You Better Not Cry

Merry Christmas, ya filthy animals. How about a little flash fiction Christmas crime?

YOU BETTER NOT CRY

Pine mingled with cinnamon. Red ribbons looped around the banister. Unopened presents beneath the twinkling tree.

The perfect Christmas scene, but for the flashing blue lights outside the frosted window, smearing the cozy warmth into something jagged and wrong.

I crouched by the front door, inspecting the crumpled white rag discarded by the welcome mat. The chemical tang still lingered.

Chloroform.

“How did he get her to open the door?”

“Kid let him in,” the uniform answered.

I glanced over at the boy, curled in a blanket on the couch. He was maybe eight, clutching a stuffed bear tightly, wide eyes fixed on me.

I quickly looked away. “No one ever tell him not to open the door to strangers?”

The uniform gave a grim grunt. “Wasn’t a stranger.”

“No?"

"You’re gonna want to hear this one from the kid."

I walked over to the couch. The boy’s face was pale under the soft glow of a dying fire.

“He said he needed Mommy to help him make toys.” Wide eyes darted toward the fireplace. “But he didn’t go up the chimney. He carried her out the door. I saw… Mommy was kidnapped by Santa Claus.”