Page 121 of Don't Shoot Me Santa
“Internalised homophobia. Can’t admit you’re bi. Closet-case meltdown. Repressed self-loathing wrapped in a saviour complex. Midlife crisis with a splash of messiah kink. Or maybe…” He leaned in, voice dropping to a breath. “Maybe you get off on the power. On seeing how far you can push before someone snaps. Kenny got that right, at least. That you get a thrill from it. Narcissistic, self-important, power-drunk prick who thinks the world owes him worship.”
Blackwell said nothing. Didn’t move, either. He sat there, face pale, as if he had no idea someone could be brazen enough to say all this to him.
Well, Aaron could.
“Kenny’ll be here in a minute. He can translate all that into proper academic wank if you want. Diagnose you nice and clean so you get the right therapy while you rot in prison.” He locked his gaze on Blackwell’s. “But me? I don’t need a degree to name it. You’re a coward. A predator. And a walking cliché. As pathetic as my mother, actually. No, wait. You’re more like my dad.”
Blackwell flinched.
“Frank was a deviant bastard, too. Got off on control, on fear. Thought he was clever. He wasn’t. Let himself get chewed up by the wrong fucking hand and hung himself in a prison cell because of it.”
Aaron sniffed sharply, rage cutting into his throat. Saying it aloud ran him ragged, but he didn’t stop and Blackwell stared at him, wide-eyed, as if he’d forgotten how to breathe.
“And the card? What the fuck was that?” Aaron spat. “Some sick game? Letting me know you’d figured it out? That the son of Roisin and Frank Howell couldn’t possibly have the perfect life he’s pretending to live?” He pointed a finger at him. “Well, fuck you. I do. I have a man who lovesme. Worships me, actually. And it’s not you who gets to decide if I’m a good boy or not. It’s him.Onlyhim!”
Blackwell flew his hands up in surrender, glancing to the open door as if someone might save him. Probably the police. Aaron would’ve laughed if he wasn’t so emotionally strung out, vibrating with a fury he could barely contain. All he could think, sickening, burning through his gut, was how stupid this man was. How this pitiful, ridiculous man had lured beautiful, vulnerable young minds to their deaths.
He hated him.
God, he hated him. Hated him with a blistering, bone-deep fury. The same way he hated his parents. That festering rot that never left. Blackwell had it, too. That same stink. Cloaked in charity. Wrapped in softness. Predatory behind a smile.
“And why her, eh?” He sniffed back the encroaching tears. Not for himself. But for her. Skye. For the life she’d only just started to live. The one she wanted for herself. Now snuffed away as if it meant nothing. As ifshemeant nothing. She hadn’t got the chance to start over. Not like he had. “Why Skye? Was it simply because you saw me talk to her? Was that it? And how did you get her to come to you? Because she was smart. Clued up. She could sniff a predator a mile away. She wouldn’t have come to you willingly. What did you offer her? A job? Money? What was it?”
Blackwell opened his mouth, but whatever he was going to say died on his tongue as a different voice slid through the room.
“I offered her the puppy.”
Aaron turned, only for Chaos to leap from his resting place, snarling. But a blur sliced past Aaron’s ear thenthunk.A dart buried itself in Blackwell’s neck. The man jerked, spasmed, then slumped boneless into the chair.
“And a sweet. A nice peppermint sweet to make her sleepy.”
Another dart cut the air, and it struck Chaos square in the flank, his yelp tearing Aaron in two.
“No—no, no, no!” Aaron dropped to his knees, clutching his convulsing dog. But Chaos stumbled, legs folding under him, hitting the floor with a sickening thud.
Then Aaron peered up. Sawhim.
Standing in the doorway, holding a handmade dart gun cobbled together from old pipes and malice, was the man in red himself. Not the garish plastic Santa from the charity posters. Not the laughing old man on biscuit tins. No. This Santa was colder. Cruder.
And as cleverly hidden in plain sight.
“Puppies always work.” Jonathon, dressed as Santa cocked his head. “Isn’t that what Frank used to do? And the pastor? Lure in the children with the promise of puppies? Isn’t that how Jessica met her end? Poor Jessica Lyons.”
Aaron drew in a breath.
“But what IgaveSkye was redemption.” Jonathon stepped into the light with the same gentle smile he wore when handing out adoption flyers, or coaxing troubled kids to stroke a dog for a moment of love. Probably the same smile he wore when peppermint clung to his breath and bodies bled out at his feet. “Hi, Cain.”
Aaron let Chaos go and shot to his feet. “What the—what the fuck is this?”
Jonathon stepped inside, eyes bright with a terrible calm. “You weren’t supposed to be here, you know. This part wasn’t for you. But then again… you always were a problem. Just like me.”
Aaron clenched his fists. “I’m nothing like you.”
Jonathon tilted his head. “Oh, but you are. Two little boys with fucked-up mothers and monsters for fathers. You’re better at pretending, though.” His smile cracked wider. “I tried to be good. Iamgood. I help. I serve. I cleanse. You? You play at being good for a man who fucks you like a project. That’s not goodness. That’s…disgusting.”
Aaron took a step back.
“You worship him,” Jonathon spat, his voice cracking around the edges, trembling with something that might’ve once been control. “You let himdefineyou.Touchyou.Ownyou. And you call that love?” He shook his head with a sneer. “That’s not love. Not a mother’s love. You should have been honouring her. Like me! Like I have. She’s the one who gave you life. I bled to become the son my mother demanded. The pure one. Theredeemedone. And you…you think your pain makes you special? That you’re some tragic fucking prince?”
