How to Solve a Murder... Romantic Mystery Bundle (EBOOKS)

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Prologue
Harris

I despise Christmas.
Not just a little. We’re talking about the kind of loathing that makes my jaw clench and my fingers curl into fists whenever I hear the first note of “Jingle Bells.” And don’t get me started on “All I Want for Christmas Is You.” Mariah Carey should be banned from December.
It’s not just the giddy music meant to emotionally manipulate. I despise the decorations.
Those gaudy inflatable snowmen that flop around like drunken sailors in people’s front yards, the rainbow-vomiting LED light shows that probably cause seizures in small animals, and those plastic reindeer with mechanical heads that bob up and down as if they’re judging everyone’s holiday spirit.
Don’t remind me about the red and green glitter that seems to multiply like a festive virus, or those giant red bows stuck on everything from mailboxes to Mercedes. And whoever invented those elf surveillance cameras for children should be forced to sit through an endless loop of “Last Christmas.”
I can’t stop my thoughts from spiraling down Candy Cane Lane. Next on my list of things that turn me off to Christmas are the fake smiles and good cheer, plastered on faces like frosting on stale cookies.
And what about the themed events?
Gingerbread house competitions or those mandatory ugly Christmas sweater parties where everyone pretends their $75 “ugly” sweater from Nordstrom was actually their grandmother’s.
The office transforms into a dystopian holiday nightmare as December progresses, all building toward the Wheeler Law holiday party—the crown jewel of forced festivity.
Mrs. Crinshaw, the hired event planner AKA Christmas dictator, marshals her decorating troops through the halls with military precision, armed with tinsel and an unshakeable determination to spread “joy.”
Dancing Santas appear on desks like invasive species, and the break room becomes a battlefield of passive-aggressive cookie exchanges. Junior associates frantically Google “thoughtful yet professional gift ideas for managing partners,” while my father uses everything to schmooze and kiss up to current and potential clients. It’s like watching a movie directed by someone who’s never experienced actual human emotion.
Merry Christmas!
Happy Holiday!
It’s the most wonderful time of year!
I stare out the window of my corner office at Wheeler Law, watching the first snowflakes of the season drift past. Below, workers string lights across lampposts, transforming downtown into what they probably imagine is a magical wonderland. To me, it’s the beginning of a month-long descent into forced cheer and calculated generosity.
My leather chair creaks as I swivel away from the window, unable to watch any longer. The snow will stick—it always does in December—and then the real circus begins. Champagne toasts with hidden agendas. Gift baskets that might as well come with price tags listing expected billable hours in return.
The quiet of my office feels like the calm before a tinsel-covered storm.
The sleek mahogany desk, the carefully curated art pieces, the subtle wealth that whispers rather than shouts. All of it will soon be at war with garland and glitter. I can already feel a headache forming behind my eyes.
My father loves this time of year. Arthur Wheeler sees December as peak season for client cultivation. Every party is an opportunity, every holiday card a subtle reminder of our firm’s dedication. I learned early that Christmas isn’t about joy or giving. It’s about networking and bottom lines.
A notification pops up on my computer screen. Another holiday party invitation. This one from the Country Club, where my father has been a member longer than I’ve been alive. I can predict every moment of it. The same faces, the same conversations, the same subtle jockeying for position among families who’ve known each other for generations.
My mouse hovers over the “Accept” button, but something inside me snaps.
A memory surfaces: being seven years old, building a snowman with my dad, then drinking hot cocoa. At some point, that turned into meetings and money. I’m not even sure I could give a date when everything changed. It just did.
I open a new tab and type “cabin rentals Lakewood” into the search bar.
The results populate my screen. Dozens of options promising solitude and scenic views. I scroll past the family-friendly ones with their promises of Christmas tree delivery and cookie-decorating kits.
There. The last listing catches my eye.
A modern cabin set back from the others, minimalist design, no holiday packages offered. The photos show clean lines and empty spaces, not a hint of seasonal decor in sight. Perfect.
Two weeks.
I can leave right after the firm’s holiday party and miss the whole season. No clients dropping by with elaborately wrapped bribes. No family dinner where my father reviews the year’s victories and plans next year’s conquests.
I book it immediately, adding a grocery delivery service to the reservation. The total makes me smile. Probably more than most people spend on Christmas presents, but worth every penny for two weeks of peace.
Soon, any day now, Mrs. Crinshaw will descend. In my head, I can hear her voice carrying down the hallway, issuing orders like a general preparing for battle.
I’ll grit my teeth through every song and forced conversation. But then, I’m leaving. After the obligatory party, this year, I’m escaping. I’ll miss Christmas altogether.
My phone buzzes with a text from my father, probably about the upcoming client party. I ignore it.
Instead, I pull up photos of the cabin again, imagining two weeks of silence. No carols playing in every elevator. No competitive gift-giving among partners. No reminders of everything Christmas used to mean before it became just another business strategy.
The snow falls harder now, and I can see shoppers hurrying along the sidewalks below, bags clutched to their chests like shields. They’re all chasing something. The perfect gift, the perfect holiday, the perfect moment that exists only in commercials and greeting cards.
I lean back in my chair, feeling lighter already.
Let them chase their Christmas dreams. I’ll be in my cabin, where the only sound will be snow falling in the woods and the only decoration will be whatever nature provides. No fake smiles, no strategic generosity, no pretending this season means anything more than profit margins and social obligations.
Mrs. Crinshaw appears in my head like a specter. I can picture her now, armed with holly and determination, ready to transform our corporate fortress into her vision of holiday charm. But for once, her Christmas crusade doesn’t bother me.
Let her come with her wreaths and ribbons. Let my father plan his parties and my mother arrange her charity galas. Let the whole world spin itself into a tinsel-covered frenzy.
In two weeks, I’ll be gone.
The cabin confirmation appears in my inbox, and I click to download the rental agreement. Outside my window, a group of children press their faces against a store window, pointing at the Christmas display inside. For a moment, something tugs at my chest. A memory of when I used to do the same, before I learned that everything has a price tag, even Christmas magic.
I close the blinds.
Sometimes the best gift you can give yourself is the ability to opt out entirely. No presents to buy, no parties to attend, no pretending that December twenty-fifth is anything more than another day on the calendar.
Two weeks. I just have to survive two weeks of this manufactured merriment.
Then I’ll be free.