Page 22 of Don't Shoot Me Santa
They arrived before the sun dipped low, sea murmuring somewhere beyond the rooftops and where Ventnor Green had been taped off in neat blue-and-white lines, loopedbetween lampposts and folding barriers. The town’s attempt at Christmas cheer did little to help. Twinkling lights sagged between buildings. A plastic reindeer stood lopsided by the bench, its red nose cracked.
It only made the whole thing feel worse.
As if this was a murder in a snow globe shaken too hard.
The boy lay beneath the council’s Christmas tree. A fake fir, pre-lit, powered by solar panels that barely functioned in winter. The lights still blinked in their lazy loop—green, red, blue—oblivious to the body at its base. The police had pitched a white tent over the scene, a fragile shield against the December wind, and maybe, in some naïve way, against the reality of it.
Kenny cut the engine and turned to Aaron. “You know not to touch anything, right?”
Aaron rolled his eyes. “No promises. I’ve got a thing for fingering corpses.”
The look Kenny gave him could have frozen rain.
“What?” Aaron’s mouth curved obscenely. “I’m fucking horny.”
It wasn’t provocation. It never was. This was Aaron’s armour. Outrageous words, tossed like a lit match, daring Kenny or the world to flinch. Humour as misdirection. Crudeness as control. And beneath it, the quiet tremor of someone who had seen too much death and needed to own the moment before it owned him.
Kenny slipped his hand on Aaron’s knee. Squeezed. “Then be good.”
The look Aaron gave him in return was devastating. Heat and mischief tangled with a flicker of raw, unguarded hurt. Wildly inappropriate given the setting. But that was Aaron: chaos wrapped in charm, defiance braided through everybreath. Especially here, where the crime scene might as well have been a trigger rigged under his feet.
Kenny loved him for it.
The bite.
The pushback.
The way surrender, when Aaron finally allowed it, became sacred.
Kenny blinked hard and pulled himself back into the moment.
He stepped out of the Discovery and buttoned his coat up to his throat. Aaron followed from the passenger side, setting Chaos down from the boot and clipping on a short lead. The dog sniffed the frost-crusted grass with focused intent, tail low, ears twitching. Aaron met Kenny’s gaze, jamming his hands into his coat pockets, the dog’s lead stretching from his coat to his feet.
An officer approached from the cordon, brown hair pulled back into a bun beneath her wool cap. “Dr Lyons?”
“Detective Sergeant Parry?”
They shook hands. Her grip was firm. Practical. No-nonsense.
She glanced at Aaron walking a step behind Kenny with his hood up and Chaos trotting dutifully at his side.
“Oh… I didn’t realise you’d be bringing…” She darted her gaze to the dog, “…anyone. The scene’s quite delicate.”
“Don’t worry,” Kenny said dryly. “He’s trained.”
Aaron smiled sweetly.
Parry blinked. “I meant the dog.”
“So did I.” Kenny clapped his hands together for warmth. “Aaron’s the feral one.”
“Liar.” Aaron crouched to tie Chaos’s lead to a nearby post, gave the dog a scratch behind the ears, then dropped a treat into his mouth. “Good boy.”
Kenny turned back to Parry. “He comes, or I don’t. Non-negotiable.”
“Again,” Aaron called up without looking, “massiveliar.” He then stood, locked his gaze on Kenny. “Cause you haven’t made me come for a while.”
Parry looked between them, clearly recalibrating.
