Page 98 of Don't Shoot Me Santa
“Yes. It’s getting clearer now.” Kenny removed his gloves. “I can have an initial profile by the end of today. People to start looking at. Who to question.”
“Great. Thank you.” Parry ushered Aaron and Kenny back towards the cordon.
They peeled off the suits in silence, handed them to SOCO, and climbed back into the car. The snow was thinning. No longer soft or poetic, but wet and grey, slushing into the roads. As if even the weather knew this wasn’t a day to be all beautiful.
Kenny didn’t start the engine.
Aaron watched him.
He stared out through the windscreen at the churchyard where Skye still lay beneath tarpaulin and floodlight. His gloved hands were still, holding the steering wheel.
Aaron knew that stare.
Maybe he was paying his respects. Maybe this was part of his process. A silent debrief, a ritual he carried out after every body he’d stood over. Like this one. The next one. Aaron respected it, even if he couldn’t explain why. It was rare to see Kenny so still. Cracked open beneath all the clinical restraint.
Then Kenny spoke, low. “Where did you meet her?”
“At that PR stunt the charity arranged.”
“Did she say anything? Seem nervous? Like someone might’ve been following her?”
Aaron gave a dry snort. “She’s in care, Kenny. Ran from her halfway placement. She was nervous of everyone. Probably thought the staff were tracking her phone. Expected someone to show up and drag her back. That’s how it is. You grow up with your bag packed. Ready to run. Always.”
Kenny turned his head. “Did you tell her about you?”
Aaron shrugged, trailing his gaze to the slush-veined window. “The safe version. Enough to let her know she wasn’t alone. She was pulling the eighteen card. Trying to stay at the hostel. But she wasn’t eighteen. If they’d figured that out, she’d be bounced back to wherever she ran from.”
“Did she say why she left?”
“No. Didn’t have to. My guess? She’d had her fill of forced therapy and condescending social workers who spoke to her like she was broken. You hit a point where you’d rather sleep rough than answer another question about your ‘risk level.’”
Aaron leaned his head back, closing his eyes.
Kenny’s voice came quieter. “Risk level?”
Aaron cracked one eye open. “Queer teen, lover. It’s not as easy as throwing us the contraceptive pill and a pamphlet. Half the time, they assumed I was screwing strangers without protection. Never asked if it was true. Didn’t care. They needed to tick the box.”
Kenny nodded, eyes distant. Then turned the key in the ignition. “Why did you give her your number?”
“Don’t get jealous.” Aaron reached across the car to slide his hand beneath Kenny’s hair and tickled the back of his neck. “You know I’m only into brooding, emotionally repressed academics with control issues.”
Kenny glared at him.
Aaron removed his hand back to his lap. “Ironically, for her to call if she felt unsafe. Or alone.”
“Because you believed she might be?”
Aaron shrugged. Then watched Kenny’s eyes flicker. “What you thinking?”
“That her being trans… might not be an insignificant detail.”
“So the killer’s a transphobe? Hang on, the first vic, Luke, he was gay, right? Sleeping with older men? So what? The killer’s ticking boxes. Homophobe, too? A fucking bigot? Merry fucking Christmas to one and all.”
“Not necessarily.”
Aaron frowned. “Someone’s murdering queer teens and you’re telling me it’s not about hate?”
“No. Not all the victims are queer.”
