Holidays and crime go well together because they offer such clear contrasts. Holidays are not only times of celebration, but also of well-ordered customs, rituals, and traditions. Against such a backdrop, the disorder and chaos of crime stand out all the more clearly—and crime’s resolution, with its restoration of order, is all the more satisfying. Our new issue features a bounty of stories adding a dark piquancy to the seasonal cheer.

The holidays regularly bring together extended families for a festive, if sometimes fraught, meal, and Steve Hockensmith captures the angst that arises when one young adult graduates to “The Grown-ups’ Table.” 

Dead Man’s Shoe
by Floyd Sullivan

The cottage doorbell rang at about ten thirty in the morning as I sat at the small kitchen table downloading images from my camera to my laptop. The soft, dull gong surprised me because first, I wasn’t aware that the tiny house on Keuka Lake had a bell, and second, I didn’t know anyone within hundreds of miles. That’s why I had driven over twelve hours to New York’s Finger Lakes in the first place. To be alone. Annoyed, I stood and went to the front door, letting the transfer of the large, hi-res photographs continue without my supervision.

Two men, one tall, thin, and elderly and the other young and of average height and weight, stood on the porch. They wore identical black uniform shirts with seven-point brass star badges pinned above the left pocket flaps, matching black ties that almost disappeared into their shirts, and black baseball caps with Yates Country Sheriff Department patches above the bills. The older officer’s wardrobe was crisply pressed, his tie perfectly knotted between the points of his razor sharp collar. The younger officer’s shirt hadn’t been ironed recently. READ MORE

The Price
by Eric Rutter

It starts when Jane says, “I’ve been thinking about turning myself in.”

I say “starts,” but this isn’t the first time she’s said that. She’s done it I don’t know how many times over the years. Usually it’s just out of the blue, like this time: We’re driving home from the farmer’s market on a Saturday morning and she just blurts it out. Her tone says she’s been thinking about it a while.

I don’t say anything, I just drive. Sometimes she drops it if I don’t respond. Other times we’ve talked it through, sometimes at length but never really seriously. Just, you know, letting her get it out of her system. But there’s that tone in her voice this time. I can tell she’s not going to drop it. So I’m not surprised when she looks over at me and says, “Ever since last year.” READ MORE