The Holiday Trap
Front Cover
Title Page
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Books. Change. Lives.
Copyright
Copyright © 2022 by Roan Parrish
Cover and internal design © 2022 by Sourcebooks
Cover illustration by Kristen Solecki
Internal design by Laura Boren/Sourcebooks
Internal illustrations by Laura Boren/Sourcebooks and Hannah Strassburger/Sourcebooks
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks
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Cataloging in Publication Data is on file with the Library of Congress.
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
A Message from Ramona
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
A Message from Ramona
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
A Message from Ramona
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
A Message from Ramona
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
A Message from Ramona
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
A Message from Ramona
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Bonus Material
Reading Group Guide
Roan Parrish’s Latkes
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
For the change-seekers
Chapter 1
Greta
Snow fell in fat, picturesque flakes, fairy lights twinkled around the stage, and the hum of excitement and cheer that always attended the Owl Island, Maine, Holiday Fair electrified the town square.
Greta Russakoff stood in the center of it all and contemplated precisely how she would murder her entire family one by one.
It had begun as the Holiday Fair always did: Valentine Johnson, the mayor of Owl Island, turned on the lights that illuminated the town square and all the businesses that lined the four streets creating it. She called the Holiday Fair to life amid cheers and whoops from a familiar crowd. And then she called up the volunteers for their annual charity auction.
This year, the charity was the Owl Island Library, and the auction was for a dinner date at Francesca’s, Sue Romano’s Italian restaurant.
Only this time, after Valentine had called up the usual suspects, another name rang out.
“Our final volunteer is Greta Russakoff. Come on up!”
The smile of holiday cheer died on Greta’s lips, and for one tremulous moment, she thought she’d simply misheard. After all, there were six other Russakoffs in town. They stood all around her: her parents and her four sisters.
But that hope died the same death as her smile when she saw the faces of her mother and her eldest sister, Sadie, who were looking at her with twin expressions of satisfaction.
Her father was pointedly avoiding her eyes, as was her older sister, Tillie, the peacemaker. Her twin, Adelaide, blinked in horror at her but didn’t say anything. Her youngest sister Maggie’s mouth dropped open, and she mouthed Oh, shit, the words swallowed by the murmurs of the crowd.
“What,” Greta bit off between gritted teeth, looking between Sadie and her mother, “Did. You. Do?”
“Greta, are you here?” the mayor crooned into the microphone. “Remember, this is for charity.”
Valentine was beloved on Owl Island. She had increased tourism and revenue for small businesses, including the Russakoffs’.
Greta added the mayor to her kill list.
Her heart sank as people began to reach out and pat her on the back and smile.
“Go on, Greta!”
“Get it, Greta!”
“Greta, yeah!”
Could you murder an entire town?
“Go get ’em, kiddo,” Sadie trilled, and Greta wondered, not for the first time, why Sadie gloried in messing with her more than with anyone else.
You could just leave, Greta told herself. Just turn around and walk away. You’re an adult now, and this isn’t the damned hunger games. They can’t make you.
Greta squared her shoulders and cleared her throat. “I didn’t volunteer,” she said confidently and prepared to leave.
Only her words came out as a croak, and she didn’t leave.
She turned to Adelaide, looking for a rescue or help or…something. But while Addie looked horrified on her behalf, she just shrugged, an I-don’t-know-what-to-do gesture familiar from every awkward situation of their childhood.
“Dude,” Maggie said to Sadie. “You’re such an asshole.”
“Greta, go,” her mother hissed. “It’s for charity!” Nothing scandalized Nell Russakoff like a lack of performative generosity.
Owl Island was a small town. Leaving would mean answering questions for weeks. Which would mean offending people about the auction, a beloved town tradition. Which would mean even more talking to people who’d known her since she was a child and still treated her like she was one.
Greta gritted her teeth so hard she felt a headache threaten and walked stiffly to the stage, taking care not to meet anyone’s eyes lest she perish from mortification or reveal previously unknown Medusa-like powers. She stood next to the other volunteers with what she hoped was dignity but would see in pictures later was the pose of someone who desperately needed to pee.
One by one, the volunteers were bid on.
Greta had attended this auction since she was old enough to remember, and since she was old enough to remember, it had been her least favorite part of the holiday festivities.
Still, she went every year because it was a family tradition and because she loved the rest of the Holiday Fair that first December weekend. The auction had even been the occasion of her coming out five years before.
She and Tillie had been in the booth their family ran every fair. The handmade items they were selling changed with the whims of their mother’s crafting. One year it had been quilted oven mitts, another it had been felted table decorations, and that year it had been knitted hats and mittens. Tillie and Adelaide were the most enthusiastic crafters and usually made the bulk of the items alongside their mom. Sadie liked to sell things but not make them. Maggie would start one of whatever they were making that year and quickly lose interest. And their father concerned himself with all elements of display, providing snacks, and cheerleading, but didn’t have the dexterity for most crafts. His attempts were generally hilarious, though, and every year, they had him try to make one and enshrined it on the shelf above the piano, which now held two decades of misshapen crafts.
In the family booth, Tillie had been showing Greta how to knit a hat for the third time, her attempts at mittens having proven hopeless, and Greta had sworn bitterly as the whole thing slid off her needles.
“Watch your language,” her old math teacher Mr. Sorensen had said as he walked past. “Men don’t bid on young ladies with potty mouths at the holiday auction.”
Greta, home for the holidays from her freshman year of college and high on the freedom of her first months away from her family, had snapped back, “Well, this young lady has no interest in men or being auctioned off to anyone, so that’ll work out great for all of us.”
Tillie and Greta’s father, who’d returned with hot cocoas in time to overhear the exchange, had turned to her with identical hazel eyes—her father’s wide and Tillie’s smiling. Tillie raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Greta said, starting to shake with nerves. Her whole family—strike that, the whole town—would know in a matter of hours.
She shoved her woeful knitting at Sadie and got to her feet. As she walked past her father, he caught her shoulder and squeezed. When she looked up at him, he smiled and nodded just once. Then he let her walk away to be alone with her thoughts.
Now, she wished desperately for a similar exit strategy, but she was onstage in the middle of the town square with nearly the entire population of Owl Island staring at her.
Just as she was telling herself that it couldn’t get any worse, she caught sight of Tabitha Ryder. Greta winced.
Tabitha’s smooth blond bangs and elfin face were framed by the faux-fur-lined hood she had pulled up against the Maine winter. She held mittened hands with Jordan Laverty, who was handsome and too infuriatingly kind to loathe the way Greta would have liked.
Hey, at least Greta had a perfectly self-deprecating story to tell when the topic of first loves came up. Not everyone had confessed their love to their best friend and then puked on her shoes. (Although, Greta found out, more had than you might think.)
Tabitha’s blue eyes grew wide when she saw Greta onstage, and Greta braced herself for the utter carnage of her heart that would follow if Tabitha smirked at her pathetic misfortune.
But Tabitha didn’t smirk.
It was so much worse.
Tabitha, curse the kind soul that had made Greta love her in the first place, gave Greta a look of such pity that Greta felt her insides fold like a paper bag. Gone was the urge to murder. Now, with Tabitha—beautiful, happy Tabitha—looking at her while holding the hand of her new love, Greta simply wished to disappear.
***
Greta allowed herself one hour of furious shower wall punching and postshower cringing at the memories of the day before she pulled a wool hat over her damp hair, stepped into her boots, zipped up her heavy coat, and stormed over to her parents’ house three streets over, where the whole family always gathered on holidays and Saturday afternoons.
Close was the word Greta always used to describe her relationship with her family. Occasionally, as she got older, tight-knit. But it wasn’t until her friend Ash had returned to Owl Island after leaving for a few years that someone had finally looked her dead in the face and said, “Dude. Your family isn’t just close. It’s codependent. And weird,” he added under his breath as Greta squirmed.
And, okay, she’d always known her family did more things together than lots of people’s, but they had a whole thing going on, and usually it was great. Her family was lovely and fun. Her sisters—especially Adelaide and Maggie—were her best friends (since Tabitha wasn’t in the picture anymore), and she loved having a built-in support network, no matter what happened. But then there were moments like this. Moments when they were intrusive and possessive and infuriating and—
Greta took a deep breath before she opened the door, steeling herself not to give an inch. She couldn’t give them a chance to explain, because there was no acceptable explanation. She couldn’t hear them out, because no motivation could justify it. She just had to storm in there, set her jaw, and start yelling. It was the only way to be heard over six other people.
Tillie was just inside the door.
“Are you mad? You’re mad. Okay, listen, I can talk to Mom. I think Sadie told her you’d think it was funny, and—”
“Sadie told her that?”
“Well, I don’t know exactly. I just think—”
“Duuuude,” Maggie said, skipping down the stairs. “You looked like you were about to turn into a flock of crows and peck out everyone’s eyes up there! Did you see Sadie yet? I bet—”
But she fell silent as their mother walked in from the kitchen, drying her hands on her apron.
“Hi, honey,” her mom said with a smile.
“That’s what you have to say to me after earlier?” Greta demanded.
“Well, what do you want me to say? That I’m happy my daughter stood up in front of the whole town and glared at everyone?”
“I glared because you and Sadie put me in a position where I’d have to do something I hate or publicly offend the whole town. What, did you think I’d be, like, excited about it?”
“Don’t be such a baby, Grotto. It was just a joke,” Sadie said as she walked in from the kitchen. She took a loud, crunching bite of an apple and cuffed Greta on the shoulder.
“It’s not a joke!” Greta seethed with a deep, trembling kind of anger that made her voice come out thin and reedy. “That’s what shitty incels and rapey frat boys say when they realize whoever they’re talking to isn’t going to let them say horrible things. Don’t tell me it’s a joke to put your sister on a fucking auction block for someone to buy the right to a dinner date.”
“Pshh, it’s for fun. It’s a holiday tradition,” Sadie said.
“Fun for who? Not for me, certainly. And I’m not going out with Nicholas Martens.”
“What do you mean?” their mother broke in, frowning. “You can’t not go. It’s for charity.”
Greta spluttered.
“And you’re cool with this,” she said to Sadie finally. “I know we fuck around, but you actually think that I should go on a date with a man who bought time with me. Come on.”
“Not like you’ve got any other dates,” Sadie muttered. “Whatever, take the free dinner. Nicholas isn’t that bad.” She waved her hand in dismissal.
Greta took a step toward her. Sadie was only two inches taller than Greta but around ninth grade had decided that she would never lower her chin, so she seemed even taller.
“Fuck you,” Greta said. “I know you don’t think this is cool. You would never do it to anyone but me.”
Something flickered in Sadie’s eyes, but she just sniffed and the moment was past.
“Now, girls,” their mother said. “Stop this. Greta, I’m sorry you’re upset. We just thought it might be nice if you gave someone a chance who you ordinarily wouldn’t look at twice.”
Greta goggled.
“Someone I ordinarily wouldn’t…do you mean, like, a guy?”
Nell shrugged. “Love is love, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Greta said. “It is. And if I happen to fall in love with a man, then fine. I mean, I probably won’t, because I’m a lesbian. But you don’t get to throw those words around like a flotation device to redeem you from doing something shitty. You knew I would hate that. You knew I would’ve hated it even if it was all women who were bidding on me! I can’t believe you!”
Unlike with Sadie, where all strong feeling eventually got expressed as anger, with her mother Greta finally felt tears threaten. It was a betrayal, plain and simple, and while the sisters all messed with one another from time to time, the thought that her mother either honestly didn’t know her well enough to understand how much this would upset her or, worse, didn’t care was enough to make her cry.
Their argument had brought her father to the living room as well. Always the last to engage, he looked at Greta with sympathy, but she’d long ago stopped thinking of him as an ally. What use was someone who agreed with you if they weren’t ever willing to risk discomfort to say so?
Tillie started to chime in with her typical placations, but Greta was done arguing. She wanted her mother to admit what she’d done—even Sadie had done that—and then she wanted to get the hell out of this house.
“Did you seriously not get that I would hate that?” she asked her mother point-blank.
Nell Russakoff’s face was the picture of aghast innocence.
“Darling, no. I would never do anything to upset you. I just thought maybe a little push… You can’t want to stay single forever. And it’s not as if there are many other lesbians on Owl Island…”
But Greta knew. The slight flick of her mother’s gaze to the left told Greta that Nell had been perfectly aware how Greta would respond.
“Okay, cool. Great,” she said sarcastically. “A push. Well, that sounds great to me. Yup, a push actually sounds like exactly what I need. The hell away from here.”
And without another word, she turned on her heel and walked back into the snow.
***
“I have to get out of here. I don’t care where,” she said to her friend Ramona after relating the incident.
“So get out, babe. I know it’s Chanukah and I know your family, but I must introduce you to my friend Boundaries, and her best friend, Also Boundaries.”
Greta sighed. She had been introduced to Ramona’s friends before. They seemed great. Great and utterly unattainable, like the effortlessly cool people at the parties they’d once attended together.
“I know,” she said.
“So go.”
Greta looked around the house she’d rented for the last year since returning to Owl Island. It looked nearly the same as it had when she’d moved in—a furnished favor from a friend of Tillie’s—except for her plants. Greta’s joys, they hung from every window frame and reached for each bit of sunlight they could.
In the second bedroom were her treasures: the carnivorous plants. Her pitcher plants, Venus flytraps, carnivorous bromeliads, and cobra plants. They were helped along by three humidifiers that ran constantly, and she kept the room balmy enough for the tropical species with a heater set to seventy-two degrees.
She walked among them, stroking a pitcher here and inspecting a saw-toothed mouth there. In Maine winters, especially, they required careful attention.
“I can’t. My plants.”
“Get one of your ten thousand sisters to take care of them.”
Greta’s nostrils flared. The last thing she wanted was to have anything to do with her family.
“Can you hire someone?”
“It’s nearly Christmas, and everyone’s busy with their own stuff.”
She heard Ramona’s sigh that clearly said You’re making excuses, and I don’t approve.
And maybe she was right.
“Look, I’ll…um…I’ll ask around and see if maybe someone can take care of them.”
But she knew the only person she could ask was Ash, and he already had his hands full with more than anyone should have to tend to with the shop and his mother.
“You do that, babe. Call me if you need some sense talked into you. Again.”
Then the line went dead, and Greta sat down very carefully on the floor amid the Venus flytraps, wondering if she sat there long enough and still enough maybe they would just consume her slowly and put her out of her misery.
Chapter 2
Truman
The Garden District was alive with revelers, its grand houses touched with holiday cheer in everything from the subtlest to the most extravagant displays.
Truman Belvedere held the wrapped gift carefully as he strolled past Lafayette No. 1, pausing as he always did to appreciate the roots creeping through the stone walls to meet the ivy that adorned them. The way the tree boughs bent in to shade the sidewalks, beckoning pedestrians inside the cemetery. How the late afternoon sun fell slantways on the graves, offering up the names of the deceased to any who gazed upon them.
Truman loved this cemetery and had visited it often in the eight years he’d lived in New Orleans, beginning with his time at Tulane.
Now, though, rather than stop and walk among the graves as he usually did, he turned the corner and walked past Commander’s Palace, toward Guy’s house.
He was stopping by unannounced to drop off Guy’s Christmas gift, since his boyfriend was taking a trip with his brother for the holiday. Truman was disappointed that he wouldn’t get to spend their first Christmas together—and even more disappointed because the announcement had come too late for him to make other plans—but hoped to send Guy off with a smile thanks to the gift he’d spent practically his whole paycheck on. And maybe from the quickie he had planned too.
He’d only been to Guy’s house once in the eleven months they’d been dating, but he knew which one it was. A gorgeous gray-and-white Queen Anne with a wraparound porch on the lower level and a step-out balcony through French doors off the master bedroom. The trees were lush and the hedgerow perfectly manicured behind the wrought iron fence.
Guy liked his things just so. And Truman was honored to pass muster.
He crossed the street, nerves singing in his stomach. Nearly a year together and he still got butterflies before he saw Guy. He smiled, picturing the way Guy’s severe face softened into a smile when Truman amused him. The way he let his guard down when they curled up together on Truman’s couch or in Truman’s bed, becoming a younger, gentler version of himself.
Truman knew that was the smile he’d see when Guy opened his front door to see Truman standing there with his perfectly wrapped gift.
Soft music issued from an open window to the left of the door, and white lights twinkled from inside. Guy had always been so vague about certain aspects of his life, and Truman only hesitated for a moment before he let himself peek inside. You could tell so much about someone by their décor, their taste in art, their holiday decorations. He wanted to see the tree that he hadn’t been invited to help decorate, the ornaments that, Guy had let slip, he’d collected over the years. Truman made a bet with himself that the tree would be as cleanly and modernly arrayed as Guy himself.
The room was gray and white and navy, appointed with club chairs, a mid-century-modern couch, and an enormous Christmas tree. The white fairy lights that adorned it were evenly spaced around its branches; expensive-looking glass ornaments were hung with an engineer’s precision. Truman smiled fondly at the effort that must have gone into the tree and pictured Guy—austere, detail-oriented Guy—listening to Christmas carols by himself while sipping hot cocoa laced with his favorite whiskey and measuring the space between ornaments.
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