Christmas Special 2025

IT'S A WONDERFUL WIFE

The snowflakes are fat and juicy. That’s cool on a postcard, but it’s not great when one has a long, bumpy, sloped, gravel driveway.

Riley clutches the wheel, full of the same nerves she has a for a shootout to determine a medal. Ingrid would be taking these curves like a rally driver, and it’s not just because she’s more experienced with driving in snow.

Hunched over the wheel, Riley peers through the wintry veil. Her heart lifts as the house comes into view.

“Oh, thank god. Shut up, Mariah.” She switches off the audio from her phone as she guides the car toward the garage. “Sorry, Mariah.” She turns it back on. This kind of weather always makes Riley prickly, probably because she’s from Florida. Washington is usually beautiful, and the somewhat remote property that she shares with her wife has a lot of charm for most of the year. Not in winter, though. Or when there are wildfires. “Man,” Riley mutters as she pulls into the garage.

The empty berth beside her means that Ingrid isn’t home yet. She must be running late, but she hasn’t texted, and Riley doesn’t like it when people are running late and not texting in this weather.

Riley climbs out of the car and takes out her phone. “You OK?” she says into voice to text as she opens the kitchen door and heads into the warmth of the house.

It’s obvious that something is wrong.

Riley absently sets her phone down, her eyes taking in the scraps of wrapping paper on the floor, a few spots of liquid that might be coffee, and the baby gate standing open. Something like dread comes over her as she moves past the kitchen island to look into the living room, where the Christmas tree looks as though a bomb has hit it.

The kennel stands open.

She’s a professional soccer player, not a detective, but it’s clear that Adella has escaped.

“Delly?” Riley says uncertainly, but there’s no point. If the pit bull were here and free, Riley would have been tackled to the floor the instant that she came through the door.

She can’t have gotten out through the garage, but… Riley hurries to the front hall. The door is closed but not locked because it’s never locked; they’re miles from anyone.

Swearing, she snatches a leash and a bag of treats and plunges out onto the front porch. They have to be so careful because Adella will dart for the door any chance she gets. The snow’s coming down so heavily that there’s no prayer of following the dog’s dumb pawprints.

“Oh, come on,” Riley moans, stepping into the snow. “You know it’s too cold for you out here! You know it! Delly!” The wind howls; her voice probably only carries about five feet.

Well, all Adella wants to do is smell things. Riley sighs like a teenager, her breath coming out in a huge cloud. She stomps toward the trees.

“Delly! Quit being a dickhead!”

Ingrid gave the dog that name when the first thing that she did when they brought her home as a puppy was to ram her thick little skull straight into Riley’s shin so hard that it almost cost her the playoffs. Ingrid loves that idiot dog way more than anyone should love an animal. If Adella runs away or freezes to ****, Ingrid will be in shambles for the next ten years.