Page 118 of Don't Shoot Me Santa

Aaron stopped breathing.

Fuck.

He’d been right.

Blackwell.

He spun, heart thundering, and tugged hard on Chaos’s lead. The dog barked once, startled, as Aaron bolted for the doors.

Out into the snow.

He ran. Coat flapping, snow biting his cheeks, Chaos sprinting beside him. With his numb fingers, he fumbled out his phone, hit Kenny’s name.

Voicemail.

This time, he didn’t hang up.

“Are you actually fucking kidding me?” he hissed into the phone. “You’re off-gridnow? With a fucking killer out here playing Saint Nick’s twisted cousin? Call yourself a forensic psych expert? Christ, you can profile everyone except the prick sendingmeChristmas cards with my dead name on them.”

He skidded on the icy pavement,breath coming fast.

“Bollocks.” He then righted himself, continuing into the phone. “Yeah. You heard me. It’s Blackwell. Told you it was him! Heknows. Knows exactly who I am. This whole thing, yeah? It’s about me. Of course it is. It’salwaysabout me, isn’t it? A twisted little Christmas production starring Cain fucking Howell. Main character energy with a side of psychological torment.”

He ducked around a tree. Chaos darted the other way, the lead snagging. Aaron stumbled, cursed, righted himself as the dog rejoined him.

“And the card? That preachy, holier-than-thou monstrosity? He bought ithere, lover. At the shelter. Where Skye was. Where the first victim was!” Aaron’s voice cracked with fury. “Your lot, the fucking police, they’re useless! I thought Bellend was bad, but this team? They make traffic cones look proactive. Sleeping fucking policemen. Might as well have handed him a sleigh and waved him off!” He dragged in air, pace frantic. “And before you go alldisappointed professoron me—yeah, I burned it. The card. Classic trauma response. Symbolic purge. Something-something emotional catharsis. It’s ash now, okay?”

He scoffed. Bitter.

“Feel free to diagnose me later. Preferably when we’re both alive.”

He picked up speed, snow smearing his face.

“But he wroteCain Howellon it, Kenny. Neat cursive. Like my fucking mother’s handwriting! And he hand-delivered it. To our fucking house. Meaning he’s been there. Cause he got our address off the HR system. Probably found me out by me filling out those fucking formsyoutold me to complete. And while you were gone, while I was upstairs, naked, sore, and dreaming about you like some idiot post-coital sub, he popped a nice little card through the door. Andyoutold me I was wrong.”

He tutted violently.

“Wrong? Lover, I wasraisedin the same genetic postcode as this flavour of madness. If anyone can sniff out a psycho, it’s me.”

He rounded the last corner, lungs raw, heartbeat feral.

“So. You can make this up to me in two very specific ways. One: answer your fucking phone. Two: I want twelve orgasms. Minimum. One for each of the days of Christmas. Smash your fucking record, lover. With praise, too. Full eye contact. Tell me I’m beautiful. I’m good. Emotional repair included. And a fucking blowjob.” He went to cut the call then put the phone back to his mouth. “One of your filthy, deep throat ones.”

He slowed, enough to glance at the looming outline of the shelter ahead.

“I’m heading inside the kennels. Make sure he’s not slipping away somewhere warm and repentant. You’vedefinitelyfinished class by now. So move your academic arse, call DS Parry andfind me. I will ensure this prick doesn’t leave town.”

He hung up.

Then gritted his teeth.

And walked straight into the lion’s den.

* * * *

Kenny pulled his phone from his coat pocket. Still no signal. Outside, snow continued to fall in thick, relentless sheets, muffling the world into a hush. Margaret hadn’t moved from the window. She stood stiffly, her silhouette cast against the glass like a portrait etched in ice. There wasa stillness to her now feeling more like acceptance than retreat.

He unlocked his phone. Hit record. And didn’t raise his voice.