Page 104 of Don't Shoot Me Santa
“You don’t knowwhoit is.”
“I knowwhatthey are. And that’s enough. With what we’ve pulled from the scenes, the breadcrumbs are lining up. It’s only a matter of time.”
Aaron hummed, almost content. Kenny felt it vibrate through his chest.
“Sleep,” Kenny whispered into his ear. “I’ve got two hours before I need to be at college.”
“Thought it was closed.”
“No snow. Reopened for the final day before Christmas.”
“Can I safeword them?”
Kenny chuckled into hisskin. “No. But you still can with me.”
“Shut up, lover.”
“I don’t respond to that one.”
Aaron smiled against his hand. Lazy, half-asleep, and beautiful. Then, gradually, he melted into him again, breath evening out, body yielding into rest.
Kenny held him there, trying to follow.
But his mind kept moving.
When morning arrived in full, Kenny was quietly replaced as Aaron’s personal heater by a heavier, snuffling substitute. Chaos crawled across the duvet and draped across Aaron’s chest like a lopsided weighted blanket. Both of them snored.
Kenny smiled.
Then slipped from beneath the covers without a sound, showered, and dressed: crisp shirt, slim tie, trousers and lace-up boots. A thick knit jumper layered beneath his trench. Practical, presentable. He wrapped a scarf around his neck like a final layer of protection, then stalked back into the bedroom.
He crouched beside the bed, resting his chin on the mattress. First, he reached to stroke Chaos’s ears, then shifted to Aaron’s hair, brushing it gently off his forehead. He pressed a delicate kiss to the same spot and whispered something low, something only Aaron might hear if dreams could listen.
Then he left.
The drive into the college was quiet. No radio. So he listened to the dull churn of tyres over slush and the low hum of grief hanging over the island like lingering smoke instead. The news had broken overnight. Skye’s name, age, the location. Photos lifted from social media. Nothing ever stayed buried. Not when it could feed a cycle.
And at this time of year, it hit differently.
Christmas had a way of spotlighting absence. Of shoving smiling families and warm fires into every advert and window display, while quietly reminding others what they’d never had. What they’d lost. What they were still pretending not to want.
For some, Christmas was memory and magic.
For others, it was isolation in tinsel.
He pulled into the staff car park, parked mechanically, and headed to his classroom. He only had the one lesson left today. Year 13 A Level Psychology. Eighteen-year-olds clinging to their conditional offers, most of them half checked out already. He hadn’t expected more than three to show up. But when he unlocked the classroom door and stepped inside, every seat was filled. And they wereearly. Looking at him not with boredom, but with something else. Closer toneed.
He crossed to his desk, switched on the projector, and opened his laptop. He’d planned to finish the term with forensic risk matrices. Low/moderate/high classification models. Basic, dry. A safe final topic before the break. But the moment his laptop blinked to life, a hand went up.
“Sir.” Jasmine waved from the front row. “Is it true they found another body near St. Joseph’s?”
A ripple moved through the room. Heads tilted.
“Yes.” Kenny closed the laptop. “It’s true.” There wasn’t any point in lying.
A second hand rose, this time from the back row. “Is this connected to the Santa killer?”
A ripple of discomfort moved through the room. A few students shifted in their seats. Others sat straighter.
