Scene: The exterior of Detroit City Hall. Members of the media are gathered. Detective Richard Dryer approaches a podium just outside the front entrance.

Dryer: “Good afternoon. I wanted to issue an update regarding the kidnapping of Mavis Jacobson, the twenty year old daughter of Michigan real estate developer Wilford Jacobson. As you know, Ms. Jacobson was abducted from the family estate yesterday morning. Earlier today, Mr. Jacobson and his wife received a ransom note demanding five million dollars in exchange for the return of his daughter.”

(Cameras flash.)

Dryer: “The experts in the crime lab examined the note and have determined its legitimacy. If the kidnappers are listening, the Jacobsons have agreed to your terms. They will pay the requested amount and are begging you not to hurt their daughter. They ask that once the money has been transferred to the off-shore account you indicated in the note, you return Mavis, safe, sound, and unharmed… I will now take your questions.” 

Reporter 1: “Detective, how did the Jacobsons receive the ransom note?”

Dryer: “It came through standard US Mail.”

Reporter 1: “Can you trace where the letter was mailed from?”

Dryer: “The crime lab is working on that as we speak, and investigators are coordinating with officials from the Postal Service, but as of now, we can’t pinpoint an exact location.”

Reporter 2: “Detective, can you share any details of the note itself?”

Dryer: “Yes, I can. The note was brief, to the point, handwritten, in pencil, possibly a number two graphite pencil, on a standard eight and a half by eleven, twenty pound, white piece of paper.”

Reporter 2: “Thank you, sir, but I meant the actual contents of the letter.”

Dryer: “I see. Well, after I gave the note a cursory glance, I could tell immediately the kidnappers had very little regard for their readers, and their writing skills were substandard at best.”

Reporter 1: “Would you mind elaborating on that, Detective?”

Dryer: (Pulls a copy of the note from his jacket pocket.) “Yes. This is the opening sentence. ‘We have been planning to do this for years.’”

(Groans from the crowd.)

Dryer: “‘Have been planning.’ If they had taken their audience into consideration, they could’ve worded it, ‘We’ve planned to do this for years,’ or something along those lines, but they did not. Their disregard for basic grammar is borderline sociopathic.” 

Reporter 3: “Sir, you stated the note was handwritten. Can you give us any details on that?”

Dryer: “Let me be frank. In my twenty-seven years on the force, this is the worst penmanship I’ve ever seen. It’s illegible, almost indecipherable. Chicken scratch doesn’t begin to describe it. It looks as if it could’ve been scrawled on the walls of a sanitarium in human excrement.”

Reporter 3: “Sir, don’t you think that’s a little overdramatic?”

Dryer: “I do, and I certainly hope the writer of this story remembers to take it out before he submits it for publication.”

Reporter 2: “Sir, getting back to the contents of the note, sources have mentioned an excessive amount of exclamation points. Can you comment on that?”

Dryer: “Handwriting experts have concluded the kidnappers utilized at least four, maybe five, exclamation points in their one page note.”

(Gasps.)

Reporter 2: “Maybe five, sir?”

Dryer: “The fifth could’ve been a colon or semicolon. It’s still under examination, but the boys in the lab are working around the clock to figure it out.”

Reporter 1: “There’s been a rumor concerning a quotation. Can you give us insight on that?”

Dryer: “I’d hoped that wouldn’t come up.” (Sighs.) “At the bottom of the page, the kidnappers wrote, ‘You miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take,’ and attributed it to Michael Jordan. Analysts notified us late last night the quote actually belongs to none other than Wayne Gretzky.” 

(Gasps. One reporter faints. Another screams.)

Dryer: “It’s a shame when innocent bystanders get caught up in something like this. On behalf of the Detroit Police Department, I would like to apologize to the families of Mr. Jordan and Mr. Gretzky. God willing, we can move past this and soon put the wreckage behind us.”

Reporter 2: “Detective Dryer, is there anything else you can share regarding the ransom?”

Dryer: “I would like to, but unfortunately, we’re rapidly approaching the word limit of this story, and I can’t necessarily go into details at this time.”

Reporter 3: “And there’s no way around that, sir?”

Dryer: “No. This publication only allows flash fiction stories up to 1,000 words, and there’s nothing I can do. I don’t have to tell you the headaches and setbacks a cop has to face when red tape gets in the way of an investigation. Maybe the writer of this piece could’ve utilized less adjectives, chosen his words a bit more carefully, but there’s nothing to be done about it now. It is—as they say, whoever they are—what it is.”

Reporter 3: “Don’t you mean, ‘Whomever they are?’”

Dryer: “Go fuck yourself.”

Reporter 1: “Sir, do you have any clue how this will end?”

Dryer: “I would assume with the words ‘The End’, but as far as the kidnapping and ransom goes, I have no clue. It’s in God’s hands now, and all we can do is sit back, hope for the best, and pray Mavis gets home safe. But if she doesn’t, it’s really no big deal. This is fiction and none of this shit is really happening anyway.”

Reporter 2: “Detective—”

Dryer: “I’m sorry, everyone, but we’re out of time. Thank you for your attention. Have a good day.”

THE END 

Dryer: “See? Told you.”

THE END, FOR REAL THIS TIME

​About the author:

Mike McHone's fiction has appeared in Ellery Queen, Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, Dark Yonder, Mystery Tribune, Rock and a Hard Place, the Anthony Award-nominated anthology Under the Thumb: Stories of Police Oppression, Edited by SA Cosby, and elsewhere. A former journalist, his articles, op-eds, and humor pieces have appeared in the Detroit News, the AV Club, Playboy, and numerous other outlets. He is the 2020 recipient of the Mystery Writers of America’s Hugh Holton Award and has placed twice on Ellery Queen’s Annual Readers List. He lives in Detroit.

     One. She had a peculiar sense of humor. Stand-up shows and sitcoms made her yawn, glance at her watch, and close her eyes. She laughed at certain noises, like a car’s siren or a frog’s croaking. Once, she turned hysterical and erupted in laughter when a kid popped his balloon in the park. Embarrassed, she ran away to the bus stop and left the park. I never understood the absurd, looking at her with bewilderment and smiling just because she did.
     Two. She used to bake cakes for weddings, birthdays, and gender parties. The cream was the best part, melting in my mouth, making me want to devour it until the plate was empty and I woke up from a sugary trance. Her waffles and pancakes were mediocre though.
     Three. She chose butter for baking more diligently than she chose men. Well, a man. Andy wasn’t a bad one; he was just a bit odd. All he did in his free time was hate-watch soap operas. In general, he saw more than a thousand episodes while drinking vanilla coke and arguing with an invisible director and a screenwriter. Andy and she met at the Laundromat. She used to watch washing machines sometimes—her remake of trainspotting. He walked into the place; they chit-chatted and fell in love.
     Four. She always claimed she had that phobia of long words, but we both knew she was afraid of the numbers 13 and 666—as much as she was of black cats. When we were teenagers, I made unsuccessful attempts to ridicule this fear. Once, I changed the date on her phone and watched her eyes turn bleak. She found out I did it and locked herself in the bathroom for three hours, resentful. Perhaps our grandma had scared her when we were kids, told her that planes fell on people’s heads on Fridays the 13th, or my sister saw that movie.
     Five. She loved me. She loved me when I was sick and whiny, leaving empty, dirty mugs all over the house, clearing my throat nonstop, shaking my leg, and singing along to the radio with my squeaky voice. She loved me when I rolled my eyes at her laughter, refused to eat her dry waffles, called Andy a desperate housewife, and told her that a large pack of toothpicks contained exactly 666.
I don’t do this anymore, and I never will.

     “What are you doing?” Tony asks, reading another soap opera review.
     “Writing facts about myself. I started something like a blog, you know.”
    “Wild,” he says, chewing on the cake I baked. “You’re adding too much flour.”
He coughed, and I barked with laughter.
     I look at the date, and I know Friday the 13th is going to be in three months. It’s not going to be outstanding; there was only one important Friday the 13th. My twin sister should’ve been afraid of darkness, thick rains, and lampposts being out of order, just like my car—not plain numbers and grandma’s superstitions. She should’ve been careful that day; she should’ve took her headphones off and run away from me.
     The collision was an accident, I convinced myself. I didn’t want to hit her that night and watch, observe her fall, her cranium splitting into two parts.
     Two parts that no longer exist.

​About the author:
Nora Ray is a writer who explores the dark sides of human relationships in her fiction.

     “My brother thinks another day in agony is better than an eternity in hell.” Liam said, stabbing his finger with the ritual blade. He dripped red syrupy blood into a vial then signed the contract: Seller agrees to sell, convey, assign and transfer to The Devil, Lucifer, Old Scratch, who shall herein be referred to as the buyer . . .
     “I gave Collin good value for the rights to his soul,” Devlin said while going through the shipping invoices Liam had delivered from the Philadelphia shipyard—the last of his requirements for membership in the concentric ring of the modern version of the K&A gang. Even though it was dangerous to keep around, Devlin always demanded a physical invoice. “I have physical proof.”
     “Fuck your contracts.”
     “A physical contract binds in this world,” Devlin said, opening a concealed wall safe and depositing the contract on top of a row of rolled lambskin. “—and the next.” Once he’d secured the safe—its location finally revealed—he returned to the blotchy corpse of some nameless junkie and fed a metal catheter into the abdomen.
     In the world above, Kensie kids wearing whatever costumes they could cobble together or steal maneuvered around alley junkies to trick-or-treat at the local pubs and shops below the El, defiantly claiming their childhood in the impoverished feudal kingdom—a setting that fed on the unwashed masses but fueled the business of the O’Reilly funeral home. 
     “I do feel for your brother. Even sent flowers,” Devlin said. “We’ll all burn in the fiery lake together.”
     The rest of the crew rubbed Liam’s shoulders and shook his hand—congratulations or commiseration—but Liam couldn’t bear to look in the vacant cavernous eyes of the gray men. Serving Devlin and satisfying their contracts sucked the life out of them; however, in his time operating with the crew—loading stolen cars at the pier to sell them overseas and employing his acumen on a safe or two—Liam had witnessed lingering, yet promising, hints of defiance. And on this, he counted.
     “Old ladies believe in the devil.”
     “Oh, really now?” Devlin said, giggling with glee. “Please attend, boy-o. Hey, lads. The devil’s a con to make you all eat your vegetables, and I won’t come after you if you go.” 
     Not one man twitched, and Devlin pulled up the cover over the cadaver then cracked open a Guinness. “They all signed when they were young bucks, afraid of naught, but then they felt old age creeping up and sought a higher power.”
     “I can’t believe you all buy into this shite!” Liam said, playing with the engraved knife he’d used to draw his blood.
     “I do lay it on a bit thick,” Devlin said. “Halloween. Blood. But that’s what makes it such a convincing story.” Liam couldn’t deny the effects—when a man believed he was damned anyway, nothing restrained him—and what young man wouldn’t jump at the chance to sell magic beans to a fool for a shitload of cash?
     “Well, every good story needs a twist,” Liam said, pressing the ceremonial knife to Devlin’s throat. “My brother’s contract.”
     “The men in this room will cut you down—all souls pledged.”
     Liam’s hand trembled, and he struggled to hold it firm while he scanned the room, looking for a way out. The other soldiers surrounded him, and he backed up into one of the embalming tables, disturbing the peace of one of the corpses. “He’s not the devil! He’s just a good storyteller. The contracts are shite.”
     “Aye, Liam,” he said, giggling under the blade. “But they can’t take that chance. Can your brother? He was diagnosed at the same time you told me you wanted to move up in the gang. They gave him a year. You’ve been patient. If you’re any kind of a man, you’d put two in his head.”
     “I’ll put you in the ground first,” Liam said, trying to steady his hand.
     “I’m just codding ya! Relax.”
     “Just let him go.” 
     “I can’t. I may be the boss on Earth, but in Hell, I’m only the devil’s man—and that’s where your brother’s heading.”
     Liam pressed the blade to his neck but knew if he sliced the artery, the other gang members would cut him down. Even in death, Liam held power over them as long as they believed he held their contracts. 
But maybe that was the answer. 
     “Don’t you see?” Liam said then released the blade. “He’s never going to let you go.”
     Devlin cackled, and his feline grin curved from his lips to his cheekbones, chilling Liam with the look of amusement in those predatorial eyes. “All contracts are binding,” he said.
     “Lads,” Liam said. “Not one of you will defy him, but like Lucifer rose up with his fellow angels, together we can rise up.”
     “You don’t have the stones,” Devlin said.
     “No,” he said. “But I’ve got the digits—best safe man in Kensington. And that’s where you keep the contracts, right?”
     “Feck off,” Devlin said, defiant until the end. “Those contracts are binding, as God is my—”
     “Oh, boss, if you’ve taught me anything, it’s that it has to be on paper to be real.”
     “Enough of this shite,” Devlin said. “Cut him down.” 
     None of the gang stepped up. Instead, they waited while Liam knelt before the safe, and seeing the winds change, Devlin reached for his piece; Joey Ryan grabbed his shoulder and disarmed him while Liam popped the safe. 
     “Here they are, lads,” Liam said. “Let’s have us a fire upstairs in that lovely stone hearth. And when the devil comes calling, ask him for proof of ownership.”
     That night, Liam sat next to his brother’s hospital bed and watched scenes of the cops pulling Devlin’s body out of the Delaware. Then, he switched off the TV and plunged the syringe into the IV, freeing him from the devil’s man.

About the author:
​
​T. Fox Dunham lives in Lancaster, Pennsylvania with his wife, Allison. He’s a cancer survivor, modern bard, herbalist, baker and historian. His first book, The Street Martyr, was published by Gutter Books, and is in production by Throughline Films. He’s contributed to official Stargate canon with a story published in the Stargate Anthology Points of Origin from Fandemonium Books. More information at tfoxdunham.com & Twitter: @TFoxDunham

​                  It still felt like home.
            JJ stood paralyzed by forces he couldn’t comprehend, his ski mask damp with halitosis, lost in the designer kitchen. This wasn’t his fault.
            “You stupid sons of bitches,” Jack Senior said, his silk pajamas already darkening with sweat around the ropes securing him to the chair. Brian— ‘Jump’— pulled the knot tight and, with the angle of his arms, extracted a sharp cry. Midnight’s darkness lay behind the windows.
            “This isn’t like stealing money from a lemonade stand,” Jack Sr said. He looked back at Jump, “You have a gun, you beat me—”
            “I tackled you,” Brian said, scanning the kitchen for anything else worth taking.
          The old man’s leathery pink flesh turned more crimson with each word, “I’ve been a lawyer for over thirty years, I think I know what qualifies as battery. In the state of Florida, this can get you life. Is that what you want?”
           Brian pulled the gag from his pocket.
          “If you get me out of this chair right now and leave, it's forgive and forget. You’re just trying to get by. You probably hate me because I’m able to live in a place like this, but we’re not that different—”
       Brian shoved a ball of cloth in Jack Senior’s mouth and tied another around his face. The old man’s eyes bulged like a squeeze toy ready to pop.
            “Prep,” Brian said, “You’re up.”
           Even through JJ’s disdain and wish to cause the old man pain, watching Jack Senior thrash and wheeze wasn’t as satisfying as he hoped. “He can’t breathe, Jump. You see the narrow jaw, the crooked teeth? He’s a mouth breather.” The sort you could hear through closed doors down the hall.
         Brian shot JJ a captious look before untying the gag. The old man gasped through tears. “Please, take what you want, just don’t do that again! My sinuses don’t work. You’ll kill me.”
        JJ knew Brian was smiling behind his mask.
      “Tell you what,” Brian said. “So long as you don’t say a fucking word, I won’t put this back on. Prep, move.”
       JJ nodded and started down the hall past the framed memories he forced himself to ignore— posed moments from trips that no one in the photo could stand. He ran the marble stairs to the third floor and turned left towards the master bedroom. A sudden gravity forced him to peer into the empty bedroom on the right. What could he expect?
      The safe rested within the master’s walk-in closet, lodged in the foot space beneath the old man’s tailored suits. He couldn’t help but notice the opposite side of the closet was empty. Another reason to hurt him.
            41295
            He tried not to think about the safe’s code and what it meant. He froze at the shout for help from the kitchen. Stay focused, he thought.
            Lawyers like Jack Downing Sr. always kept a lot of cash on hand. Bails, bribes, bonuses, they were always ready. He checked the bags on the top row and felt something stir at the sight of the diamonds.
            JJ’s heart sped as he hurried down the steps, thinking of how this cash was justice. So what if he liked getting high. If he refused to waste his life behind a desk. He hadn’t asked to be brought into this world.
            At the sight of the bastard, limp-headed in the chair, he froze. The gag was back in and a stream of blood poured from an open gash on his forehead.
            “Take your time, Prep,” Brian said, snatching the duffel.
            “What happened?” JJ asked.
            “He was talking.”
            A sudden chill ran through JJ’s body. Jack Senior had no pulse at either the neck or wrists. He peeled the eyelids open and found pupils the size of coins.
            “Fuck, Jump…” JJ said.
            “Are you staying?” the other man asked.
     With a sudden need for air, JJ almost pulled his mask off— only remembering at the last moment the security cameras. He spared one final look at the old bull, drenched in sweat and limp. At the pounding of boots fleeing across the yard, he turned and ran.
           The only sound in the car was the passing freeway.
          “You all right, Prep?” Brian asked.
          JJ’s hands trembled on the steering wheel. “What?”
         Brian shook his head and looked through the duffel. “Almost two hundred thousand— not counting the jewelry.”
            “Maybe we keep the jewelry,” JJ said, the black ocean racing past on their left.
            “Don’t get attached to things,” Brian said. “Your mom would rather you eat than hold onto a few stones she wore once a year.”
            JJ tried not to imagine the lifeless flop of his dad’s head.
            “Good news though,” Brian said. “You’re about to come into some major money when his will goes through.”
            He felt himself shrinking into the driver’s seat. “We haven’t spoken in four years. Not even at my mom’s funeral. I’m not in his will.”
            He tossed a wallet onto JJ’s lap. “If you weren’t, would he still keep your picture in there?”
            Jack Junior looked down and saw his little league photo, bright eyed, blonde, holding the bat his dad had got him for his ninth birthday, and earnest, gap-toothed smile on his face— with the same amount of teeth he had now.
            Smoke danced through Jump’s teeth. “You’ve got a lot to learn, Prep.”
            JJ wasn’t sure of that. In the last hour, he might have learned everything he needed to know.

About the author:

Mark Manifesto is a writer, teacher, father, and lover of stories. He’s been writing fiction, essays, articles, and poetry the past seven years. He studied Environmental Science, Business Administration, Religious Studies, and Classic Literature at Saint Mary’s College of California.

    We met at Marciano’s in Midtown at 8:00 p.m. on Wednesdays. Hump Day. We sat at the long mahogany bar and drank dirty martinis. She was in her mid-twenties and called herself Anna. She had long legs that ran like the interstate to red, slingback heels and wore short skirts. After three months, I figured it was a standing date. But a glance at my phone indicated 8:15 p.m. and still no Anna. No messages either. That was unlike her. 
I hope she’s safe, I thought.
     I paid for her time. Cash.  And I paid well. Especially since all we did was talk. 
    No, really. Since my wife Mary had passed away over a year ago, I needed someone who’d listen. 
    Anna was that someone. 
    At 8:30 p.m., Anna walked in with an athletic guy half my age. He was boyish looking, but probably close to thirty. She strolled right by, didn’t even give me a nod. Her musky perfume hit me like a cinder block to the head. 
    At 9:15 p.m., after downing two cocktails at a corner high top, they left arm-in-arm, her face nuzzled in the nape of his neck. Her hot, breathy voice singing sweet nothings in his ear.
    I followed them closely for a few blocks and slipped into the apartment building they entered before the main entrance swung shut. I skulked up the stairs behind them and hung back until they closed their apartment door. 
But they didn’t. They left it half open. 
    Why?
    I didn’t surprise them when I finally entered. They were waiting for me. The main room was empty, not a single furnishing or decoration. Anna stood at the center under the warm glow of a dome-shaped ceiling lamp. She held a pocket-size .22. Her male companion was off to her side. He had a snub-nosed .38 pointed at my gut. My heart pounded in my throat.
    Anna broke the silence. “Close the door, Don.”
    I held fast, my feet planted on the hardwood floor.
    “Now,” she said.
    I pushed it shut.
    “What’s going on?” I said, my voice wavering. “I thought we had an arrangement. Then you show up with this clown. And now guns?”
    Anna cleared her throat. “You’re getting excited. That’s not like you.”
    I took a step forward and her companion moved closer. I stopped.
    “You’ve been playing me.”
    “It’s not like that,” she said. “Be smart. No one needs to get hurt.”
    I raised my voice. “It’s a little late for that.”
    “Calm down.”
    “What do you want?”
    “What do you think?
    “Money?” I said.
    Before she could answer, her partner spoke up. “Ten grand.” His voice was thin and didn’t match his muscles.
    I laughed.
    “You can afford it,” he said.
    He was right. 
    “How do I know you won’t kill me after you get it?”
    He smirked. “You don’t.”
    “I don’t carry ten grand on me.”
    He gestured with the .38. “But you can get it.” 
    Anna glared at him. “We don’t have time for that. I told you to keep it simple.” 
    She turned to me. “Hand him your wallet, Don. At the end of the month, you can cancel the credit cards. After that, I promise you won’t hear from us.”
    “You ‘promise,’ huh?”
    Her jade eyes turned dark. “I’m in trouble. I owe some people money.”
    I grinned. “Really?”
    “It’s the truth. We’re leaving town tonight.”
    “And I’m an easy mark.”
    “I need a fresh start.”
    “Then you should’ve come to me.”
    “It’s too late for that,” she said.
    “We could’ve figured this out. You wouldn’t have had to run.”
     “These people want their pound of flesh.” 
    “I could’ve—”
    “Enough!” her lover said. “One old man can’t solve this.”
    I fixed my eyes on Anna. “Have you really thought this through?”
    She nodded but it lacked confidence.
    “How do you know I won’t cancel the credit cards tonight? Or call the cops?”
    “The same way I knew you’d follow us. You’re a good guy, Don. But you can’t let things go.”
    I shook my head.
    “After three months,” she said. “I know you.”
    “I’m not so sure you do.”
    “You’re no regular john. I know that.”
    “No,” I said. “I’m not.”
    Anna stepped out of the light. “Help me now. Please.”
    I took a deep breath and exhaled. “I’m going to reach for my wallet.”
    I slid my hand into my inside blazer pocket. I grabbed my wallet, opened it, and handed her partner the credit cards. 
    “The cash too,” she said.
    I handed him ten hundred dollar bills.
    “Now forget us,” she said.  “And remember, it’s just money.”
    “It’s more than that.”
    “Don’t be dramatic. This isn’t personal, it’s business.”
    “Everything’s personal,” I muttered.
    Anna raised her .22 level with my chest. “Don’t let pride force me to do something we’ll both regret.”
    I let her words hang there. 
    Then I walked out and down the stairs to the street and headed south. The 9mm Sig Sauer holstered under my left shoulder dragged me down. 
    Why hadn’t I pulled my gun when I reached for my wallet? Why hadn’t I put Anna and her boyfriend down? I was a professional. Retired, but with years of hits under my belt. It would’ve been easy to kill them: a nice Sunday stroll on a cool autumn day. 
    But she’d listened to me for three months. Twelve Wednesdays. She’d softened the edges of my loss and heartache with her comforting words and smiles. Even if it was all an act, she’d helped me to heal. 
    Maybe this was a small price to pay to ease a broken heart. Maybe I owed it to her. Maybe I got what I paid for after all.
    I slipped my hand to my weapon. The grip was comforting, an old friend. 
    Then I let it go.
    If Anna shook me down again, she’d get more than she bargained for. She didn’t know me. Not really. 
    Not my heart.
    Next time, I’d have no trouble settling up.

​About the author:

James Patrick Focarile is an award-winning writer who resides in the Northwest, U.S.A. He holds an undergraduate degree from Rutgers University and an M.F.A. from Brooklyn College. His work has appeared in the following: Mystery Tribune, Guilty Flash, Shotgun Honey, Close To The Bone, Thrill Ride Magazine, and more. For more info, visit: JamesPatrickFocarile.com   

     The first thing Hallie did when her fiancé died was to shear off her hair. His corpse was still warm in the bedroom as she stood before the bathroom mirror, washed the blood from the blades of the scissors, and watched it swirl down the drain. She lifted her long blond tresses away from her neck and began to cut. As the tangled strands landed in the trashcan she felt a heavy weight falling away. 
     She looked in the mirror and smiled. The person smiling back was someone she didn’t know, a naked woman with tears in her eyes and jaggedy points of hair sticking out all over her head. Hallie could hardly wait to get to know this beautiful stranger. 
     Now she could start fresh, begin her life all over again.
She turned on the shower and when the water was almost too hot to bear, she stepped in. She lathered herself with shampoo and soap that released the scent of flowers.
     After drying herself with a thick, fluffy towel, she used it to wipe down the shower and the sink. She stuffed the towel into the trashcan and, almost as an afterthought, she dropped in the scissors too.
     She stepped into the bedroom, averting her eyes from Martin’s body on the bed. Her clothes still lay heaped in the corner where they’d been when he died. She carried them into the bathroom and hastily put them on, glad to see that her jeans and shirt showed no traces of blood.
Hallie hadn’t intended to kill him. It was an act of self-defense. Martin always liked to play rough in bed, but this time he’d closed his hands around her throat more tightly than ever before. Struggling to breathe, she choked out, “Basta!”—Italian for enough, their safe word, the signal that he must stop. He ignored her. Squeezed harder.
   Her body bucked, her arms flailed. She banged her hand on the bedside table and felt something metal. Cool, hard.
     The scissors.
   Earlier in the afternoon they’d been shopping. Martin had bought a new cashmere coat. Back at the house, he’d taken the coat and Hallie into the bedroom. He snipped off the hangtags and hung the coat in the closet. Then, abandoning the scissors and tags on the table, he flung Hallie onto the bed. 
As his hands crushed her throat, she gasped for breath. Her lungs felt ready to explode. Pinpoints of bright light danced in the darkness in front of her eyes.
Her fingers closed around the scissors. She pulled them in close, next to her head. 
    “Basta!” She tried to scream it, but she couldn’t push the word past the band of fists sealing her throat.
     Frantic to make him release her, she jabbed at his hands with the scissors. Jabbed again. 
     Without letting go, he lowered his head to kiss her.
     It was luck, or perhaps fate, that guided the blades to the hollow at the base of his neck and thrust them deep into his flesh. Martin collapsed on top of her, bathing her face in his blood.
     For a long moment she lay there, too shocked to move. Then she rolled out from under him and curled into a ball, crying as she sucked in sweet, wonderful air. 
     Surely Martin hadn’t planned to kill her, any more than she intended for him to die. But what if he had meant it? What if he’d concocted a scheme to get rid of her and blame her death on innocent lovemaking that, in their passion, they let get out of hand? Or maybe he wouldn’t explain what happened but would simply wrap her body in the cashmere coat and toss her in the lake, as if she never even existed. 
    Lately they spent most of their time together quarreling. She’d been pressing him for decisions about their future. Maybe his hands wringing her throat had been his answer to her demands.
     The shifting slant of the afternoon light through the curtains told her time was running short. She made herself get up and go into the bathroom. That was when she took the scissors to her hair. Martin loved it long. He once said he’d kill her if she cut it. She always assumed he was making a joke, using a figure of speech. 
     Now she stared at herself in the mirror again, running her palm over her shorn head. It felt so odd. She wondered if anyone she knew would recognize her. If not, that was okay. She scarcely recognized herself.
     Better take the stuff in the trashcan with her, Hallie decided. She lifted out the plastic liner with all of its telltale contents and shoved it into the shopping bag that had held the cashmere coat. The bag would look less conspicuous if someone saw her leaving the house.
     Self-defense, yes. Even so, Hallie didn’t want to stay around to tell her story to the police.
   She paused by the bed long enough to pull a blanket over the body. “Goodbye, Martin,” she said. “I loved you, you know. I believed all the promises you made. I should have known that for you, love would never be enough.”
     Hallie had no idea where she would go, what she would do next. For so long, her life had revolved around Martin’s plans, Martin’s needs, Martin’s whims. She no longer had a real sense of what she, Hallie, wanted and needed. But she was eager to find out. To her surprise what she felt now was not grief but relief, not a sense of loss but an opening of possibilities.
     The bedroom door made a satisfying click as she shut it behind her.
     Martin’s wife was in for a surprise when she got home.

​About the author:

Margaret Lucke flings words around as an author, editor, and teacher of fiction writing classes in the San Francisco Bay Area. She writes tales of love, ghosts, and murder, sometimes all three in one book. She is a former president of the Northern California chapter of Mystery Writers of America. Visit her at https://margaretlucke.com/

   Remember, Ricky, when we were kids and used to throw stones off the bridge into the Susquehanna? The second the stone left your hand, you knew its whole future was set, how it would soar and splash and fall to the bottom of that river that seemed to flow on forever. I wish you were here right now. God, I do. 
     The Blue Haven is the way you remember. Cold and rainy as it is today, this bar’s as good a place as any to shelter from the weather. The neon sign in the window glows like blue ice.  I’m sitting at our regular table near the front. You know how I like to keep an eye on who comes through the door. I’m drinking my usual, Tenec’s Rye and water.  That first sip of the day is like the kiss of a princess, but now I have a spin in my head and my tongue is a little numb. Terry’s tending bar. You know how he brags about the baseball bat under the counter. In twenty years, we never seen or heard of him laying a hand on it, right? Especially today.  It’s slow, only a couple of old guys nursing their drinks ‘til they can go home to supper.
    When I first knew you were dead, I’m not kidding, it was like being dropped on the dark side of the moon. No air. No light. You wonder how a person’s heart can stand such pain. Since we were kids, Ricky, I always looked on you as a little brother, didn’t I? In a fight, you were very good with your hands. I was more the thinker, trying to use my brain to get us out of scrapes. When we grew up and chose the life, I swore that I would have your back. You know that.
Your funeral this morning was beautiful. Rosewood casket, buckets of flowers. The largest wreathe was mine. All our friends were there, showing you tremendous respect. Even Lorenzo showed up, if you can believe it. God bless your poor Claudia and the kids. They were wrecks but put on brave faces. What could I say to them? 
    The graveside service was a little rushed because of the wind and rain. As the priest droned on, I couldn’t take my eyes off the tarp covering the pile of dirt and your grave wide open like a mouth. I tried to slip away quiet at the end of the service, but Lorenzo cornered me, patted me on the back, shook my hand. After that, I needed to drop in here for a few drinks to restore my soul.
The word on the street is that your exit was a professional piece of work. And everybody knows that you were treated with respect. It was late at night, so no witnesses. The paper said that you were probably walking with someone in the park, someone you knew, under the streetlights along the river. That the shooter fell a half-step behind and pumped one quick round into the back of your neck. Like flicking off a light switch. The shot didn’t leave a mark on your face. They left your body along the main park road so that you would be quickly found and trucked to the morgue, before rats or weather could mess with you. And the shooter tucked a C-note in your hand to tell the world that you were somebody, a high-value target. 
    Ricky, I’ll probably never find out what you did to earn the bullet. But we both know how the hit would have come down. A call comes from a boss that you got to erase a guy and it has to be you because he’s your friend and trusts only you. If you say, “No, thanks, he’s a buddy,” well, you’re in the life and you know the rules. You get rubbed out for refusing the order and a second-string shooter takes out your friend instead and maybe botches the job. 
    People say the greatest gift you can give a friend is to take a bullet for him. They’re wrong. The greatest gift is to have the guts to put a bullet into your friend with mercy and dignity. Knowing that you will have to live on, tasting ashes…
   ​ But where are my manners? Here, I told Terry to pour you a shot of rye. I’m sorry for the rough weather you’re suffering out there today. I hope this nip warms your spirit. Take it, Ricky. Drink your fill, the angel’s share. 
And rest easy.

​

     “This gon’ be a good one,” says Deon, shoving french fries into his mouth. He likes to talk with his mouth full. Or at least it doesn't stop him. 
     “Let’s talk about it in the car,” I say. 
     We’re in a gyro shop on Halsted Street at 9:00 pm, closing time, and the two guys behind the couple of inches of security glass bolted to the front of the counter are anxious for us to leave. They’ve already locked the front door to keep out other customers. They’re anxious, but they’re not asking. 
They know better than to do that. 
    Deon finishes off his fries as I crumple my food wrappers, condiment packets, and used napkins into a ball and shove them into a garbage can by the door. Deon carefully wipes his hands and follows me, leaving his trash on the table. 
     In the car he tells me that the girl we’re going to see is named Teeny. Deon knows her from our boss’s club, but I don’t. He says, “Her brother got picked up by the cops on some shit that happened down on the Low End.
     “Real?”
     “Yep. Been in lockup for a couple of weeks. Some gang shit. The opposition is making life in jail hard for him. Had his ass beat twice already. Family’s been trying to get the money up for bail, but they’re short. Teeny works at the club so she went to Brent to talk to him about it.”
     “What he say?”
     “Told her she didn’t have enough under her dress to cover that kind of loan.”
     “Now he’s worried about her talking?”
     “Brent’s got somebody in the prosecutor’s office and word is that Teeny wants to give them something on some dirt Brent did. And in exchange, they’ll work out something for Martell’s fat ass.”
     “The brother.”  
     “Right.”
     “What’s she got?” 
     Deon shrugs.
     “She a damn waitress. Still, she sees who comes and who goes. Might have heard something she shouldn’t. Maybe fucking somebody on one of Brent’s crews that told her something. Whatever. Can’t have her giving up anything at all.”
     “So we talk to her?”
     “Yeah. And if we find out she’s been running her mouth, we convince her to shut up. She’ll tell them she was only pretending that she knew something so they’d help her brother.”
     “What if it turns out she ain’t been talking?”
     “Either way,” he say, “we gon’ see what’s under that dress,”  
     We both laugh at that.
     We have some time to kill and we use some of it trying to decide how to get our hands on Teeny. We settle on following her home after her shift at the club. We spend the rest of the time talking about the things we’re going to do to Teeny once we have her.
     Her shift finally ends at 1:00 a.m. and she gets a ride home. We watch her go in as the car drives away. We park at the corner where we have a decent view of the place. 
     Teeny barely has any neighbors. Most of the houses on the block have been condemned or torn down over the years. It’s mostly vacant lots full of trash and weeds flanking the little house that Teeny rents. The house is backed up against elevated train tracks that run above a fifteen-foot concrete wall. 
     We sit there for two hours, figuring we’ll give her a chance to go to bed and make sure she isn’t having any company that we might have to deal with. But she seems to be having a hard time settling down. She has the lights on and we can see her moving around in the house, cheap curtains showing her silhouette. Finally, the lights go out. 
     After another thirty minutes of anticipation, we start the short drive up the block. 
    We walk right up to the front door, real easy, like everything is fine. We decide to make a grand entrance that matches our eager mood after so much damn waiting.
     Deon snatches open the flimsy screen door as I put a boot to the cheap wooden one. It damn near flies off of the hinges and we charge in, the dim light of the street lamp revealing a wide-awake Teeny. She comes out of the kitchen like a shadow, fully-dressed and armed with what appears to be a little piece of shit Hi-Point pistol. She starts shooting at us. 
     It’s a bad gun and she has bad aim. But it’s a small house so it’s enough. 
     I put up a hand to block the bullets and she shoots me in it, then two more bullets find my belly. Deon is standing behind me and one of the shots hits him in the side of the head before he can get to the Glock on his hip.  
     We hadn’t considered this. 
     Maybe she’d lie about what she had been saying. Or wouldn’t want to talk.        Maybe she’d even try to run. All of those things would have been okay. 
    Hell, we’d been up all night thinking about what we’d do to her for those things. 
     But this? That she might have a gun? That she’d shoot without warning? Did we ever think about what she might do to us?
     No. We hadn’t. 
     So now I’m on the floor trying to hold in my guts. She looks down at me, the gun still smoking and aimed at my head. I’m on my side, curled into the fetal position and dimly aware of Deon repeatedly kicking me in my ass. It’s not his fault, really. He’s dying. I close my eyes. She walks around me and starts pulling on Deon, going through his pockets. 
    Thirty seconds later, I hear the screen door bang shut and the distinctive growl of Deon’s V8 engine as she races off down the street. 
     Shit. I guess she’d been up all night thinking too.

​About the author:

Chris L. Robinson is a writer born and raised on the South Side of Chicago. He has been published in Shotgun Honey and Pulp Modern Flash. He has a beautiful wife and a son that is gradually winning all of their wrestling matches--please send help. He can be found on Twitter as @ChrisLRobinson3.

     ​I didn’t appreciate having to wait a full minute after knocking on Frank Butler’s door. I knew he was home; the sounds of shuffling feet and creaking floor told me that. But useless threats through the door wouldn’t get me anything besides attention from nosy neighbors.
     When Frank finally cracked the door, his eyes widened. He kept his head down and his mouth shut, pulling the door open with a certain urgency. I walked in and Frank stepped backwards like a dog who’d learned to fear his master.
     I’d never been in Frank’s apartment, but it was exactly how I imagined it: clutter across the floor, dishes piled in the kitchen sink, furniture that hadn't been cleaned in years. He kept the blinds closed like he wanted no part of the real world seeping in.
     I brushed loose papers off a mahogany kitchen chair and sat. Frank took the chair across the table and quietly situated himself on top of a wobbly mess of magazines. He was sweating like a pig in August.
     Frank said, “I’ve seen you around the club the last few weeks. You’re working for Mr. Salvatore now?
     “Yeah, and you know why I’m here.”
     He nodded so vigorously I thought his head might fly off.
     “Good. Then grab the five grand you owe, and I’ll be gone. I’ve been asking around and I know you’ve managed to glom onto at least that much.”
     “Well—”
     I was already bored of excuses I hadn’t even heard yet. I took the .45 from beneath my leather jacket. I didn’t need to say a word, just let him stare at the gun long enough to know he didn’t have many options.
     He cleared his throat. “I’ll have Salvatore’s money in two days. It’s true I’ve got the cash, but it’s tied up—”
     I cocked the .45’s hammer.
     Frank raised his hands. “I’m not trying to skip or welsh. I swear.”
     “Good. You wouldn’t make it far.”
     “I’m asking for two more days.”
     There was a creaking sound. We both turned to see a girl of about five with yellow pigtails and bright blue eyes standing at the edge of the kitchen. She wore Kermit the Frog pajamas and held a doll with the same blonde pigtails she had herself. I hoped I hid my surprise.
     Unfazed by the scene in front of her, the girl rubbed her eyes. “Daddy, you woke me up.”
     “I’m sorry, honey. Just go back to bed.”
     She moved her whole body, turning towards me. Her eyes focused on the automatic.
     “Daddy, is that a real gun?”
    Frank forced a laugh. “No, of course not. It’s a toy. My friend was just showing it to me.”
     Slowly, I turned the barrel towards the girl, keeping my focus on Frank. You could have heard a pin drop. Frank rose from his seat to put himself between me and his daughter. His back to me, he said, “Honey, it’s past your bedtime. I’m gonna talk to my friend for a few minutes and then I’ll read you another story, okay?”
     Whatever was on his face was convincing; wordlessly, she turned and left the room.
     “You’re a piece of shit, Frank, but that isn’t news. Do I need to tell you what happens if you keep stalling?”
     Frank looked at me for a long moment, saying nothing, then moved to the kitchen counter. He opened a drawer, rummaging in it. I heard silverware scraping metallically. I tensed as his hand came out slowly, but it only held an envelope, pinched between thumb and forefinger. At a snail’s pace, he pushed the drawer back in, still stalling. Feet dragging, head hanging, he inched his way to me and held out the envelope.
     “Sit down,” I told him, motioning with the gun.
     Frank sat. I counted hundred-dollar bills, watching out of the corner of my eye, wondering if Frank was dumb enough to try anything, thinking I was distracted. He sat still, arms crossed, his wrists together like they were tied—like he was trapped.
     He was trapped and he knew it. He owed Salvatore money. That was cleared, but now Frank would instead owe whoever he got the money from and probably piss off whoever was expecting it.
    Satisfied with the count, I stood, both the gun and the envelope in my jacket pocket. At the apartment door, I looked back to find Frank still in his chair, unmoving, head in his hands.
     “You were a terrible husband, the worst mistake of my life. I don’t know who you conned into actually procreating with you, but I’m sure you’re a terrible father, too,” I told him. “Clean up your fucking act—for her sake, if you don’t give a shit about yourself.”
     Frank looked up at me. There was defeat in his eyes, but maybe something else too, like he actually heard me.
     Whatever, it wasn’t my problem. I had a job to do and I did it. I kept thinking of that little girl though, and what might have been if I’d maybe known how to get tough with Frank all those years ago.

About the authors:

Patrick is a lifelong Maryland resident. He graduated from Southern New Hampshire University with an M.A. in English and Creative Writing. His short fiction has been published in Mystery Tribune and The Penmen Review. His debut novel, Pierce, was published last March. 

Brandon Barrows is the author of several crime and mystery novels. His most recent is And Of Course, There Was the Girl from Full Speed Publishing. He has also published over one hundred short stories and is a three-time Mustang Award finalist and a two-time Derringer Award nominee. Find more at http://www.brandonbarrowscomics.com and on Twitter @BrandonBarrows