A Very Killer Christmas

Chapter 1

Rowley

Shit.

Gerard’s scream cuts off as blood gurgles out of the gash in his throat, down his white button-down, and onto the light gray tiles of the kitchen. In the sudden silence after his shocked bellow, I hear it—another person’s breathing.

It’s fast. Raspy. And it’s right behind me.

I turn, the knife steady in my hand. It’s a woman in her late forties. A large purple towel is wrapped around her wet body, water dripping down her dyed red hair. Her face is slack with terror.

Gerard falls with a dull thud. It seems like everything happens in slow motion, but there’s a horrid inevitability to it. He’s dead. I killed him. And she saw it all.

“He was supposed to be alone,” I mutter to myself, though saying that out loud won’t save me.

The woman doesn’t answer. Her breathing grows even faster, and a low wail builds in her throat.

I have three choices. The obvious one is to kill her. It would be clean and give me enough time to escape while also eliminating the only witness to the assassination. It’s the best solution. And I can’t choose it.

Throughout my career, I’ve had one rule, and it’s sacred to me. I only kill people I am paid to kill. I’ve never broken this rule, not even to save my ass. Today won’t be any different.

I suppose I could tie her up since she’s bound to call the authorities as soon as I leave. But that’s messy. I always strive to leave as few traces as possible, and tying up a struggling victim is chaotic.

I don’t do chaotic. I go in, do what I’m paid for, get out. It’s clean, organized, and it’s served me well for years.

My mind made up, I turn away and step over Gerard’s body on my way to the back door.

“Merry Christmas,” I whisper under my breath, sheathing the bloody knife as the door bangs shut behind me.

I barely make it out onto the street when the woman’s high-pitched scream pierces the night. A neighbor’s dog barks in response. I mount my bike and ride away, my jaw clenched tight as I force myself to stay calm.

It’s just past six, but it’s already dark out.

How much time do I have? It’s Christmas Eve. Statistically, fewer calls will be made tonight than on an average Friday evening. If Gerard’s lover gets her wits fast, the area will be swarming with blue uniforms in no time.

I make my way through the suburbs, doing my best to put distance between Gerard’s house and me. I pass peaceful homes bedecked in snow and colorful lights. A large blow-up Santa grins at me from someone’s yard as I whizz past.

My sense of time is distorted. It seems only seconds have passed since I killed him. Not enough time.

Sirens wail from north and east, cutting me off from the city. I curse and take the next right, heading west. Deeper into the suburbs.

Fuck, I should have killed her.

This is bad. In the city, I could quickly disappear in the usual evening crowd that barely thins even on Christmas Eve.

But here? The area is filled with cozy family homes belonging to upstanding citizens who are probably drinking mulled wine and caroling right now.

I stick out like a wolf in a sheep barn.

The sirens get closer. I lock my body to prevent shaking, since the cold is even worse now than when I rode here.

I already know I won’t be able to reach the car that I parked a few miles away from Gerard’s just in case.

The bike will have to do, though it’s tricky on the snow despite excellent winter tires.

I turn just a bit too sharply and lose control for a fraction of a second. When I regain it, my heart is in overdrive. This was a bad idea.

Except, I always take my bike. That’s how I’ve done it for years. It works.

My head is hot and stuffy inside the helmet I didn’t take off to kill Gerard. That’s good, at least. All the woman will be able to tell them is that the killer was tall and dressed in black, complete with gloves. No hair or skin color. No face.

But the helmet won’t help me if I’m caught in this area.

I take another turn, blood rushing in my ears almost as loud as the roar of the engine.

The sirens are further away and then closer.

My hands tighten on the handles so much, they hurt.

My stomach roils with a sickening mixture of fear and anger.

I can’t get caught. I have enemies, mostly the relatives and associates of people I killed, and if I end up in prison, they’ll get me. I’ll get shanked before I taste the infamous prison food.

The nice, perfectly manicured suburban houses give way to older buildings.

This isn’t a seedy area, exactly, but here and there, a neglected homefront spoils the view.

I ride straight into an empty lot occupied only by a large shed.

There’s some rusty equipment under old tarps, and I lead my bike deeper inside, pulling a dirty sheet over it.

There. It’s the best I can do in a hurry.

The only broom I find has a broken handle. I have to bend low over the ground to hide the tire marks on the snowy pavement. Shooting a final look at the shed, I nod to myself and take off with an easy jog.

They will lock down the area, of course, but that can’t last forever. All I need is a good place to hide. There must be something.

But as I look at each house I pass, my heart sinks lower while the sirens blare closer.

I have seconds to duck behind a low wall when a police car turns into the street, its headlights sweeping across the pavement. My palms sweaty, I wait until it passes. The pulsing lights color the snow red and blue.

When the car turns left, I don’t return to the street. Keeping low, I make my way to the backyard and heave myself over a wooden fence into another lot.

It’s only a matter of time before they finish their sweep and start knocking on doors. I’m almost out of time.

I pass a garden shed and a doghouse big enough to fit me, only, it’s occupied. The large, sad eyes of a black mix-breed the size of a German Shepherd regard me as I press my finger to my helmet over my mouth, giving the doghouse a wide berth.

The dog doesn’t bark or even lift its head, and for a moment, my panic recedes, replaced by anger at its owners.

Poor beast doesn’t have enough strength to bark at an obvious trespasser who reeks of blood.

It’s obviously neglected. Then I notice it’s chained, and my anger turns sharper. I whip around to look at the house.

Just in time. A small boy stands on the windowsill inside, his pudgy hands pressing firmly against the glass. His mouth moves like he’s telling his parents about the strange man in the backyard.

“Bye, friend,” I mutter to the dog and jump over to another lot.

This is bad. At this rate, I’ll be found, cuffed, and locked up by seven.

I pick up the pace, straining my ears for the sounds of pursuit. Everything hinges on luck now. As soon as the police question the dog’s owners, they’ll narrow their search. I have to make it far enough without being seen again.

I risk the streets, my entire body throbbing to the rhythm of my racing heart. It feels like I’m suffocating. I’m tempted to ditch the helmet, but I can’t afford any more mistakes now.

The houses blur as I run, faster and faster. The night is an unfriendly landscape of lights, muffled music, and so much festive cheer, I want to strangle something. No place to hide. Hope trickles out of me with every drop of cold sweat. It’s almost over.

Defeated by suburbia.

I duck behind a parked car as headlights sweep closer. Not a police car, but I can’t be seen either way. I stand up when it passes, only to drop low again when another car turns down the street, this one dark. They turned off the lights to sneak up on me and almost got me.

As I stand, wincing when my knees creak loudly, I am almost ready to step out into the middle of the street and surrender. Then I see it.

A house, dark and unlit. It’s far from the street, perching at the back end of a long, narrow lot. The lack of Christmas lights—or any lights at all—makes it almost invisible among its festive neighbors. There is no car parked in the driveway.

It’s perfect.

I sprint across the street. The snowy path leading to the front door looks like it hasn’t been cleared in days. I still have my broken broom, so I brush snow over my footprints as best I can. As long as no one looks too closely, it should work.

The house is old and clearly neglected. Dirty paint peels in places, and the porch sags in the middle. It’s not a ruin—the windows and roof are whole—but it doesn’t look lived-in.

I circle around to the back, careful to leave no signs of my presence. If I’m lucky, the police will overlook this house.

The simple lock on the back door isn’t a challenge. I slide in, shivering from cold and relief. It’s barely warmer than outside, but I’ll take it.

I don’t look for the light switch. I need this place to stay dark and invisible, so I creep through the kitchen carefully, not making a sound. Relief pours down my back in shuddering waves.

“Thanks, Santa,” I mutter to myself, suppressing a lightheaded snicker. My adrenaline levels are about to crash hard, which usually makes me feel like I’m drunk. I have to stay sober tonight.

A narrow corridor leads me to a living room with a surprisingly nice couch and a large flat-screen TV. The kitchen seemed old-fashioned in the dark, but this is quite modern. A gaming console hums with a muted orange glow.

Enough light falls in through the windows to let me see the details. The coffee table is littered with a few greasy takeout boxes. I wrinkle my nose and lean in to take a sniff. They don’t reek of rotten food. Must be fresh.

Whoever lives here couldn’t have left long ago. I grit my teeth, some of my relief evaporating. What if they come back soon? Fuck, maybe I’ll be forced to kill an innocent, after all.

Something shuffles upstairs, as if in response to my dire thoughts. I freeze, my hand flying to the bloody knife at my hip. To run or to stay? A police siren wails nearby, and I nod grimly, knowing I can’t leave.

Let’s hope it’s an animal.

I creep up the stairs, placing my feet right by the wall to prevent creaking. Whatever that sound was, it doesn’t repeat. The house is completely still. My hope flares up just in time to take a brutal hit when I see a thin line of cool light under the door opposite the stairs.

“Fuck you, Santa,” I mouth silently, taking out the knife.

This is it, then. This is where I compromise all my principles.

I open the door with so much force, it bangs on the wall. I’m ready to take down whoever that is without letting them make a sound.

But when a dainty, pale face turns away from an enormous computer screen, the large eyes curious and not afraid, I pause.

Just for a second.