Nov. 30, 2025

A Xmas Paranormal Romantic Thriller - Twelve Nights - Episode 1 of 4 - "Loop One"

A Xmas Paranormal Romantic Thriller - Twelve Nights - Episode 1 of 4 - "Loop One"

Sloane Marchetti just wants to survive another Christmas Eve alone. After slipping out of her office holiday party early, she makes an inexplicable stop at a gas station—where a stranger is waiting. He knows her name. He knows where she's going. And he knows she's about to die.Elias claims he's watched her die over three hundred times, trapped in an endless loop that resets every midnight. Sloane doesn't believe him. She gets back in the car anyway.When she wakes up at the start of the same night, she begins to realize the impossible might be true.

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Caloroga Shark Media.

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Hello and welcome to Twelve Nights, a Christmas paranormal romance thriller.

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This is episode one, Loop one.

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The office Christmas party ended at eleven, which meant I

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had exactly fifty three minutes to drive home, change into pajamas,

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and pretend I wasn't spending another holiday alone, Not that

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I minded. Really, there's something peaceful about Christmas Eve when

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you're single. No obligations, no forced cheer, no arguments about

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whose family gets Christmas Morning, just me a bottle of

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wine that cost more than it should have. An anrah

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Efron marathon queued up on my laptop. I grabbed my

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coat from the back of my chair and checked my phone.

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Three texts from my mother asking if I'd changed my

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mind about flying to Phoenix, one from my sister with

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a photo of my niece in a Santa hat, and

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a calendar notification reminding me that tomorrow was December twenty fifth.

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As if I could somehow forget Sloane, you're not leaving already.

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Marcy from Accounting appeared at my elbow, cheeks flushed from

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the spiked eggnog that Dave from It had been a

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little too generous with She was wearing a sweater with

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actual blinking lights, which I respected on principle, even if

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it was giving me a headache. Early morning tomorrow, I lied,

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It's Christmas, what a morning family stuff, I said, which

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wasn't technically untrue. Avoiding my family required significant emotional preparation.

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Marcy hugged me anyway, wrapping me in a cloud of

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vanilla perfume and synthetic Christmas cheer. Merry Christmas, Sloane, you

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did an amazing job with the party. The ice sculpture

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was incredible, thanks. I'd spent three weeks coordinating that ice

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sculpture a Swan because the CEO's wife liked swan's. It

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was already melting, one wing, drooping sadly toward the shrimp

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cocktail Merry Christmas, Marsy. The parking garage was mostly empty.

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My heels echoed against the concrete, and I could hear

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the distant thump of base from the party three floors up.

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The elevator had taken forever, and now my car sat

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alone under the flickering fluorescent lights, like the last guest

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at a party that ended hours ago. December in Ohio

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meant the windshield was frosted over, so I sat with

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the engine running, watching my breath fog in the cold,

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while the defroster wheezed to life. The radio was playing

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Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, the slow, sad version

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that always made me think about things I'd rather not

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think about. I turned it off. The highway was nearly empty,

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a few trucks their lights cutting through the dark. A

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mini van with a Christmas tree strapped to the roof,

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which seemed like a last minute decision someone was going

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to regret. The snow had stopped earlier, but the road

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still had that slick, uncertain look that made me grip

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the steering wheel a little tighter. Eleven thirty four pm,

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the clock on my dashboard glowed green in the darkness.

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I should have stayed at the party, should have let

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Marcy convince me to do another round of karaoke. Should

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have pretended I didn't see the way markers from Legal

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kept looking at me across the room. But I was tired,

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not just to night tired, but the kind of tired

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that settles into your bones around the holidays, when everyone

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else seems to have somewhere to be and someone to

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be there with thirty one years old event coordinator, good

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at my job, bad at everything else? That was the summary?

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Wasn't it the bio that would run under my photo

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if my life was a TV show? Nobody was watching.

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The gas station appeared on my right, its lights too

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bright against the darkness. I wasn't low on fuel, but

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something made me signal anyway. Something made me pull off

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the highway ease into the parking lot, stop beside a

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pump I didn't need. I sat there for a moment,

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engine idling, trying to figure out why I'd stopped. That's

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when I saw him. He was standing near the entrance

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of the convenience store, just outside the circle of light

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from the windows, tall dark coat, watching me with an

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expression I couldn't read from this distance. Not threatening exactly,

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but intent, like he'd been waiting. I should have driven away.

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Every instinct I'd developed as a woman who'd spent her

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adult life navigating a world that wasn't always safe, said

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go now, don't look back. But my hand was already

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reaching for the door handle, and my legs were already

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carrying me across the frozen pavement, and some part of

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me that I didn't recognize was saying. Finally, he didn't move.

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As I approached up close, I could see his face,

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sharp features, dark eyes, a jawline that belonged on a

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magazine cover mid thirties. Maybe the kind of handsome that

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usually came with a catch, Sloane, he said. I stopped

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the cold bit at my cheeks, my ears, the back

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of my neck where my coat didn't quite cover. How

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do you know my name? He smiled, but it wasn't

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a happy expression, more like grief wearing a smile's clothing.

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I know a lot of things about you, Sloane Marchetti.

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I know you just left your company's Christmas party. I

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know you lied to a woman named Marcy about having

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family plans tomorrow. I know you're driving a silver Honda

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Accord with a dent in the rear bumper from when

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you backed into a mailbox last March. My heart was

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pounding now and I took a step back. Are you

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have you been following me? No, he said it simply

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no defensiveness. I've been waiting for you here at this

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gas station at exactly eleven forty seven pm on Christmas Eve.

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I glanced at the clock on my phone eleven forty seven.

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Why he was quiet for a long moment, his breath

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fogging in the cold. Behind him. Through the convenience store window,

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I could see a board clerk scrolling through her phone,

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completely unaware that something impossible was happening in her parking lot.

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Because in five minutes, you're going to get back on

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the highway, he said, You're going to take the curve

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near mile mark of forty seven just a little too fast.

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There's black ice. You won't see it until you're already spinning.

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Your car will hit the guardrail at approximately seventy three

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miles per hour. His voice was steady, clinical, like he

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was reading from a report. You're going to die Sloane

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at eleven fifty two pm on Christmas Eve, and there's

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nothing I can do to stop it. I laughed. It

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came out high and strange, the sound of someone who

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wasn't processing what she was hearing. Is this some kind

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of sick joke? Did Marcus put you up to this?

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I wish it were a joke. He took a step

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toward me and I should have run, but I didn't. Couldn't.

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I've watched you die three hundred and seventeen times, same curve,

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same ice, same moment. I've tried everything, warning you, blocking

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the road, slashing your tires. None of it works. The

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loop always closes the same way. You're insane, probably another

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sad smile. But in about four minutes you're going to

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find out I'm telling the truth. And then you're going

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to wake up at the beginning of this day and

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you won't remember any of this. You won't remember me,

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and tomorrow night we'll have this exact conversation again. The

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wind cut through my coat and I shivered. There was

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something in his eyes that made it hard to look away.

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Not threat, but loss, the kind of loss that accumulates

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over years, decades.

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Who are you?

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My name is Elias, and I'm the reason you're trapped here.

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I opened my mouth to respond to demand answers, to

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call him crazy again, to do something other than stand

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there in the freezing cold, believing him, But my phone

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buzzed in my pocket, a calendar notification. Eleven fifty pm,

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two minutes to Christmas. You should go, Elias said, softly.

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You always go, no matter what I say, you always

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get back in the car. He was right, Even as

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my mind screamed that this was wrong, that he was dangerous,

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that I should call the police. My feet were already

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carrying me backward toward the car, toward the highway, toward

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whatever was waiting at mile marker forty seven. Wait, I

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heard myself say, if this has happened before, if you've

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really done this hundreds of times, why don't you just

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stop me physically? Something flickered across his face, pain maybe

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or shame. I tried. In Loop forty three, I grabbed

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your arm, you pulled away, fell, hit your head on

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the pavement. Dead before midnight, anyway. In Loop one hundred

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and twelve, I stood in front of your car. You

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swerve to avoid me and went off the road early

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same result, he shook his head. The loop wants to close, Sloane,

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It needs you to die, And nothing I do change

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is that I was at my car now, hand on

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the door, heart racing. Then why are you even here?

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Why tell me any of this? Elias looked at me,

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and for just a moment, I saw something beneath the grief,

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something that looked almost like hope. Because you asked me

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that same question in Loop two hundred and ninety one,

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and I gave you the same answer I'm giving you now,

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he paused. I'm here because I can't stop hoping that

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this time will be different, that this time you'll find

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a way out, that this time you'll remember. The clock

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on my phone read eleven fifty one. I got in

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the car. I don't know why he'd told me what

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was coming, and I still turned the key, still pulled

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out of the parking lot, still merged onto the dark highway,

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like I was following a script I couldn't see. Maybe

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that's what fate feels like, not a choice taken away,

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but a choice you keep making without understanding why. The

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curve came up faster than I expected mile marker forty seven,

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just like he said, I saw the ice too late,

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a dark shimmer across the pavement that looked almost like water.

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And then the steering wheel was spinning uselessly in my hands,

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and the guardrail was rushing toward me. And my last

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thought was he knew my name, he knew the office

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Christmas party ended at eleven, which meant I had exactly

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fifty three minutes to drive home, change into pajamas, and

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pretend I wasn't spending another holiday alone. I blinked. I

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was standing by my desk, coat in hand, phone buzzing

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with texts from my mother. The ice sculpture was intact,

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both wings raised in frozen elegance. Marcy was across the room,

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laughing at something Dave said, and somewhere in the back

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of my mind, like a song I couldn't quite place,

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a voice was saying my name, Sloane. I looked at

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my phone eleven pm, December twenty fourth. Something was wrong,

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Something was very, very wrong.