Page 24 of Don't Shoot Me Santa

Kenny nodded. “But we don’t know the audience. Could be aimed at the public. Could be for themselves. Or—” he motioned at the tree—“could be for something symbolic. Christmas. Innocence. Judgment.” He rose, brushing frost off his knee.

“What do you feel?” Aaron asked suddenly.

Kenny turned to him. The question wasn’t academic. Nor performative. It was human. Because he hadn’t asked what he thought. He asked how hefelt.

Kenny inhaled, the cold slicing sharply through his chest. He let the question sit for a beat before answering. “Unease,” he said. “Because someone did this at leisure. Intentionally. There’s no panic here. No chaos. It’s… precise. And that kind of stillness?” He exhaled. “It always unsettles me. Stillness usually means control.”

“And planned. And meticulous. And practiced.”

“Yes.”

“Which means they’ve done it before.”

Kenny met his gaze. Held it.

Long enough to sayI know what the words serial killer means to you. He stroked his fingers along Aaron’s. Knuckle to knuckle. Not a hold. Not enough to expose anything to the world. But enough to tell Aaron he saw it all.

The fear. The fire. The history. The ache.

And loved him anyway.

Aaron wiggled his fingers in response, grazing back. And with that, the silent acknowledgement.Let me fall apart later.

And Kenny would.

Behind them, footsteps approached through the frost.

Parry joined them again, notebook in hand. “We’re compiling a list of seasonal roles. Santas, grottos, event staff, costume rentals. Anyone who might’ve had access to the suit he was found in.”

“You’re assuming the suit wasn’t his?”

“We are. He’s known locally. Seventeen. No fixed address. Been in and out of hostels since he was fifteen, age-out complications. Sometimes stayed at the night shelter, sometimes rough-slept near the charity shop by the square. He’s not your average Santa impersonator.”

“What else do you know about him?”

Parry flipped back through her notes. “Name’s Luke Wells. No living parents on record. Foster placements didn’t stick. Bounced between short-term care and emergency accommodation. History of running. Petty theft, loitering, a few warnings. Nothing violent. But smart. Staff at the youth centre said he was sharp. Could read people a little too well for his own good.”

Kenny tapped his knuckles to Aaron’s again. Subtle, quiet. Enough contact to sayI see you. Because he knew that look. Knew exactly where Aaron’s mind had gone. And Kenny needed him to feel the line between empathy and collapse.

Aaron didn’t speak for a beat. Then, “So, what? Someone carried him here like some fucked-up festive offering?”

His voice was steady. Neutral. But Kenny heard the shift. The calibration.

Aaron was already thinking like him. Already stepping into his shoes. Because yeah, he was good at reading killers. That came with the bloodline. But reading victims?

That was where Aaron lived.

He didn’t need crime scene photos or case files to understand what Luke had been running from. Heknew. He’dwalked the same pavement, slept under the same silence. Knew the difference between kids who wanted to disappear and kids who had no other option. And he’d already stepped into Luke’s shoes and known he wouldn’t have come here willingly.

And Kenny, watching him fold into that headspace, felt both awe and unease.

Because Aaron could see these not as cases, but as mirrors.

And that was both his gift and his vulnerability.

“We believe he was killed elsewhere and brought here,” Parry said. “No drag marks. No scuffing on the shoes either. So we’re assuming the killer’s a male?”

Kenny studied the scene, eyes narrowed. “Strong enough to lift a teenage boy, yes. Confident enough to do it here, in the open, without rushing. That tells us something. They had time, and theyknewhow to use it.” He gestured towards the carefully posed body. “Positioning someone unconscious, or dead, with this level of care takes control. Upper body strength helps. That leans male, yes. But don’t get locked into that too early.”