Page 68 of Don't Shoot Me Santa
“Sure you will.”
“We’re not all as pathologically prepared as Fraser. Sending Christmas cards in November isn’t festive. It’s a controlled bleed.”
“Stop diagnosing my husband.”
“I can’t when the symptoms come with a table of contents.”
“Try diagnosing your own relationship for once.”
“I do. Regularly. That’s why it works.”
“Sure, sure. Okay, so what’s this about?”
Kenny let the silence stretch enough for Jack to feel it. Then, “I need a favour.”
Jack’s sigh sliced through the line like a scalpel.“No. Whatever this is, no. You don’t call for favours. You call for control, wrap it in academic phrasing, and pretend its objective analysis.”
Kenny let the criticism slide. “There’s been a murder on the island.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“I got asked to consult. Off the books. Nothing official. Local force called me in quietly, probably because someone at Ryston triggered a trace ping. So really, this is your fault.”
“Automated system maintenance.”
“We can pretend that if it makes you feel better.”
Another pause. Then Jack asked,“Does Aaron know?”
“Of course.”
“Well. That’s something.”
“I’m not hiding anything from him. Not anymore.”
A beat. Quiet. Then:“I’ll ask him.”
“Go ahead. He’ll tell you. Wait—since when are you and Aaron even in contact?”
“We share memes.”
Kenny blinked. “Youwhat?”
Jack sounded smug. “We’ve got a WhatsApp group. Me, Aaron, and Fraser. You’re not invited. We don’t need someone to analyse our memes and recipe ideas.”
Kenny pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jesus.”
“So,”Jack continued, suddenly all business.“What do you need?”
“Your memory. And maybe a little clearance.”
“I’ve got one of those. Guess which.”
Kenny leaned into the silence, voice settling into something even. Measured. “When you were up in Glasgow, did you come across a case? December. Teenager. Girl. Fifteen. Rough sleeper. Found behind a decommissioned church or shelter. Posed. Perhaps redressed?”
Leather creaked softly on the other end of the line.“You mean the boy?”
Kenny frowned. “Database says female.”
