Chapter Nineteen Last Christmas
Chapter nineteen
Last Christmas
Aaron trudged through the snow, coat zipped high and scarf wound so tightly around his neck it chafed with every breath.
Wind sliced across his face, wild and merciless, tugging at his unbrushed hair and turning his ears raw.
Chaos padded faithfully beside him, paws crunching through the white crust, tongue flicking out to taste the cold.
Moments like this, he wished he had a car.
Hell, he could afford one now. One more account transfer and he could have something warm and boxy waiting in the drive.
But what was the point? Kenny already had a car.
They lived in each other’s pockets. Two vehicles seemed excessive…
until now. Until this walk felt like penance.
Until every step dragged him deeper into something he couldn’t outrun.
He pulled his phone from his pocket again, thumb red and stinging with cold.
One bar. Enough hope to try. Voicemail. Again.
That fucking college and its blackout rules.
No signal on site, no Wi-Fi in the lower wings.
God forbid a teenager try and contact someone mid-breakdown. He jammed the phone back into his coat.
When he reached St Joseph’s, he stopped.
It was making an effort. More than usual.
Strings of mismatched lights blinked cheerfully above the doorway, looping between old hooks as if they’d been there for years.
In the front window, a second-hand Christmas tree stood proud despite its crooked base, its branches crowded with paper angels and bright baubles catching the light.
Someone had stencilled snowflakes on the glass in bursts of white foam, their edges glittering faintly in the morning sun.
It looked warm. Welcoming. A place trying to be more than it was.
To Aaron, it was hope strung in fairy lights, even if he could see the cracks beneath.
He stood there a beat too long, staring up at the place. Two days ago, this was a PR event. Skye trying to bluff her way into a bed for one more night. Yesterday, all he’d cared about was how long it would take Kenny to pin him down again.
Now Skye was dead.
And someone out there had sent him a card signed with a name that should’ve been buried years ago.
And somehow… it all led here.
“Come on, boy.” He nudged Chaos forward with a cluck of his tongue and a pull on his lead.
The shelter doors creaked as he pulled them open.
Inside, the warmth hit like a wall. Stale air, radiator heat, the heavy scent of instant coffee and wet coats.
A low murmur of voices echoed off tiled floors and magnolia walls.
It wasn’t a grand reception. There was a lowly desk in a narrow hallway manned by a tired volunteer in a charity-branded fleece.
Off the corridor, the old parish hall stretched out.
Rows of metal chairs and fold-out tables, stacked sleeping mats shoved into corners, boxes of donated clothes piled beneath banners that read Hope for the Holidays.
People milled around with steaming mugs and paper plates.
Some chatted quietly. Others stared into the middle distance like ghosts in borrowed coats.
Aaron took it in. Felt it sink under his skin.
He didn’t know what he was looking for. Comfort? A lead? A reason to believe this place hadn’t turned into another fucking clue in a case that felt too close to home.
Then Chaos stiffened beside him, tail low, body alert.
Aaron followed the dog’s line of sight. The church sat next door connected by a covered walkway. Its doors stood open. And someone was standing inside. A man in dark clothes. Collar visible. Watching him.
Wynter.
Of course it was the fucking chaplain. Standing in the doorway of the adjoining church summoned by frost and guilt.
A little too clean. A little too calm. And similar enough to the pastor who’d lived next door when Aaron was a kid.
The one who used to offer “guidance” in hushed tones, always with a hand on his shoulder.
And the same man who’d called himself a counsellor at Ryston and ended up locking a girl in a basement and telling Aaron he was destined to carry out the family legacy.
Jesus Christ.
Yeah. Probably shouldn’t say that here.
“Can I help you?” The volunteer in a fleece zipped up to her chin came up from behind a desk tucked into the narrow entranceway. Late fifties, maybe, with kind eyes and exhaustion stitched into her smile. “Are you looking for a place to stay tonight?”
Aaron glanced down at himself.
All right, fair. He looked like shit.
Ripped jeans, coat hanging off his frame.
Probably Kenny’s now that he thought about it.
He’d grabbed it in a rush, sleeves too long, lapels dusted in snow.
Chaos was soaked through and speckled with slush, tongue flicking out trying to taste heat in the air.
Aaron shoved a hand through his hair, flaking snow from his fringe.
“No. I’m, uh, here to ask something.” Do you know a killer in a Santa suit who thinks God made him judge, jury, and executioner? Who’s targeting vulnerable youth and calling it mercy. Yeah. Not exactly casual conversation. So instead, “Do you sell Christmas cards?”
The woman smiled faintly, scrunching her nose.
“We do, actually.” She nodded towards a battered folding table by the wall, where a few cellophane packs of charity cards sat beneath a curling sign: Support the Shelter.
Share the Spirit. They were all variations on a theme.
Choirs, churches, candlelight. The soft-focus, salvation-heavy kind that came in bulk and looked as though they smelled of incense.
“But you’ve missed last post,” she tried to get into his line of sight, “if you’re hoping to send one.”
Aaron wandered over, flipping through the stacks until he found it. That card. The exact one that had shown up at his house. Clean font. Bleached paper. A shepherd kneeling before a plastic-looking baby Jesus.
“I’ll hand-deliver it,” he said.
“In a snowstorm?”
“I’m keen.” He flipped the card over in his fingers. “Don’t suppose you keep a record of who buys these?”
The volunteer gave a gentle, apologetic shake of her head. “No. Sorry, love.”
“Right.”
Of course not. Jack would call him a shit amateur sleuth. Aaron would call him a bellend. Cause, y’know, they were friends now or whatever.
He bought the card anyway. Maybe to show Kenny.
Maybe to hold something tangible now the original was nothing but ash in their fireplace.
He slipped it into the pocket of his too-big coat and turned back towards the entrance, where snow dusted the glass and made everything beyond it look blurred.
Faded. He paused. Caught sight of the church again through the side corridor. Wynter was still there. Watching.
Wynter…
Couldn’t have picked a more apt name if he’d tried.
Aaron turned back to the woman, who’d resumed draping tinsel along the front desk in careful loops. “You got a grotto here?”
She smiled, barely glancing up. “We do. Every year. The kids love it. We take donations, if you have anything?”
“A dog?”
Chaos whined up at him.
The woman chuckled.
Aaron glanced back towards the church, watched Wynter break into a gentle smile as he shook hands with a visitor. A short blessing, a warm nod. The easy choreography of someone used to being looked at with trust.
Aaron’s stomach twisted and he glanced away.
It couldn’t be this simple.
That would be the first thing Jack would say. If it were, the police would’ve wrapped this up by now. It wouldn’t be the literal bloke in the Santa suit, preaching repentance to lost souls in the building where half the victims had probably come for shelter.
It couldn’t be this obvious.
Could it?
“Aaron, isn’t it?” A voice slipped in behind him.
He turned.
Wynter stood closer than expected. “And this little darling.” He bent to stroke Chaos. “I remember you too.” He straightened with a gentle smile. “Didn’t expect to see you back so soon.”
“Was nearby.” Aaron tightened his grip on Chaos’s lead. “Thought I’d grab a card.” He slipped it from his coat and held it out in evidence.
“A kind gesture.” Wynter smiled with calm, practised warmth. Not the slightest flinch at the sight of the card with the same design that had arrived at Aaron’s door with a deadname etched like a curse. “The small things matter. Especially this time of year. Especially to those who feel… forgotten.”
Aaron gave a tight nod, eyes dragging to the small silver cross pinned to Wynter’s lapel. He could read people. Not only from instinct. The years surviving the wrong kind of attention had honed that too. But from study. Three years under Dr Kenneth Lyons’ expert eye… voice…hands…
Mouth…
Cock…
Focus.
Aaron cleared his throat. Wynter wasn’t giving off alarm bells. If anything, he radiated benevolent neutrality. A calm that made people confess without realising they were doing it. Gentle-voiced, approachable. Safe. Exactly how the victims had likely seen him, though.
How Luke must have seen him when offered a sweet.
How Skye would have felt being offered a warm coat. A place to stay. Someone to see her.
“I heard there’s a grotto here.” Aaron cocked his head. “For the kids?”
“Oh, yes. We always set one up. You have children?”
“God, no.” Aaron shuddered at the thought, that baby book Gerald had mentioned prodding his frontal cortex.
Wynter gestured towards the church hall. “Well, ours isn’t only for the children. The taller ones like to come along too. For warmth. Salvation. To be seen. Held in someone’s regard, if only for a moment.” He cocked his head. “Are you seeking that comfort?”
That twisted deep in Aaron’s chest. A flicker of unease sharp enough to cut. Exactly what a killer might say.
“And you play Santa?” Aaron cocked his head. “Offer that salvation?”