Jim struggled to keep a straight face. "I don't know, Nat. That doesn't sound like the Santa I know."

She glanced around and leaned up to give him a conspiratory whisper. "Santa is Daddy."

"Oh yeah?"

She nodded, grabbed his hand, and led him to the living room. "See? There it is. He didn't need to wrap it because it's not Christmastime."

Jim peaked into the room. In the middle of the floor sat a wicker basket with something oozing out. Oh crap, was that blood?

"Nattie, honey, why don't you go up to your room? I'll be there in a couple of minutes."

"But I wanna see what Santa brought me." Her bottom lip quivered. Brent had confided in him once that he was helpless when she pulled off that look. If what was in the dripping basked was what Jim thought, would Brent ever again be around for it to work its magic? Not if Jim could help it.

"It's not for you, sweetie. Santa only brings grown-up gifts in the summer."

She started to protest, but a quick offer of a trip to the toy store and ice cream shop hushed her up. She skipped up the stairs, humming a song as she went.

Jim turned his attention back to the wicker basket. That had to be blood. What else could it be? He hesitated for a second, not wanting to see, but powerless to walk away. He'd never really gotten on with Brent, felt there was something off about the guy, but was he capable of this? More important, was this why Sara wasn't here?

He flung the lid open. Relief and horror mixed, becoming one. It wasn't Sara, but the decapitated head of some shaggy-haired blond guy. The stench of death wafted up at him, and though his stomach turned and clenched, he kept himself from losing his lunch on the already stained carpet. Puke after this is solved, he told himself.