Page 108 of Don't Shoot Me Santa

She exhaled, almost a laugh, but not quite. “We’re lucky to have you, Dr Lyons. The students clearly adore you.” She glanced around. “And after our conversation the other day, I… did some reading.”

“Reading?”

“Your background. You were involved in the Howell investigation, weren’t you?”

His stomach dipped.

Of course, it was public knowledge. His papers. The interviews. His profile inRyston Quarterlyhad practically turned it into myth. He’d written books on the subject. But when he’d taken this job, it hadn’t been about reputation. It was supposed to be quieter. Simpler. They’d asked for a degree, a teaching qualification and a reference. He’d given them. No fanfare. No history.

He’d hoped the Googling would come sooner, not now.

“That’s right.” Kenny kept his tone neutral.

Harrow’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “She’s amanipulative woman, Roisin Howell. Difficult subject, I imagine.”

“She’s…” Kenny paused, weighing each word. “Her own brand of psychopath.”

Harrow gave a quiet, indulgent chuckle. “‘Psychopath,’” she repeated, drifting her fingers up to the silver cross at her throat, absently toying with the chain. “Such a dramatic word, don’t you think? So full of judgment.” Then she tilted her head, curious, almost amused. “Is it true she tortured her victims using ritualistic methods? That she crucified some of them? Tried to cleanse them,purifythem, after Frank was done with them?”

Kenny froze.

Those details had been reported, yes. But selectively. Carefully. Sanitised for the public. What Harrow described wasn’t common knowledge. Not unless someone had gone digging far beyond the headlines.

He stared at her, pulse ticking faster.

Some victims had died quickly. But others…

The basement scenes had haunted his forensic reports for years.

Harrow’s gaze didn’t waver.

“You’re very clever, Dr Lyons,” she said at last. “Profiling someone like Roisin must’ve cost you something. Tothinklike her. To map that kind of mind.” She smiled again. Wider now. As if she knew something. “And all your thoughts today, about Santa, about nativity symbolism, judgment, purity… it’s all so insightful. Fascinating, really.” She held his gaze. “Do you think the killer… understands themselves that well?”

“Not in those terms, maybe. But yes. They know exactly what these symbols mean. Tothem. This isn’t someonechaotic. They’re educated. Disciplined. They know how to hide in plain sight.”

Harrow tilted her head again, studying him like a puzzle piece. “Interesting.” She smiled then. Gentle. Warm. “And how will you be spending Christmas, Dr Lyons? With your partner?”

“Yes. The two of us. Including the dog.”

Harrow dropped in closer. “And has he been a good boy this year?”

“The dog?”

“No, Dr Lyons. The boy.”

Kenny’s stomach dropped. Hard. Cold.

“I was about to make a nice cup of peppermint tea.” Harrow tucked her hands into her small blazer pocket. “Care to join me? I have some questions about your thoughts on the killer.”

Chapter eighteen

Life’s Gonna Kill You (If You Let It)

Aaron woke late.

Well, later than usual. Normally Chaos would’ve shoved his cold nose under the duvet and whined until he got up. Walk? Food? Anything. But this morning, the dog was as knocked out as ifhehad been the one emotionally wrecked and fucked raw. It was close to ten by the time Aaron dragged himself out of bed. He showered, with Chaos finally stirring, tail thumping on the floor by the door, then got dressed and rushed downstairs to grab the lead.

There, he stopped dead.