Page 119 of Don't Shoot Me Santa
“Do you have a child, Ms Harrow?”
She turned, raising one hand to her throat. It was her safety net. She could draw strength from it. “He is agoodboy.”
“I’m sure you believe that,” Kenny replied. “That’s not what I asked.”
She lifted her chin. “He stepped into the role himself. When my husband left, abandoned us at Christmas, of all times, my boy… he became what I needed.”
“And what did you need, Ms Harrow?”
“A child who obeyed. Who followed the Word. Who understood the importance of sacrifice.” Her eyes glistened. Not with grief. But conviction.
“Obedience.” Kenny nodded. “You shaped him to perform goodness. Rewarded silence. Punished doubt. You didn’t teach him love. You taught him how to be useful.”
“We all wear masks for the season, Dr Lyons. White lies. Red suits. It’s tradition.”
“You mean like the mask of Santa Claus?” Kenny stepped closer. “And the mask you wear as a mother. As a protector.”
“Ihaveprotected him.”
“How long for? How long have you helped him hide it?”
“Since the first snow. Since the first time I saw what he could do. And knew… it was holy.”
Kenny analysed those words. “You’ve given him an alibi. By making sure he was always home… when he needed to be seen?”
She pressed her lips together. But her silence said more than any confession.
“You live alone with him.” The profile came thick and fast then. “He doesn’t work. He doesn’t go to school. Has no digital footprint. No online records. But he comes and goes. And you open the door. Every time.”
Margaret tightened her grip on the cross. “He’s never done well with people. Too much noise. Too many eyes. But animals… he was always calm with them. Always gentle. It’s the only place he’s ever felt safe. So I allowed him that. Let him have purpose there.”
A slow, cold dread crept up Kenny’s spine as the dots connected all at once.
“Like your young man,” she added, voice light as snow. “So good with the strays. I suppose… they understand each other.”
Kenny moved.Fast.
Crossed the room, tore open the fire doors where a blast of snow-laden wind slapped him in the face. Behind him, Margaret’s voice rose one final time. Calm, assured.
“He is doing what he believes is right.”
“And do you?” Kenny glanced back to her. “Do you believe murder is right?”
“Is it murder when the Lord takes His own? When they are suffering?” She titled her neck. “Or is it mercy?”
Kenny’s phone buzzed violently in his hand.
Signal.
Bars. Four. Then five.
Missed calls. Voicemails. One name at the top.
Aaron.
And beneath it, the latest alert:Voicemail.
He pressed the phone to his ear and listened.
