Page 1 of You Know Why

Holly Jolly

A Christmas scene.

Snow, falling fast, icicles forming on the eaves of the charming cottage. The Norway spruce tree lit, sparkling with silver and gold decorations. The fire going, warming the space by the mantel. Wrapping paper on the table, ribbons and tape, and the crackle of the folds. The Vince Guaraldi Trio on the holiday playlist, the phone attached to the in-house speakers. A Charlie Brown Christmas was always her favorite. A holdover from childhood, one of those few things that weren’t stripped away by the act of growing up. Soup bubbling on the stove, a pie in the oven, spicy and warm, crisping browner, and browner, until it’s black and the burnt sugar smells like molasses and smoke drifts from the vents.

The playlist resets. Music spills through the scene again. Holly, jolly, holly, jolly, holly, jolly. Again. And again.

The fire alarm, triggered by the smoke from the oven, shrieking its fury.

The tiny baby in her belly, shifting toward heaven. He might have been a fan of jazz, too. That, they would have to talk about. We’re all fine with some jazz here and there, but a little goes a long way.

The scissors on the floor, blades open, stained poppy, then crimson, then maroon, then rosewood, sticky and viscous.

Holly, jolly, holly, jolly.

The rest of the blood, spreading. Spreading.

Oh, the screams when she is found. Reverberating. Relentless.

Phone calls. Lights. Sirens. Uniforms and shaking heads. What a pity. What a shame.

The media trucks, lining the blocks for months.

And him.

Guilty? Innocent? Did he have a hand in this?

He wasn’t there. He was on a business trip. He was on his way back. On a plane at the time of death. There were witnesses. There was no way.

He did it.

They can’t prove it.

And yet. Her blood in all the wrong places. The evidence mounting. The attention building to a fever pitch. The conclusions drawn. A mastermind. A monster. It can be no other way. It was him. He killed her. He killed them. His own family. His people.

Negotiations. Talks of plea deals. Surrender. Rumors.

Grand jury says it’s not going to happen. Not enough evidence.

Free to go. Bail offered.

And then he runs.

Disappears. Poof. Impossible, they said. He will be found. You are safe. You are all safe.

But are you? Desperate men do desperate things.

They looked everywhere.

Egg on their faces.

Time passes. Days. Weeks. Months. Years.

There is no sign of him.

She is still dead. They are still dead. The beautiful wife. The promise of that darling infant. Dead and buried. Forgotten.

The next big thing. The next splashy case.