1. Clara

1

CLARA

T he twelve days of Christmas plays on the speakers as the scent of antiseptic and stale coffee hits me the moment I walk through the doors of Evergreen Falls Care Home. Coming back for Christmas hasn't been my first choice, but Dad's condition has worsened over the past months.

"Hello." Dad's eyes light up as I enter his room, though the spark fades just as quickly. "Are you the new nurse?"

My chest tightens. "No, Dad. It's me, Clara, your daughter."

"Oh." He stares at his hands, weathered and spotted with age. "Of course."

I pull up a chair beside his bed, unpacking the old photo album I always bring. Before I can open it, screams erupt from outside. These are different, not the usual noise of kids playing or cars honking. They are primal.

I rush to the window. A body lies in the courtyard beneath one of the decorative pear trees. Blood stains the fresh snow crimson, spreading outward like spilled wine. But it is the arrangement that makes my stomach turn—the victim's arms are spread wide, fingers twisted into branch-like formations. Dozens of pears surround the corpse, some whole, others cut open with precision. A single bird, dead and plucked, rests on the victim's chest.

"What's happening?" Dad shuffles beside me, his slippers making that familiar scraping sound against the linoleum. His eyes are wide with momentary clarity, though I know it won't last.

I guide him back to bed gently but firmly. "Nothing, Dad. Just stay here." My hands tremble as I tuck the blanket around him.

Police sirens wail in the distance, growing louder with each passing second. Their piercing cry echoes off the care home's walls, making everything feel more surreal.

"I'll be right back," I tell him, but he's already forgotten I'm there, his attention drawn to the TV where A Christmas Story plays on repeat. Ralphie's face flickers across the screen, a stark contrast to the horror outside.

Outside, the crime scene looks even more disturbing up close. The victim's throat has been slashed but with surgical precision—the kind of cut that speaks of medical knowledge or careful study. Each pear has been placed with deliberate care, creating a grotesque holiday display. Some are positioned to catch the light, their cut surfaces gleaming wetly in the winter sun.

"First day of Christmas," I whisper, recalling the carol playing as I entered the care home. The words taste bitter on my tongue. The shiver that claims me has nothing to do with frost-bitten winds. I wrap my arms around myself, unable to look away from this twisted tableau. My professional mind is already cataloging details.

"Clara?" James's voice cuts through the chaos of arriving police cars and gathering onlookers. "What are you doing here?"

I turn to face him, noting how the years have hardened his once boyish features. His detective's badge catches the winter light as he approaches.

"I was visiting Dad." I gesture toward the care home. "Heard the screams."

James's eyes narrow as he approaches the scene, his jaw tightening. "You haven't touched anything, have you?"

"Give me some credit." I cross my arms. "Fifteen years as a forensic psychologist. I know better."

He pulls out a small notebook, pen hovering over the paper. "Tell me what you saw."

"Found him like this. The arrangement is deliberate–the pears, the bird which I’m going to assume is a partridge. Someone's recreating 'The Twelve Days of Christmas.' First day." I pause, watching as crime scene techs begin setting up their equipment. "The cuts are precise. Your killer has steady hands and knowledge of anatomy."

"Christ." James runs a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. "Just what we need. A holiday-themed psychopath." He studies me for a moment. "How long are you in town?"

"Until after New Year's. Dad's not doing well."

"Listen..." He lowers his voice, stepping closer. "We could use your expertise on this. The department's stretched thin, and if this is what I think it is?—“

The way this killer has struck indicates this isn’t just a one off. It’s public, deliberate, orchestrated to draw as much attention as possible and starting with the first day of Christmas. All of the signs point to a potential serial killer.

"You think there'll be more?” I ask, wondering if he’s made the same connection.

“Possibly,” James says with a shrug. “Even if it’s only one, we need help on this.”

The performance aspect of the kill does signal that perhaps the killer is going to strike again. "Eleven more days. Eleven more potential victims,” I murmur, the idea sending shivers down my spine.

James tucks away his notebook. "What do you say? Want to consult?"

The crime scene pulls at me like a magnet. The carefully positioned body, the methodical placement of props—it's a performance—a show put on for an audience. My pulse quickens at the thought of unraveling this killer's psychology.

"I'll help." The words come out before I can stop them.

"Good." James waves over a crime scene tech. "I'll have the paperwork ready tomorrow morning to consult. Eight a.m, station briefing."

I linger at the crime scene long after James leaves, watching the methodical dance of forensics teams. The winter wind bites at my cheeks, but I barely notice. My mind is already racing, piecing together fragments of the killer's psyche from this macabre display.

Consulting on this case could be what I need. These past months, watching Dad slip away piece by piece, have hollowed me out. Each time he forgets my name, another part of me crumbles.

Back in my car, I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white. The truth is, I've been drowning in the silence of my apartment in New York. No amount of true crime documentaries or research papers can fill the void. Here, at least, I have a purpose. A puzzle to solve. A monster to catch.