Page 115 of Don't Shoot Me Santa
A pause.
“Cleansing.” She cast a glance back to Kenny. “Isn’t thatwhat they say? That snow washes the world clean again. Covers every stain. Every sin. Makes it all look pure from a distance.” She shook her head. “But it doesn’t last, of course. It melts. And everything foul beneath it rises again. That’s why judgment must come before the thaw.”
A beat.
“So that what’s buried… stays buried.”
Chapter nineteen
Last Christmas
Aaron trudged through the snow, coat zipped high and scarf wound so tightly around his neck it chafed with every breath. Wind sliced across his face, wild and merciless, tugging at his unbrushed hair and turning his ears raw. Chaos padded faithfully beside him, paws crunching through the white crust, tongue flicking out to taste the cold.
Moments like this, he wished he had a car. Hell, he couldaffordone now. One more account transfer and he could have something warm and boxy waiting in the drive. But what was the point? Kenny already had a car. They lived in each other’s pockets. Two vehicles seemed excessive… until now. Until this walk felt like penance. Until every step dragged him deeper into something he couldn’t outrun.
He pulled his phone from his pocket again, thumb red and stinging with cold. One bar. Enough hope to try.Voicemail.Again. That fucking college and its blackout rules. No signal on site, no Wi-Fi in the lower wings. God forbid a teenager try and contact someone mid-breakdown. He jammed the phone back into his coat.
When he reached St Joseph’s, he stopped.
It was making an effort. More than usual. Strings of mismatched lights blinked cheerfully above the doorway, looping between old hooks as if they’d been there for years. In the front window, a second-hand Christmas tree stood proud despite its crooked base, its branches crowded with paper angels and bright baubles catching the light. Someone had stencilled snowflakes on the glass in bursts of white foam, their edges glittering faintly in the morning sun.
It looked warm. Welcoming. A place trying to be more than it was.
To Aaron, it was hope strung in fairy lights, even if he could see the cracks beneath.
He stood there a beat too long, staring up at the place. Two days ago, this was a PR event. Skye trying to bluff her way into a bed for one more night. Yesterday, all he’d cared about was how long it would take Kenny to pin him down again.
Now Skye was dead.
And someone out there had sent him a card signed with a name that should’ve been buried years ago.
And somehow… it all led here.
“Come on, boy.” He nudged Chaos forward with a cluck of his tongue and a pull on his lead.
The shelter doors creaked as he pulled them open. Inside, the warmth hit like a wall. Stale air, radiator heat, the heavy scent of instant coffee and wet coats. A low murmur of voices echoed off tiled floors and magnolia walls. It wasn’t a grand reception. There was a lowly desk in a narrow hallway manned by a tired volunteer in a charity-branded fleece. Off the corridor, the old parish hall stretched out. Rows of metal chairs and fold-out tables, stacked sleeping mats shoved into corners, boxes of donated clothes piled beneath banners that readHope for the Holidays. People milled around withsteaming mugs and paper plates. Some chatted quietly. Others stared into the middle distance like ghosts in borrowed coats.
Aaron took it in. Felt it sink under his skin.
He didn’t know what he was looking for. Comfort? A lead? A reason to believe this place hadn’t turned into another fucking clue in a case that felt too close to home.
Then Chaos stiffened beside him, tail low, body alert.
Aaron followed the dog’s line of sight. The church sat next door connected by a covered walkway. Its doors stood open. And someone was standing inside. A man in dark clothes. Collar visible. Watching him.
Wynter.
Of course it was the fucking chaplain. Standing in the doorway of the adjoining church summoned by frost and guilt. A little too clean. A little too calm. And similar enough to the pastor who’d lived next door when Aaron was a kid. The one who used to offer “guidance” in hushed tones, always with a hand on his shoulder. And the same man who’d called himself a counsellor at Ryston and ended up locking a girl in a basement and telling Aaron he was destined to carry out the family legacy.
Jesus Christ.
Yeah. Probably shouldn’t say that here.
“Can I help you?” The volunteer in a fleece zipped up to her chin came up from behind a desk tucked into the narrow entranceway. Late fifties, maybe, with kind eyes and exhaustion stitched into her smile. “Are you looking for a place to stay tonight?”
Aaron glanced down at himself.
All right, fair. He looked like shit.
