Page 12 of Don't Shoot Me Santa
Because Aaron didn’t need a character. He neededprecision. And Kenny, meticulous bastard that he was, found that profoundly satisfying. He loved the calibration. The psychology. Learning which words made Aaron squirm. Which silences undid him. He loved that Aaron fought it. That every surrender was a battlewon, not given.
And more than anything, he loved knowing that in a life where Aaron had been used, abandoned, and objectified, he’d chosenthis. He still chose this.Kenny.
He got on with a few more mundane tasks, adding bits to his online calendar, circling one for the staff Christmas bash and a reminder to ask Aaron if he wanted to come. To the drinks, that was. Because coming was up to Kenny.
His phone rang.
He jolted, fumbled for his mobile beneath a stack of marked papers, expecting to see Aaron pop up either to have a rant about being horny in the rain or to ask which milk was it he preferred again, but the screen showed a local number. Unknown.
He answered on instinct. “Dr Lyons speaking.”
“Dr Lyons? Good afternoon. Sorryto bother you. This is DS Imogen Parry with Hampshire Police. Newport Station.”
Well. This was new.
For here.
“We got your name through a contact at the Met.”
Kenny straightened in his chair. “The Met?”
“Yes. Metropolitan Police, sir.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes, I know who they are. I was asking why they gave you my name.”
A pause. Flustered breath on the other end, as if Parry wasn’t used to these kinds of conversations. Or people like him.
“Right. Of course. We reached out to the Met over a case that’s recently come our way. During the discussion, your name came up and we were made aware you’re currently living on the island. Teaching locally?”
“I am,” Kenny said slowly. “Freelance contracts. College and sixth form.”
“I apologise for tracking you down through those channels, but we’re dealing with something that… might fall within your area of expertise.”
His pulse didn’t quicken, not yet, but he felt the stillness that came before it. That slow shift into old posture. The tilt of his mind reaching out, mapping possibilities.
“I’m guessing you don’t mean teaching?”
“Not exactly, no.”A pause. Then,“DI McKenzie said this was something you had particular knowledge of.”
Kenny closed his eyes. DI McKenzie. Metropolitan Police, with a flair for the dramatic. Always the odd cases. Not your standard stab, rape, and run. Something stranger. Something that required expertise. A long history of research. Of knowledge of what made someone kill. Then kill again. And again.
A serial killer.
Of course. One week before Yuletide, and the ghosts of Christmas past came knocking. He should end the call. He owed them nothing. No obligation. No reason to entertain this.
But the question left his lips before he could stop it, “What makes him think that?”
“We’ve had a murder on the island. Last night. Discovered this morning. Youth. Boy. And there’s a chance he could be tied to other unexplained deaths in Hampshire. The pattern’s still early. But there’s been three since early November. All young. All from vulnerable backgrounds. At first glance, they look unconnected. But the MO is… shifting.”
Which meant it was evolving. Learning. Testing boundaries.
He reached forward and closed the laptop. “Go on.”
“The first was initially ruled an accidental overdose. Twenty-year-old male, found in Portsmouth. Second, an eighteen-year-old female from Southampton. Looked like exposure. Came out of a care home, history of absconding. Third was last night. Newport, here on the island. Staged.”
Kenny frowned. “Staged?”
“He was dressed in a Santa suit,”Parry said quietly.“Red velvet, white trim. Stuffed with newspaper. Posed beneath a lit tree on the green in Ventnor.”
