Page 59 of Don't Shoot Me Santa

That idea made Kenny’s stomach turn.

Because this killer wasn’t hunting for lust, or rage, or thrill. He was looking for grace twisted into guilt. And rewriting it in blood. This was belief. Doctrine. A personal theology wrapped in ritual and peppermint. They didn’t see themself as a murderer. But asFather Christmas. Not the commercial caricature, but the old-world figure. The judge. The one who sees everything. The one whoknows.

They weren’t killing to silence them.

They were killing tocompletethem.

Kenny tapped the pen on the edge of the notebook. The cadence of thought. The weight of knowing. Costumed killers weren’t new. BTK had played dress-up with ropes and shame. Zodiac had his hooded symbol of power. Even the Howells—God, the fucking Howells—had used costuming to claim dominance. Paper-thin masks. White gloves. Roses laid across cooling flesh, as if ceremony could make carnage feel like art.

And there it was.

That cold bloom of memory. Uninvited and precise. The curling rose vines twisted around their victims’ limbs. Soft petals pressed to bloodied skin. As if beauty might soften brutality. As if the flourish could rewrite the violence into something sacred.

But Kenny knew better.

It didn’t make them elegant. It made themworse.

Because they wanted you to look. To admire it. Toremember.

His hand stilled as the image returned in full colour. Blood on thorns. Ritual traced into skin. The grotesque pageantry of a couple who hadn’t just killed but choreographed. The Howells had never been satisfied with silence or shadows. They needed spectacle. They dressed up death, made it beautiful and deliberate. Like grief should come gift-wrapped.

And Aaron,hisAaron, had grown up behind that curtain. Born into theatre drenched in blood. Taught that love meant pain and beauty came with a body count.

And yet.

Despite everything they tried to make him, Aaron had becomethis. Beautiful, yes. But not in the way they intended. Not as some delicate echo of their crimes. His beauty was sharp. Defiant.Earned. A boy made in the fire who’d refused to become smoke. He carried their scars, yes. But not their sickness. And when he touched Kenny with reverence, when he let himselfbetouched, it wasn’t a reenactment.

It wasrebellion.

Kenny swallowed hard, tightening his grip on the pen.

The Howells might have taught him performance, but Aaron’s vulnerability and that trembling, furious openness,thatwas real. And it undid Kenny more than any rose ever could.

The peppermint in this case hit the same nerve. The same sick echo. And Kenny felt the ache crawl through his chest, tight and clawing. The killer wasn’t mocking Christmas. They werereclaimingit. A holy season, turned red.

Only the good are rewarded.

Only the wrong are chosen.

“Fuck.” Kenny leaned back, scrubbing a hand over his beard.

Outside, the sky began its reluctant brightening, a faint smear of light stretching across the cliffs. He opened the window beside his desk for a breath of salt air and froze.

Footsteps.

Quiet. Bare.

The door creaked open.

Aaron came in, barefoot and bleary-eyed, hair a storm-tossed halo, wearing boxers and an open zip-up fleece with the dog shelter logo on it, skin creased from sleep. He cradled a steaming mug and Chaos trailed at his heels, yawning so widely his tongue curled.

“Brought you a refill.” Aaron set the mug down on the first clear-ish space he could find.

Except it wasn’t clear. It landed squarely on a stack of notes, the heat bleeding through the paper, leaving a perfect, scalding brown ring over the crime scene inventory.

Kenny didn’t say a word.

Why would he when Aaron slid between his knees and climbed into his lap, folding himself into Kenny’s chest, resting his head on his shoulder, breath warm against the hollow of his throat. Totally, utterly soft.