Page 95 of Don't Shoot Me Santa

It hadn’t snowed at Christmas in England since Aaron didn’t know when. And even when it had, it was usually more slush than storybook. Snow came in March, if it came at all. When everyone dared to believe in spring, out came the bastard freeze. Coats packed away, boilers gone to shit, public transport crippled. Typical.

But now? Now it fell like penance.

Thick. Unforgiving.

Drowning the island in white when darkness lurked in the bushes.

Curled in the passenger seat of Kenny’s car, engine purring, heaters on full blast, Aaron watched the windows clear in gradual streaks from the inside out. Beyond the glass, Kenny was a dark figure in the snow, scarf pulled high, loose hair catching in the flurries, as he carved a path down their driveway. Solid. Steady. A fixed point against a world reduced to white smears and bone-black hedgerows.

And murder.

Behind them, Chaos pressed to the hallway window, earshigh, paws braced, tail a metronome of protest. He’d whined when Aaron shut the door. But he couldn’t bring him. Not to this.

When Kenny finally slid in beside him, the cold came with him and he shook it off like a man stepping out of a storm, clapping his hands to life.

“You sure?” he asked, breath frosting.

“Don’t ask again.” Aaron kept his gaze forward. “Just get there. Someone has to humanise her before they sterilise her down to a fucking headline.”

Kenny hesitated. Then, “If you need to lea—”

“I will say the fucking word.Drive.”

So he did.

The journey through the island’s backroads was slow. Careful. The snow thickened as they climbed into the hills, hedges sagging under white weight, trees bowed in mourning. The roads were empty, eerily so, the world muffled beneath a hush that only snowfall brought. The windscreen wipers whispered, heat blowers masking any need for talk. Neither of them filled the silence.

Eventually, they reached St Joseph’s. Both a church and a primary school.

It should’ve been peaceful. Instead, it was lit up like a crime drama.

Floodlights washed the snow in hard white glare, turning the graveyard into something bleached and false. Barrier tape crisscrossed the lychgate, anchored by high-vis officers. A white forensic tent had been pitched over the north side of the building, its plastic walls vibrating with wind. Figures in Tyvek suits moved inside. Faceless. Sterile.

This was where Skye ended.

Aaron stepped out into the cold. The air hit like punishment. Wind scoured his cheeks raw. His boots sank intountouched snow. Every breath hurt. Somewhere beneath the freezing hush, the island held its breath.

She’d deserved warmth. Someone holding her hand. Deserved better than this fucking tent and paper suits and numbered placards stabbed into the ground like accusations. But this was what death looked like. What it always looked like for him. Evidence. Murder. Someone making the call.

He stared too long, the inside of his chest crawling with something brittle and breathless. If he spoke now, he’d unravel.

So he didn’t.

He let Kenny take charge. As he always did.

And he gave Aaron a small nod as they moved towards the cordon. Aaron didn’t hear the officers chatting to each other over the static of radios. All he could register was the sound of his own heartbeat, hammering behind his ribs. Beyond the police tape, a single string of fairy lights blinked weakly from the schoolyard fence, hung for Christmas Eve Mass.

Blue. Red. Green. Gold.

They flashed obscenely behind the white forensic tent.

Festive. Cheerful.

As if any of this could be fuckingholy.

DS Parry stepped into view, dressed in a white Tyvek suit, hood pulled back, powder-dusted gloves already on. Among the snow, she looked more like a ghost than an officer.

“Dr Lyons.” She nodded in recognition.