Page 43 of Don't Shoot Me Santa

He’d given the class a safe version of the theory. The bones of a case he was already watching unfold. And the pieces, however horrifying, were arranging themselves.

“Right. Turn to page sixty-one in your textbook. Let’s look at the Canter case and the development of investigative psychology in the UK.”

Chairs scraped. Pages turned.

But that question hung behind his thoughts like breath on a mirror.

They think they’re doing something good.

He’d heard that logic before. In hospital rooms. In prisons.

And in the notes and musings fromRoisin Howell.

You will forever be my good boy…

Kenny finished the class without incident. The lecture on offender profiling had gone down as expected. Half the class pretended not to be interested, the other half pretended theyweren’t scared. He’d finished scribbling some feedback on a coursework submission when the door opened.

“Dr Lyons?” In stepped Ms Harrow, the college principal, with an almost-too-friendly tone unique to educational management. She wore a smart wool coat in deep navy, buttoned at the neck despite being indoors, her lanyard still swinging from one hand as though she’d come directly from a meeting she hadn’t wanted to be at.

Kenny smiled, wrapping his scarf around his neck. “Ms Harrow. What brings you all the way to the portacabin?”

“Margaret, please.” She stepped inside and let the door close behind her. “I won’t keep you long. I wanted to thank you again for stepping in this term. We thought we’d have to cancel the A Level Psychology entirely, and you’ve been an unexpected stroke of luck.”

“I like it here.” Kenny zipped up his satchel. “Younger minds. Easier to manipulate.”

He smiled at his own joke. She didn’t.

Ah. Right.

She looked around the classroom, eyes skimming the whiteboard and all the notes gathered on it, then the half-straight rows of chairs. “I don’t suppose you have a moment before you head out?”

Kenny checked his watch. “I’ve got a meeting over in Newport.”

“Right. Yes. I heard. With the police?”

“That’s right.”

“They did call on us, let’s say, with some insistence to pass over your details. And considering the circumstances…”

“It’s fine. They would have found me eventually, anyway.”

Ms Harrow nodded. “Poor lad. Seventeen, wasn’t he?” Her mouth pinched, as if the age alone was an indictment. “Something about it doesn’t sit right. Makes you wonder if he should have been one of ours.”

“One of ours?”

“A student, I mean. From one of the feeder schools.”

Kenny tilted his head. “Do you have reason to believe he should’ve been?”

“No. But… the age. The timing. He should have been in one of these classrooms, not—” She stopped herself, then gestured vaguely towards the window, where the wind rattled the glass. “Well. Not where they found him.”

“It would be insightful to know how he ended up there. On the streets. That kind of displacement isn’t sudden.”

“Some kids run away.” She shrugged. “Drift. Idle. Have no future plan.”

“Some kids don’t have a choice.”

She offered a polite smile, glossing over the uncomfortable part of the conversation. “And some make thewrongchoices.”