Chapter Nineteen Last Christmas #2
Wynter gave a small, amused laugh. “Oh, heavens no. I’d frighten them stiff.
” He patted his slight belly. “Not nearly jolly enough. And besides, they’d clock me in a second, wouldn’t they?
No one wants the illusion ruined. You can’t fake Father Christmas.
He has to be believed. But I’m here. Should anyone need someone to talk to. ”
“And do they?”
“Sorry?”
“Do they come and speak to you? For your particular brand of comfort?”
“Some do, yes. And I help as much as I can.”
“But some are beyond help?”
“Some choose a different path.”
“Like Luke did? Skye?”
Wynter’s expression clouded. “Gosh. What happened to them… such a terrible tragedy. We hold them in our prayers.”
Aaron scoffed. “Prayers. Is that what you call it?”
“I understand,” Wynter said gently. “Not everyone believes. These days, people place more faith in Santa than in the Lord. I know how hard it is for those born into hardship. Into pain.” He clasped his hands.
“But prayer, Aaron, isn’t about sermons or shame.
It’s about surrender. A way to send goodness into the world.
A kind of… hope. If more people prayed, perhaps the world wouldn’t hurt quite so much. ”
God, he was good.
“And as I told the police,” Wynter continued, almost absently, “both Luke and Skye were welcomed here by our very own Santa.”
That snapped Aaron’s attention sharp. “Your Santa brought them here?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“Who is your Santa?”
“Lovely man.” He reached down to scratch Chaos under the chin. “He loves the dogs, too. Raising all that money for them.”
Aaron stopped breathing.
Fuck.
He’d been right.
Blackwell.
He spun, heart thundering, and tugged hard on Chaos’s lead. The dog barked once, startled, as Aaron bolted for the doors.
Out into the snow.
He ran. Coat flapping, snow biting his cheeks, Chaos sprinting beside him. With his numb fingers, he fumbled out his phone, hit Kenny’s name.
Voicemail.
This time, he didn’t hang up.
“Are you actually fucking kidding me?” he hissed into the phone. “You’re off-grid now? With a fucking killer out here playing Saint Nick’s twisted cousin? Call yourself a forensic psych expert? Christ, you can profile everyone except the prick sending me Christmas cards with my dead name on them.”
He skidded on the icy pavement, breath coming fast.
“Bollocks.” He then righted himself, continuing into the phone.
“Yeah. You heard me. It’s Blackwell. Told you it was him!
He knows. Knows exactly who I am. This whole thing, yeah?
It’s about me. Of course it is. It’s always about me, isn’t it?
A twisted little Christmas production starring Cain fucking Howell.
Main character energy with a side of psychological torment. ”
He ducked around a tree. Chaos darted the other way, the lead snagging. Aaron stumbled, cursed, righted himself as the dog rejoined him.
“And the card? That preachy, holier-than-thou monstrosity? He bought it here, lover. At the shelter. Where Skye was. Where the first victim was!” Aaron’s voice cracked with fury.
“Your lot, the fucking police, they’re useless!
I thought Bellend was bad, but this team?
They make traffic cones look proactive. Sleeping fucking policemen.
Might as well have handed him a sleigh and waved him off!
” He dragged in air, pace frantic. “And before you go all disappointed professor on me—yeah, I burned it. The card. Classic trauma response. Symbolic purge. Something-something emotional catharsis. It’s ash now, okay? ”
He scoffed. Bitter.
“Feel free to diagnose me later. Preferably when we’re both alive.”
He picked up speed, snow smearing his face.
“But he wrote Cain Howell on it, Kenny. Neat cursive. Like my fucking mother’s handwriting!
And he hand-delivered it. To our fucking house.
Meaning he’s been there. Cause he got our address off the HR system.
Probably found me out by me filling out those fucking forms you told me to complete.
And while you were gone, while I was upstairs, naked, sore, and dreaming about you like some idiot post-coital sub, he popped a nice little card through the door. And you told me I was wrong.”
He tutted violently.
“Wrong? Lover, I was raised in the same genetic postcode as this flavour of madness. If anyone can sniff out a psycho, it’s me.”
He rounded the last corner, lungs raw, heartbeat feral.
“So. You can make this up to me in two very specific ways. One: answer your fucking phone. Two: I want twelve orgasms. Minimum. One for each of the days of Christmas. Smash your fucking record, lover. With praise, too. Full eye contact. Tell me I’m beautiful.
I’m good. Emotional repair included. And a fucking blowjob.
” He went to cut the call then put the phone back to his mouth. “One of your filthy, deep throat ones.”
He slowed, enough to glance at the looming outline of the shelter ahead.
“I’m heading inside the kennels. Make sure he’s not slipping away somewhere warm and repentant. You’ve definitely finished class by now. So move your academic arse, call DS Parry and find me. I will ensure this prick doesn’t leave town.”
He hung up.
Then gritted his teeth.
And walked straight into the lion’s den.
* * * *
Kenny pulled his phone from his coat pocket.
Still no signal. Outside, snow continued to fall in thick, relentless sheets, muffling the world into a hush.
Margaret hadn’t moved from the window. She stood stiffly, her silhouette cast against the glass like a portrait etched in ice.
There was a stillness to her now feeling more like acceptance than retreat.
He unlocked his phone. Hit record. And didn’t raise his voice.
“Do you have a child, Ms Harrow?”
She turned, raising one hand to her throat. It was her safety net. She could draw strength from it. “He is a good boy.”
“I’m sure you believe that,” Kenny replied. “That’s not what I asked.”
She lifted her chin. “He stepped into the role himself. When my husband left, abandoned us at Christmas, of all times, my boy… he became what I needed.”
“And what did you need, Ms Harrow?”
“A child who obeyed. Who followed the Word. Who understood the importance of sacrifice.” Her eyes glistened. Not with grief. But conviction.
“Obedience.” Kenny nodded. “You shaped him to perform goodness. Rewarded silence. Punished doubt. You didn’t teach him love. You taught him how to be useful.”
“We all wear masks for the season, Dr Lyons. White lies. Red suits. It’s tradition.”
“You mean like the mask of Santa Claus?” Kenny stepped closer. “And the mask you wear as a mother. As a protector.”
“I have protected him.”
“How long for? How long have you helped him hide it?”
“Since the first snow. Since the first time I saw what he could do. And knew… it was holy.”
Kenny analysed those words. “You’ve given him an alibi. By making sure he was always home… when he needed to be seen?”
She pressed her lips together. But her silence said more than any confession.
“You live alone with him.” The profile came thick and fast then. “He doesn’t work. He doesn’t go to school. Has no digital footprint. No online records. But he comes and goes. And you open the door. Every time.”
Margaret tightened her grip on the cross. “He’s never done well with people. Too much noise. Too many eyes. But animals… he was always calm with them. Always gentle. It’s the only place he’s ever felt safe. So I allowed him that. Let him have purpose there.”
A slow, cold dread crept up Kenny’s spine as the dots connected all at once.
“Like your young man,” she added, voice light as snow. “So good with the strays. I suppose… they understand each other.”
Kenny moved. Fast.
Crossed the room, tore open the fire doors where a blast of snow-laden wind slapped him in the face. Behind him, Margaret’s voice rose one final time. Calm, assured.
“He is doing what he believes is right.”
“And do you?” Kenny glanced back to her. “Do you believe murder is right?”
“Is it murder when the Lord takes His own? When they are suffering?” She titled her neck. “Or is it mercy?”
Kenny’s phone buzzed violently in his hand.
Signal.
Bars. Four. Then five.
Missed calls. Voicemails. One name at the top.
Aaron.
And beneath it, the latest alert: Voicemail.
He pressed the phone to his ear and listened.
* * * *
If this was a lion, its mane was matted, and most of its teeth had fallen out. Blackwell looked less like the composed predator Aaron had imagined and more like one of the rough sleepers he’d left behind at the shelter. Except worse. At least they had dignity.
Gone was the pristine suit and curated charm.
In its place, a shrunken Christmas jumper with the charity logo half-pulled at the seams, hair unbrushed and sticking up like static, and stubble creeping over his jawline in uneven tufts.
Not the sculpted, sexy kind Kenny pulled off.
No, this was more… decomposing substitute teacher.
Not quite the lair Aaron had imagined. Nor even the neatly staged crime scene in his head. But monsters rarely looked the part.
His mother was proof enough of that.
She was the beauty and the beast.
Blackwell looked up, startled. “Aaron.” He scrambled to straighten the papers on his desk, a pointless gesture that made his hands shake and him look way more guilty.
Aaron stepped inside, leaving the door wide open.
He wanted witnesses in case this spiralled into the shitshow he suspected it might.
The corridor beyond was quieter than usual, muffled by the snowfall outside.
Most had the sense to stay home in a blizzard.
Still, he’d seen Jonathon lurking. Heard the dogs barking.
So he crossed the room and dropped into the chair opposite. Chaos settled beside him with a quiet huff, ever alert, ever loyal. Aaron folded his arms and narrowed his eyes in threat.
“You’re a piece of work,” he said, voice flat. Cold enough to burn.