Merry Christmas, Alex Cross (Alex Cross 19)

“A gift, if you think about it.”

I spent the rest of the afternoon eating too many cookies, watching the game, holding Bree whenever I could, and listening to my grandmother tell stories about Christmases past while she made yams with little marshmallows, and brussels sprouts with leftover bits of sweet bacon, and a pecan pie that I almost risked my fingers to taste.

“Stay away from that now,” Nana kept saying and swatting at my hand.

I taught Damon to carve the turkey when it came out of the oven around five. I carried that platter. Everyone else brought in his or her favorite dish. Damon had the marshmallow yams. Bree had whipped potatoes. Ava brought the cranberry sauce. Jannie carried the stuffing as if she were in a procession.

And, just like every year, someone had to be asked to bring in the brussels sprouts. That would be me.

We sat at the table with cloth napkins, good china, a little crystal for the Christmas wine.

“Alex,” Nana said. That was my signal to say grace. We held hands with one another. Bree held mine so tight that I thought she might never let go.

Then I spoke. “Let us thank the Lord for this meal. And also for our health and happiness. And—for being a good family gathered together like this on Christmas Day.”

I paused and then said, “Now let us silently give our own personal thanks.”

“I’m glad my dad is home!” Damon said and we all smiled.

“Me too,” I said.

Then the room went completely silent. The seconds passed. I had a lot to be thankful for: the safety of my family, my own survival, the joy of—

The prayerful silence was broken by Ava.

“I’m hungry. Doesn’t the Lord know it’s Christmas?”

We all laughed. And then the bowls and platters of food were passed around. And just as we started to dig in, my cell phone rang.

CHAPTER

45

BEFORE THE PHONE JANGLED, EVERYONE HAD BEEN HAPPY, THRILLED TO HAVE me home at last, safe and sound. Now every face fell.

Nana shook a butter knife at me. “Don’t you dare answer that, Alex. Don’t you dare.”

Though everyone had been fine once I got home, I knew the hostage situation had taken its toll. Not only had I been in danger, but I had missed our family traditions. I had not been home to sing carols and put the kids to bed on Christmas Eve. I had not been up at dawn with Nana Mama to stuff the stockings. I had not been there to watch my children open their presents, and I had not been around to help make sweet bacon.

I glanced at the caller ID, smiled, and said, “It’s Ali.”

My six-year-old son was with his mother, Christine, for the holiday. Everyone’s shoulders relaxed. Bree grinned, got up, and said, “I’ll warm that pie.”

“Merry Christmas,” I said as I picked up the phone.

“God bless us, every one!” Ali cried.

“Watching Scrooge?” I asked.

“Last night,” Ali said. “Thank you for the boxing gloves.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Mommy doesn’t like them.”

“You just bring them home with you, then.”

“Santa gave me an Xbox. What did he get you?”