There’s a great quarterly magazine called The First Line that has been around since the summer of 1999. What TFL does is give prospective contributors the first line of the story; their job is to write stories using that first line. I was lucky enough to be in the magazine once.

For its 25th anniversary, TFL let people submit stories beginning with any first lines they’d done before, with four chunks of five years, with 20 possible lines, for each issue. I immediately knew what I wanted to do: I wanted to write four stories, each of which used all 20 available first lines.

I did, and it was super fun to do. TFL did not agree and did not accept any of them, but here they are in this four-month feature. The stories are not related in any way.

This story, “Christmas Vengeance,” has twenty scenes; each scene begins with one of the first lines for TFL, in the order that they first appeared.

I highly recommend The First Line if you like to read innovative fiction. And if you’re a writer, it’s a fantastic way to get your creative gears turning. Check out TFL at www.thefirstline.com.

 

“Christmas Vengeance”
Suspense
by David M. Fitzpatrick

There were five of them, which was two more than I'd been expecting. The hit list said it was a trio of brothers who had brutalized women all over the city as pimps the women didn’t ask for—a sex-trafficking racket. Turns out two of their strong-arm henchmen were there with them. Bonus.

I did them all with the bomb I’d planted in the living room. Christmastime was so festive; the explosion blew garland, ornaments, and body parts out the big picture window. A big paycheck, plus the satisfaction of blowing up Christmas? I’ll take it.

I drove from the scene in the stolen car, but I wasn’t done yet. I had another job tonight. They weren’t both due this particular night, but as long as I had horrible people to kill, I might as well get the added pleasure of doing them all on this, the worst of nights.

*     *     *

“Why are you always so cynical?” Sheila always said.

I always lied to her about why I hated Christmas so much. I’d tell her I was anti-capitalist, non-religious, and disapproving of pretend goodwill by people who sucked the rest of the year. I didn’t tell her about the first time I was molested, on Christmas Eve—when my stepfather, Calvin, dressed up as Santa and came into my room. It continued for four years, and for some reason Christmas Eve was always the worst.

*     *     *

I was born Rosa Carlotta Silvana Grisanti, but in the mid-Eighties, I legally changed my name to Eve. Eve Silver. Strange choice, given my aversion to the holiday, but I swear it never occurred to me until one Christmas Eve I heard the song “Silver Bells.” Maybe it did occur to me subconsciously, and I was trying to find something positive in the holiday. It took me three years after living with Sheila before I told her of my history. She wasn’t pleased that I’d lied to her.

I ditched the car at a mall and boosted another one for the next job, which was close by. The windows were all dark, but with the Mercedes in the driveway, slowly being blanketed in snow, I knew that Henry Fromm was home. He was an early-to-bed kind of guy, and it was past ten.

I parked a block away and walked back. Behind the house, I found the window that I’d unlocked the day before. I slipped into the house like a cat.

*     *     *

The inside was dark.

I knew the layout; I’d been here already, when Fromm was at work. I’d dealt with his estranged wife very carefully for months, ensuring that she wasn’t a cop and that she had the money. With Fromm gone, she’d have plenty. He lived modestly, but he had millions. The guy wasn’t worried about the wife; the prenup said she got nothing.

But if he died… yeah, she’d get everything.

My eyes had acclimated to the dark. As I stood in his bedroom doorway, I could see him, faintly illuminated by the streetlights outside. He was snoring, and when I snapped on the light, he kept on snoring. By the time I shook his leg to wake him, I had my gun pointed at his head. He woke to the long silencer in his face, and he visibly panicked.

“I’ll pay you ten times what she’s paying you,” he tried.

“I don’t work for wife-beaters,” I said, and I put a bullet in his brain.

*     *     *

Life would be so much easier if I were a cartoon character. They have no real troubles in their lives. No matter how many times Wile E. Coyote can’t catch the Roadrunner and falls off cliffs, life goes on. And he somehow has a budget to spend on Acme stuff.

I got out of the house when I was sixteen, and it wasn’t because of the things Calvin did to me. It was Mamma. She never seemed to notice, and Calvin always made it clear that I was never to tell anyone—“Not one word!” as he’d snarl at me.

One day I had to overcome my terror. I had to tell Mamma. I was sixteen, and my sister Tessa was eleven. She’d be twelve soon, the same age I had been. I had to protect her, so I told Mamma everything.

She defended him. Defended him for being a man, for hormones, for his needs. She actually excused everything that he’d done—and told me to suck it up. My mother. As if I weren’t a scared, abused teenage girl who needed her mother to keep her safe.

I left that night and never returned, and I went to the police. Calvin did some time. My sister was safe. I ended up on the streets—doing shameful things for money. One night, a john beat me badly, and I killed him. Just picked up a lamp and bashed his skull in.

And I liked it. Sure. How else do you become a hitwoman?

I gave Fromm’s bedroom a quick look. On his nightstand next to his bleeding head, I saw a handheld digital voice recorder atop an old hardcover book. I grabbed it; it was off, but better safe than sorry.

Then my eyes settled on the book. The Warrior’s Tale, it said. Thin hardcover, quite old. On the cover was a knight on horseback, but unlike most such tales, this knight was clearly a woman. The knight wore plate armor, but she clearly had breasts.

I don’t know why, but I grabbed that, too, and hurried out of the house.

*     *     *

As the warrior guided her horse back home, she pondered what the future might hold.

The first line of the book had my attention. I’d walked back to the mall in the snow and caught a taxi downtown, and I sat in a coffee shop drinking hot cocoa. The book was only about thirty pages long, copyrighted in 1917. The writer was one C. Cooper—probably a woman, given the female knight, since no one in 1917 would likely have bought such a gender-role-challenging the book if the author had been female.

The warrior lady was named Dame Bandersnatch. Okay, maybe the author was a man after all. She was a dame instead of a knight, her name was an unoriginal theft from Lewis Carroll… and the warrior woman’s name had “snatch” in it. Come on, people.

Bandersnatch had vanquished a dragon, the tale of which was recounted during her trip home. Many a knight had perished trying to slay the dragon that had terrorized her kingdom, but she had prevailed. She hoped that the deed would earn her a higher station.

Indeed, it did. She was celebrated for her victory, carried on the shoulders of the people, and given the highest award for valor by the king. The story seemed to be taking a positive turn with a theme of “women can do anything.” Maybe a woman author after all.

But in the end she married the king’s greatest knight, retired from the damehood to bear him many sons, and lived happily ever after at home.

Yeah, male author.

I wanted to throw the thing across the café, but I had to grit my teeth, leave, and burn it in a back-alley trashcan before heading home.

Christmas sucked.

The voice recorder was empty, so there was that. I tucked it into my inside jacket pocket and went on with my life.

*     *     *

Having little to his name when he died, the reading of Henry Fromm’s will went quickly. He had a house, a car, and a bank account. Three things, all of which went to Della Fromm. The last one had several million little things in it.

She never said a word to me until we were outside on the street, when she pulled me away from the throngs of people to stand against the building. She planted her hands on my shoulders and looked me in the eyes.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll get the money to you soon. I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done.”

She began to cry, and she hugged me. I had confirmed the vicious abuse that she’d suffered at Fromm’s hands for twenty years, so I knew the hit wasn’t just about money. In the subsequent months, I saw her in the news a lot, giving to this charity and that cause. No, it was never about money for her.

It wasn’t for me, either. It was about the satisfaction of punishing the irredeemable.

*     *     *

“That was the best game we’ve ever had!”

Tessa and Aunt Mary raised their beers, and I followed suit. Tessa was still in her college softball team’s outfit. I’d watched the game, and it was indeed their best—and in Tessa’s senior year of college, no less. She’d just graduated with her bachelor’s in marketing.

“And the last one of the year,” I said.

“Last one ever, Rosa,” Tessa said.

They didn’t know I was legally Eve Silver. It was best that way.

“At least you put down the Bearcats seventeen to two,” said Aunt Mary with a broad grin.

We cheered and toasted again.

Mary was Mamma’s sister. She resembled her, but unlike Mamma Mary was truly a kind and warmhearted woman. She lived in Arizona, but she visited frequently. She and Mamma got along, but probably because she, like everyone, didn’t know what a horrible person Mamma was.

“Are you coming to your sister’s wedding next summer?” Mary asked.

“I’ll be there.”

“You should sit with Lorraine.”

I glared at Mary. She reached out and clasped my hand. “I know you’re angry that she didn’t protect you, but Lorraine was just oblivious to things back then. She didn’t see things that she should have. She’s told me how terrible she feels for not seeing things as they were.”

If I told everyone that Mamma had defended Calvin, they’d… well, they’d just not believe me. It would just be Rosa causing trouble again. It was best to just keep my mouth shut—let them think that I ran away without giving Mamma a chance, as if I’m the one who did something wrong.

“You have to be at my wedding,” Tessa said.

Aunt Mary scooted her chair over and wrapped her arm around me. She was always so sweet—like the mother I should have had. “Rosa, please come visit today. Just this once. Just see if you and Lorraine can get along.”

Too much beer in celebration. My judgment was impaired, and I agreed.

It was just as well. I had a job that night and already had to be angry. Might as well get furious.

*     *     *

Mamma has always had a love for other people’s possessions. She frequented secondhand shops all the time when I was a kid. For the most part, Calvin had kept her in check, demanding that she confine her piles of used junk to her “craft room,” as they called it. But since Calvin had gone, the house was bordering on a hoarder’s paradise.

I hadn’t been back there since I’d walked out ten years ago. Now, every room was full of her bits of junk. They were on the floor, on shelves, piled on tables, and stacked everywhere. It smelled musty in there.

Tessa was excited. “Don’t mind Mamma’s mess. I’ll go get her.”

“I’m right here,” came her voice.

Through the piles of stuff in the living room, I could see her in the hallway, looking at me as if she’d seen a ghost.

“Lorraine, it’s Rosa,” Mary said. Fair introduction; I looked nothing like I had ten years ago.

“My goodness, you’re beautiful,” Mamma said, her face brightening with a broad smile.

She came to me and gave me a big hug and everyone was astounded, and the next thing I knew we were all seated around the kitchen table talking it up. It was uncomfortable and somehow wrong. Mamma went on about all the local gossip and so forth, and I sat there and listened stupidly to everything. I had a gun in my jacket, and I just wanted to kill her. Probably a bad idea.

At one point, Aunt Mary excused herself to use the bathroom, and Mamma said, “Tessa, you should take your sister upstairs and show her that new dress you just got.”

Tessa jumped up and beckoned me to follow, but Mamma waved her off.

“She’ll be right up, sweetie,” she said. “Give Mamma a minute alone with her dear Rosa.”

When Tessa was gone, the smile vanished, and the old bat turned on me, planting her hands on the table and leaning toward me with a ferocious glare.

“Listen here, missy,” she snarled, “it’s been ten years and things have been good. You got my husband locked up. So you’ve done enough. Now, your sister and your Aunt Mary think it’s all so important that we get along, so we’ll put on a good show for them. We’ll make nice for Tessa’s sake, but you mind your business and don’t cause any more trouble, or I’ll make all the trouble you can handle. You understand me?”

I nodded, numb.

Aunt Mary returned just then, and Mamma’s face brightened into her mask of fake happiness. “All right, hurry up, now!” she said. “Tessa really wants to show you her dress!”

*     *     *

Tessa sent up a hasty prayer for forgiveness as she slipped on the dress Mamma had bought her in exchange for a promise not to marry Al.

“Dear God, I have sinned,” she said, sliding the sexy black thing on. “I lied to Mamma to get this dress, but there’s no way I’m dumping Al. Please forgive me. Amen.”

She was a knockout in the dress, and I was stunned at her lie.

“So Mamma thinks you’re not marrying him, even though you’re planning a wedding?”

She laughed. “She believes what she wants to believe, I guess.”

“Why does Mamma not want you to marry Al?”

“I have no idea. She acts like she loves him when he’s around, but she has done everything to get me to call it off.” She struck a sexy pose to model the dress. “Whaddaya think?”

I smiled. “You’re beautiful.”

“Last month it was a makeover. Before that was a spa day. Next month I might try for a car. I tell her I won’t marry him, then tell her I changed my mind. She just keeps trying to bribe me with stuff. I hate lying to her, but…” She trailed off, looking sad. “I mean, Al is a fantastic guy. He’s polite and kind and Mamma acts like she loves him. I just don’t understand why she’s so hateful behind his back. She says she can tell things about people, and doesn’t want me to get hurt. I don’t know what’s up with her.”

She’s a cold, diabolical, demonic witch who wants to control everyone’s lives, I didn’t quite say.

“Did Andrew tell you about his college girlfriend, Theresa?” Tessa asked. “She got drunk and slept with this frat boy who sent Andrew pictures. Theresa blamed it on Mamma, and Andrew believed it for a while.”

In fact, Andrew, who was two years older than me, had told me that. He’d eventually decided that Mamma would never have done something like that, but I wouldn’t put it past Mamma.

I smiled and lied: “I hadn’t heard that.”

*     *     *

When my brother, Andrew, went away to college, he left me his fishing pole, a well-read copy of The Wind in the Willows, and a stack of Playboys. We used to fish together during summers in Vermont, and I loved The Wind in the Willows as a kid. I identified with the Gaoler’s Daughter who helped Toad escape prison, because she was what I had aspired to be—a good, kind, clever girl. The Playboys, of course, were because Andrew knew by my teens that I liked girls.

The fishing pole was nowhere to be found, but the book and magazines were where I’d left them—in the back of the garage behind piles of Mamma’s junk, sealed in a plastic bag. I held the bag, finding some fond memories in a place that recalled mostly horrible ones.

I bet Mamma had indeed arranged to ruin Andrew’s college romance. The woman was trying to destroy Tessa’s marriage before it began, after all. There were rumors in the family from long ago that she had slept with Aunt Mary’s first husband. I wondered if Mary ever believed them.

I clutched the artifacts close to my chest. I’d take them home tonight—maybe read the book, maybe enjoy the magazines with Sheila.

Christmas would be here soon enough.

*     *     *

It was her silent affirmations that kept her from going completely insane. Sheila wasn’t entirely mentally stable, so instead of getting angry, she’d close her eyes, breathe deeply, and then open them to calmly relay whatever was secretly pissing her off.

I waited patiently until she took a deep breath and opened her eyes.

“How could you go to your mother’s house without me?”

I blinked in surprise. “What?”

“This is big—but you left me out.”

Anger boiled within me. “I didn’t plan it, and it’s not about you.”

Her silent affirmations only went so far. Before I knew it, the argument had escalated and she was screaming in full-blown, crazy-Sheila mode. By the end of the night, I’d moved out.

I had a house well outside the city, in the little rural town of Sigwell—which I always called Pigwell, thanks to the stink of farms, manure, and a nearby sewage-treatment plant. That’s why I bought the little house for next to nothing. It was my personal safe house away from Sheila when she was crazy—and, really, away the rest of my world.

December was coming.

*     *     *

After nine years of marriage, Mary knew that the holidays were not a good time to ask her husband for a favor. So she called me. I was watching TV in the Pigwell house when the phone rang. It was late November.

“Denny will be in your neck of the woods next week, but he’s always in a bad mood between Thanksgiving and Christmas—and you know he’s not a fan of my sister,” she said. “Can you pick up a pre-wedding gift for Tessa and bring it to Lorraine’s?”

This was just Aunt Mary trying to keep Mamma and me connected. If she only knew the real Mamma…

“Only if you answer me something.”

I could hear the surprise on the phone. “Okay.”

“Did Mamma sleep with Uncle Phillip?”

“Rosa,” she said sternly. “That was an ugly rumor. I’m offended that you asked. My sister would never do something like that to me. And Phillip would have admitted it to me by now.”

“Okay.”

She was clearly disgusted. “You know what… forget the favor. I’ll have it delivered.”

That was fine. My December was about to get busy.

*     *     *

Calvin once complained that there were not enough subservient women in the world. Of all the people to tell that to, the teenage girl he was violating was the wrong one. Maybe if he’d known I’d grow up to be a hitwoman he might have been a lot nicer.

Well, if it weren’t for him, I’d never have become a hitwoman.

He’d gotten out of prison before Tessa went to college; she was underage and he couldn’t be in the home. Mamma had lost interest in him by then, so he’d moved on to several women. He was currently living alone. I knew this because I kept tabs on him.

I started December with him, at his house in the middle of nowhere in a shitty little rural town called Greenslea. It was the most satisfying kill I’d ever had. More on that later.

*     *     *

My first impression of Phillip was that he was blessed with ignorance. He seemed rather dimwitted, but he was very nice. I barely remembered him from when I was very young, but he remembered me—and someone else.

“I remember Calvin,” he said. “Used to try to put the moves on your Aunt Mary all the time. She always resisted. And that made Lorraine very angry.”

“Mamma was angry that Aunt Mary resisted Calvin’s advances?”

“Oh, yes. Lorraine would much rather have had Calvin get his sexual satisfaction elsewhere, so she wouldn’t have to pony up the goods.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“I heard about him going to prison because of what he did to you. Good for you, protecting your sister like that. God knows your mother would never do it.”

Tears ran down his cheeks.

“Calvin touched other young girls,” he said. “It’s so good you put him out of commission.” He wiped his eyes. “I read that he was found dead this morning. Someone worked him over real good. Looks like he suffered. Can’t help but notice that you showed up on my doorstep the very next day, after all these years.”

He gave me a sideways look as I felt myself tremble.

“He was a horrible human being,” he said. “Don’t worry; your secret is safe with me.”

I nodded in silent thanks. “You didn’t answer my question.”

He nodded and sighed. “Yes, your mother and I had sex. She offered me a joint, and… I don’t know what it was laced with, but I was out of my mind. Someone took pictures. Couldn’t see Lorraine’s face in them, but it was me. Mary only saw that I was naked with someone. God help me, I never meant to hurt Mary…”

He broke down crying.

December had started with Calvin.

Christmas was coming.

*     *     *

In Pigwell, time is not measured in days or weeks but by the number of eighteen wheelers that drive past my house. I listened to them, day in and day out, for weeks. I had nowhere to be until the two days before Christmas, so I lived on the couch, watching TV, listening to the trucks.

I had four jobs lined up—one in New Hampshire, two in Maine, and one back home. I’d be able to wrap them all around Christmas Eve and Christmas Day—exactly what I needed to have an enjoyable holiday.

*     *     *

While not the intended effect, the outcome was surprisingly satisfying.

My target in Concord was just a few minutes away from the I-89 ramps, so I could escape quickly. I planned a drive-by for this pervert—a retired priest who got away with molesting over three hundred boys. Big lawsuit, church paid out lots of money, but the statute of limitations meant that he got away with everything.

Not with me around, and not with the wealthy victim who had hired me.

I shot him as he was heading for his curbside mailbox, and the shot was bad. Took him in the shoulder. I’d been getting rusty watching TV in Pigwell. But the old man toppled sideways and sat right down on a property stake. It went right up his keister—fitting, given his history. Neither that nor the bullet killed him, though; no, the old pervert had a heart attack right there on his lawn as a result.

The client happily paid up on the job the following week. In the meantime, I hit the road and headed for Maine.

*     *     *

Roy owned the only drive-thru funeral business in Maine. How convenient.

The place was about making final arrangements ahead of time—for the busy person!—in an old fast-food building in Lewiston. He had a big funeral home in town, but added this stupid idea. Luckily, a call to him saying that I needed a midnight drive-thru appointment with him actually worked.

“Happy Christmas Eve,” he said, as it was five past twelve. “In just a few minutes, I can set up your final requests and get you on a payment plan. So how can I assist you with this important decision?”

“Go back in time and un-rape those three women from college.”

His face turned ghost white. “How dare you! College was fifty years ago, so you have no proof of this.”

“I believe the women,” I said, and I pulled out my gun and shot him dead through the little window where people used to get their cheeseburgers.

Maybe there was something to this drive-thru idea.

*     *     *

Nick had considered himself a lucky guy, until now.

This one was on the way back on Christmas Eve, near Gray. Nick had just won twenty-three million in the lottery, and this job was very personal for me.

He’d abused his two daughters all their lives. He’d even served time for it. Now he was out, and the lucky bastard had won that money—after disowning his daughters. How dare they put him in jail for the horrors he’d committed, right?

I went slow with this guy. A shot to the kneecap to drop him, and occasional shots while he screamed like a helpless child, as I talked. His house was in rural nowhere, with no neighbors to hear his screams. There were vast, sprawling farms on either side of him with thick woods behind his house. I told him who had hired me, and that I was happy to take the job.

“It’s the only hit I’ve ever taken that I didn’t require a deposit,” I said as he cried and bled. “They promised to pay me some of that money they’ll inherit from you, but you know what? I don’t care if they don’t.”

I let him beg for his life for a long time before I put one in his chest. Then I sat down and watched him gurgle and cough for almost an hour before he died.

It wasn’t half as terrible as what I’d done to Calvin.

I just had one more job tonight.

*     *     *

Sometimes the name they give you is all wrong.

Rosa Carlotta Silvana Grisanti. So Italian. Conjures images of the mob, of Catholicism, of close-knit families. I’m no member of the mob, I’m sure as hell not religious, and I’m not close with my family.

It could have been the right name. But Calvin had taken everything from me, and Mamma made sure I could never get it back.

Tessa had moved in with Al two states away before marrying him. Andrew had been working in Ohio since college. Aunt Mary lived in Arizona. So Mamma was alone. I was still here, but she’d lost me long ago.

I bumped into many stacks of junk along the way before making it to her bedroom. When she looked up from her bed and saw me in the doorway, there was no moment of excitement seeing me. Her face darkened, and she reached for the remote and turned the TV off.

“A wife supports her husband,” she snapped. “She backs him up. She defends him. That’s what a wife does.”

“A mother protects her children.” There was no way I’d let myself cry. “I told you everything, but you didn’t care.”

“You rotten little brat,” she snarled. “You sent him to prison and ruined my life.”

I wavered in place, fighting the emotions trying to wash over me. “That’s all that matters to you?”

She threw the remote across the room and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She came to her feet and squared off with me, hands on her hips. “Yes! And let me tell you something, missy… you say I defended him, that I didn’t protect you? Well, try this on: I knew about it the whole time! That first time, Christmas Eve, when you were twelve… we were drunk and he wanted to play. But I wasn’t in the mood, so I sent him to your room. Don’t worry—I told him to be easy with you.”

She gave me a sick, twisted, leering grin.

“You’re a horrible person,” I said.

“Quit whining,” she snapped. “My stepfather did it to me, and I survived. If I had to go through that, there’s no reason you couldn’t. You fucking bitch—you had no spine! You ran to the cops and locked poor Calvin up.”

“He’d have done the same thing to Tessa.”

“She’s tougher than you. She’d have gotten over it. Besides, a girl has to give it up sooner or later. Might as well learn young.”

I backed toward the door, keenly aware of the gun inside my jacket. It would be so easy to pull it out and shoot her in the head, and it was almost impossible to resist doing so after what she’d said. Somehow, I maintained my control. “I’m telling Tessa. And I’m telling Andrew and Mary.”

“You think they’ll believe you—the girl who broke up this family?” She laughed. “They’ll never believe you. They’ll always believe their Mamma—the one they love!”

“You don’t love them.”

She cackled. “Love is for idiots. This is about happiness. They do for me. They do what I say. They do what I want. If it costs me a hug once in a while, so be it.”

I turned and left, threading my way through the junk piles in the hallway and heading for the stairs. I heard her clambering to follow.

“You’re worthless!” she screamed. “You were only good for Calvin’s plaything, and you had to screw that up!”

I descended the stairs. I had to get out before I turned around and shot her.

“Tessa will come crawling back to me after I ruin her!” she screamed from the top of the stairs. “You watch me. I’ll set that Al up to cheat on her, just like I set up Andrew’s college girlfriend to cheat on him. Just like I screwed my sister’s first husband and ruined their marriage!”

I turned at the bottom of the stairway to face her.

“They won’t believe a word you say,” she sneered.

We stared at each other for a long, quiet, tense moment. Mamma never knew how close she came to dying right there.

Finally, I said, “I killed Calvin.”

Her face froze.

“He died slowly,” I said. “I made him suffer for everything he did to me. I put fourteen rounds into him before I started cutting him with the knife. I removed a few body parts, and he was awake for all of it. You should have heard him scream… for hours. He lived out in Greenslea, miles from any other houses. Maybe no one will ever find his body.”

She stared, mouth agape, shocked.

“You’re lucky I’m not doing that to you. Merry Christmas.”

And I turned and left.

I could hear her screaming from inside the house, but she never came out. That gave me time to get the gun and knife I’d used on Calvin from my trunk. They were sealed in a big Tupperware container; I’d wiped them down with bleach, but I’d left the blood on the blade. These I stuffed under the seat of her car. When she went to the authorities and tried to pin it on me, they’d find the murder weapons in her car, and she’d know the details of the crime.

In the car, I pulled Henry Fromm’s voice recorder out of my pocket. I’d have to edit the audio file to remove that last part, lest anyone know what I’d done to Calvin. But everyone would finally hear the real Mamma.

I didn’t even kill her, and it was the best Christmas Eve I’d had since I was eleven.

 

David M. Fitzpatrick is a fiction writer in Maine, USA. His many short stories have appeared in print magazines and anthologies around the world. He writes for a newspaper, writes fiction, edits anthologies, and teaches creative writing. Visit him at www.fitz42.net/writer to learn more.