Three upstairs.One downstairs.Every name handled.
The window at the end of the hall framed the street—snow smoothing every surface under perfect silence.Houses around here slept soundly.No alarms.No screams.No one watching the monster in their midst.
My watch read12:15.
Christmas morning.
Time to stage the scene and clean my prints from this place before sunrise.
The staging needed chaos, not precision.Real burglars ransacked out of panic and greed, not strategy.I built the disorder in controlled steps so investigators would see randomness, not design.
I began in the master bedroom.Drawers yanked open.Clothes dumped.Jewelry scattered across the carpet.Expensive pieces disappeared into my bag, cheaper items left behind to create the illusion of rushed judgment.
The closet came next.Boxes shoved off shelves.Shoes everywhere.Designer handbags tossed across the floor.One purse held a few hundred dollars.I pocketed the cash and then dropped half on the rug—carelessness made everything believable.
The bathroom counter cleared into the sink.Prescriptions vanished into my pocket.Glance at the mirror—blank expression staring back, steady, clean.No blood on my clothes.Exactly how I preferred to work.
The daughter’s room required more restraint.Disturbing her body risked giving too much away.I emptied desk drawers, spilled art supplies and papers.Her laptop went into the bag.Jewelry scattered.Closet opened but barely touched.Clothing never held value for thieves.
Her bookshelf stood too organized—alphabetical.Perfection begged to be broken.I pulled several titles and tossed them on the floor.A photo slid free and landed at my boots.Her—teenage, laughing, surrounded by friends on a beach.Joy radiated from her face.
I dropped the picture face down.
Shit.The girl in the bed didn’t match the one in the photo.Who the fuck had I just killed?And why was she in the daughter’s room?Another family member, maybe?
I’d have to figure it out later.Right now, I had to stay on track.Whether she’d been my intended target or not, I still had a body to deal with.
The son’s room went faster.Drawers emptied, electronics bagged.His half-wrapped gift hid a luxury watch.Into the bag.I left the remaining wrapping scattered for realism.
Downstairs took more time.Maxwell’s death needed to look chaotic, not calculated.
Side table knocked over.Magazines scattered.Glassware from the cabinet smashed across the floor.Silverware dumped.I made sure nothing looked deliberate—no patterns, no symmetry.The more careless, the better.
Maxwell’s position needed adjustment.Execution posed too clean.I shifted him enough to suggest a fight—pulled his shirt, created the illusion of desperate hands trying to hold someone off.I didn’t let blood touch me.
The broken whiskey glass helped.I added to the story by knocking a full bottle off the bar cart.Liquor spread across the floor, mixing with blood, turning everything sharp and sour.
In the study, I found what I expected—the safe behind the painting.My contact gave me the code.Cash, jewelry, documents.I took the valuables, leaving papers scattered across the desk.Thieves didn’t care about paperwork.
More disorder—desk drawers pulled, books swept off shelves, lamp knocked over.Not too careful, not too sloppy.The sweet spot.
The kitchen also needed signs of intrusion.Cabinets open, drawers half out.I grabbed the small laptop charging on the counter and dropped it into my bag.
Through everything, the same rhythm anchored me—create chaos, leave nothing of myself behind.
When I finally stepped back in the living room, the scene matched what I needed: violent, abrupt, opportunistic.Nothing suggested professional work or cold intent.A home invasion interrupted by an arriving homeowner.Panic.Shots fired.Witnesses upstairs wiped out so no one could identify the intruders.
The Christmas tree glowed through the carnage, harmless and oblivious.Red.Green.Gold.The lights reflected off the blood pooling beneath Maxwell.Carolers on the television carried on about peace and joy.The disconnect didn’t bother me.
I checked my watch—12:43.Almost an hour inside.
Time to erase myself completely.
I retraced my route upstairs.A treated cloth in hand.Every knob, switch, surface I touched received attention.The solution removed prints, oil, and skin cells.Everything.
The son’s room—door handle, switch, desk edge.I’d changed my mind about his console earlier, left it behind.No trace of my grip remained.
Wife’s room—same process.Remote wiped.Counter wiped.Nothing on the carpet near her body.
