Santa’s coming a little early this year, and he’s got an axe to grind.
Jim glared at the house on the hill. Smoldering cigarette in hand, he studied the couple through the window. Only silhouettes, but still, he knew they were slouched on the couch, raising bottles of Bud to their lips. His ex and that lousy motherfucker, Joey. Suzanne’s current live-in boyfriend.
There should have been a third figure. Smaller. Delicate. Crouched on her knees in front of the tree, shaking wrapped packages close to her ear. But Jenna wasn’t there this year. His loveable pixie of a six-year-old was now six feet under. Tucked snugly into bed at the West Pointe Cemetery.
His mood already black, Jim flicked the cigarette, nothing more than a butt and ashes, into the shadows. Reaching into the bed of his pickup, red as Rudolph’s goddamn nose, he pulled out the axe and ran his finger carefully, caressingly along the blade’s edge.
The prosecutor had tried his…
View original post 439 more words