Page 116 of Don't Shoot Me Santa
Ripped jeans, coat hanging off his frame. Probably Kenny’s now that he thought about it. He’d grabbed it in a rush, sleeves too long, lapels dusted in snow. Chaos wassoaked through and speckled with slush, tongue flicking out trying to taste heat in the air. Aaron shoved a hand through his hair, flaking snow from his fringe.
“No. I’m, uh, here to ask something.”Do you know a killer in a Santa suit who thinks God made him judge, jury, and executioner? Who’s targeting vulnerable youth and calling it mercy.Yeah. Not exactly casual conversation. So instead, “Do you sell Christmas cards?”
The woman smiled faintly, scrunching her nose. “We do, actually.” She nodded towards a battered folding table by the wall, where a few cellophane packs of charity cards sat beneath a curling sign:Support the Shelter. Share the Spirit.They were all variations on a theme. Choirs, churches, candlelight. The soft-focus, salvation-heavy kind that came in bulk and looked as though they smelled of incense.
“But you’ve missed last post,” she tried to get into his line of sight, “if you’re hoping to send one.”
Aaron wandered over, flipping through the stacks until he found it.Thatcard. The exact one that had shown up at his house. Clean font. Bleached paper. A shepherd kneeling before a plastic-looking baby Jesus.
“I’ll hand-deliver it,” he said.
“In a snowstorm?”
“I’m keen.” He flipped the card over in his fingers. “Don’t suppose you keep a record of who buys these?”
The volunteer gave a gentle, apologetic shake of her head. “No. Sorry, love.”
“Right.”
Of course not. Jack would call him a shit amateur sleuth. Aaron would call him a bellend. Cause, y’know, they were friends now or whatever.
He bought the card anyway. Maybe to show Kenny. Maybe to hold something tangible now the original wasnothing but ash in their fireplace. He slipped it into the pocket of his too-big coat and turned back towards the entrance, where snow dusted the glass and made everything beyond it look blurred. Faded. He paused. Caught sight of the church again through the side corridor. Wynter was still there. Watching.
Wynter…
Couldn’t have picked a more apt name if he’d tried.
Aaron turned back to the woman, who’d resumed draping tinsel along the front desk in careful loops. “You got a grotto here?”
She smiled, barely glancing up. “We do. Every year. The kids love it. We take donations, if you have anything?”
“A dog?”
Chaos whined up at him.
The woman chuckled.
Aaron glanced back towards the church, watched Wynter break into a gentle smile as he shook hands with a visitor. A short blessing, a warm nod. The easy choreography of someone used to being looked at with trust.
Aaron’s stomach twisted and he glanced away.
It couldn’t be this simple.
That would be the first thing Jack would say. If it were, the police would’ve wrapped this up by now. It wouldn’t be the literal bloke in the Santa suit, preaching repentance to lost souls in the building where half the victims had probably come for shelter.
It couldn’t be this obvious.
Could it?
“Aaron, isn’t it?” A voice slipped in behind him.
He turned.
Wynter stood closer than expected. “And this little darling.” He bent to stroke Chaos. “I remember you too.” Hestraightened with a gentle smile. “Didn’t expect to see you back so soon.”
“Was nearby.” Aaron tightened his grip on Chaos’s lead. “Thought I’d grab a card.” He slipped it from his coat and held it out in evidence.
“A kind gesture.” Wynter smiled with calm, practised warmth. Not the slightest flinch at the sight of the card with the same design that had arrived at Aaron’s door with a deadname etched like a curse. “The small things matter. Especially this time of year. Especially to those who feel… forgotten.”
