It was a muggy night. A damp breeze crawled off the river, bringing with it the industrial smells of the power plant, a pungent mix of ozone and copper. On every special occasion since his confirmation at St. Paul’s, in 1919, Charles Flagg had worn a long-sleeved shirt buttoned at the neck and cuffs, as he did this night, even though the temperature, at just after 8 PM, was 81 degrees. Even as a child, he’d held the belief that respect came from inside and radiated outwardly. Clean of thought, clean of body, clean of spirit. The world did not always share his faith. It had been forty years to the day since he’d lost his only child to violence, a sweet-natured girl named Cynthia June—aged ten years, ten months, ten days when her spirit took wing. Cyndi June had loved butterflies and quilts and jigsaw puzzles, by nature beguiled by symmetry. On the day she died, a puzzle piece went missing from Charles Flagg’s life, a place where Cyndi June used to be.
What do You think about A Christmas Killing (2015)?
