the dirt road. It didn’t stop at the farm’s drive, though. It just drove past, heading toward the main road.

Going to one of the other farms he mentioned,Wes thought.

Wes yanked the bungee cord tighter than necessary.

The customer, a middle-aged woman with two kids in the backseat, frowned. “Is that too tight?”

“It’s fine.”

“Are you sure? Because?—”

“It’s fine.” He stepped back, forced a smile. “You’re all set. Merry Christmas.”

She looked uncertain but got in the van and drove off.

Miguel appeared at Wes’s elbow. “You okay, boss?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“You look like you want to punch something.”

“I’m fine.”

Miguel shrugged, not looking convinced, and headed back to the lot.

Wes pulled out his phone. The monitoring app showed Henry was in the living room. Stationary. He was probably back in his recliner again.

I should check in. Make sure he’s eaten lunch, taken his meds.

Instead, he opened his email and stared at Jake’s message.

I believe there are viable recovery options worth discussing.