Excerpt
The gun was cold; he could feel it against his thigh through the thin cotton of his pajamas as he crept down the hall. Outside the kids’ room, he paused. The baby had colic and it occurred to him that it might have been just his restless thump that he had heard. He strained his ears in the darkness. Nothing.

Downstairs in the foyer, the white tile floor shimmered with a kaleidoscope of color, created by the Christmas lights outside, refracted through the leaded-glass panel of the front door. He stopped. No sound. Had the truck left? He looked out the small window in the door but couldn’t see it.

He let out a breath of relief and turned away from the door.

A soft tap. Someone knocking. He drew back the small curtain and looked out at the face in the shadows outside.

A sharp, snapping sound.

His heart slammed up against his sternum, then froze.

It was a sound he had heard before. Too many times before.

The pump of a shot gun.



Dear God Almighty...

Glass exploded over, around and into him. He was hurled back against the staircase. His fingers groped for the spindles but he could not move. He couldn’t feel his legs. He couldn’t feel anything. Except, except....except a horrible pumping. His blood pumping out the black hole in his chest.



Oh Jesus, help me. Stephanie...

Then he felt nothing.

The colored lights danced over the white tile, turning the shards of glass into gaudy jewels. Snowflakes swirled in through the gaping hole in the glass window of the door, dying as they hit the warm blood. A Christmas wreath lay across his legs, its sound-activated battery pack sending out a tinny rendition of Silent Night.

A scream came from upstairs.

The man holding the shotgun looked up the staircase and then reached into his jacket and withdrew a blue-backed playing card. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed it through the hole in the glass. It spun to the floor, settling on the white tile near the body.

"Merry fucking Christmas, Officer Pryce," he said.