Page 117 of Don't Shoot Me Santa

Aaron gave a tight nod, eyes dragging to the small silver cross pinned to Wynter’s lapel. He could read people. Not only from instinct. The years surviving the wrong kind of attention had honed that too. But from study. Three years under Dr Kenneth Lyons’ expert eye… voice…hands…

Mouth…

Cock…

Focus.

Aaron cleared his throat. Wynter wasn’t giving off alarm bells. If anything, he radiated benevolent neutrality. A calm that made people confess without realising they were doing it. Gentle-voiced, approachable. Safe. Exactly how the victims had likely seen him, though.

How Luke must have seen him when offered a sweet.

How Skye would have felt being offered a warm coat. A place to stay. Someone toseeher.

“I heard there’s a grotto here.” Aaron cocked his head. “For the kids?”

“Oh, yes. We always set one up. You have children?”

“God, no.” Aaron shuddered at the thought, that baby book Gerald had mentioned prodding his frontal cortex.

Wynter gestured towards the church hall. “Well, ours isn’t only for the children. The taller ones like tocome along too. For warmth. Salvation. To be seen. Held in someone’s regard, if only for a moment.” He cocked his head. “Are you seeking that comfort?”

That twisted deep in Aaron’s chest. A flicker of unease sharp enough to cut. Exactly what a killer might say.

“Andyouplay Santa?” Aaron cocked his head. “Offer that salvation?”

Wynter gave a small, amused laugh. “Oh, heavens no. I’d frighten them stiff.” He patted his slight belly. “Not nearly jolly enough. And besides, they’d clock me in a second, wouldn’t they? No one wants the illusion ruined. You can’t fake Father Christmas. He has tobe believed.But I’m here. Should anyone need someone to talk to.”

“And do they?”

“Sorry?”

“Do they come and speak to you? For your particular brand ofcomfort?”

“Some do, yes. And I help as much as I can.”

“But some are beyond help?”

“Some choose a different path.”

“Like Luke did?Skye?”

Wynter’s expression clouded. “Gosh. What happened to them… such a terrible tragedy. We hold them in our prayers.”

Aaron scoffed. “Prayers. Is that what you call it?”

“I understand,” Wynter said gently. “Not everyone believes. These days, people place more faith in Santa than in the Lord. I know how hard it is for those born into hardship. Into pain.” He clasped his hands. “But prayer, Aaron, isn’t about sermons or shame. It’s about surrender. A way to send goodness into the world. A kind of… hope. If more people prayed, perhaps the world wouldn’t hurt quite so much.”

God, he was good.

“And as I told the police,” Wynter continued, almostabsently, “both Luke and Skye were welcomed here by our very own Santa.”

That snapped Aaron’s attention sharp. “Your Santa brought them here?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“Whoisyour Santa?”

“Lovely man.” He reached down to scratch Chaos under the chin. “He loves the dogs, too. Raising all that money for them.”