Page 116 of The Santa Claus Con

The necklace?

Ron stomps into the living room, standing beside the chaise. I go still. He heads to the tree and goes straight for the present I was last touching. The metal box.

I carefully turn on my toes to get a better angle from my hiding spot. There’s a sliver of an opening between the chaise and the wall that gives me a clear shot of the Christmas tree. Between the branches, I catch a glimpse of Ron crouched down. He pulls a key from a chain around his neck and unlocks the box. Then he pulls off his gloves…

My heart skips a beat. Maybe two.

Ink! There are ink smudges on the sides of his fingers. We need to get those pens and grab the DNA off them. We can compare that against the DNA on Ron’s napkin and prove that he’s the one behind this.

“Payne,” I hear Nathan say in my earpiece, “respond or I’m coming up for you. We’re at HQ.”

I glance up at Ron to see if he’s heard anything. He doesn’t seem to have.

I text Nathan: Don’t come up.

Ron blinks at the ceiling and takes a contact out. In that quick second, I notice his eye color. Blue.

What’s even more chilling is that I’ve seen those eyes before. But where? I try to visualize why it’s so familiar, and then…

The wood floor creaks beneath me, sending a low groan across the room. I freeze. So does Ron. I sit back before his eyes have a chance to catch mine from my hiding spot. He stands abruptly and looks out the window before glancing around the space. I hold my breath, and it gets so quiet I wonder if the sound of my heart beating will be what ultimately gives me away.

Or the Bergdorf bag.

The bag I brought in here as a prop is now all I can see in my periphery. It’s tucked beside the couch, its purple-gray coloring standing out against all the gold. There’s no way I can reach it from where I am, halfway across the room.

A few seconds pass before Ron goes back to his box and pulls out the bottle of antihistamine. He swallows a tablet dry.

What’s he having an allergic reaction to? Or trying to prevent—

The cookies. That’s what they just ate, isn’t it? For the photo op. What kind were they?

I take in a slow breath, hyperaware of every single muscle in my body. I can’t risk one wrong foot shift, not when the hotel floorboards are so unreliable.

Ron heads to the bathroom with the contacts.

While he’s distracted, I make my move.

I start a new text message to Holly Winter. Be cool, Scarlett. She gave you her number.

Holly, I need a favor.

I delete the words and try again.

Agent Holly Winter, I have a mission for you. Are you in?

She immediately responds with a winky face and a thumbs-up. I quickly give her the basic instructions for what I need. I reread the message, deciding that I’ve successfully struck a playful but urgent balance. Holly won’t know whether I’m continuing our inside joke from earlier or if I’m dead serious. And honestly? As long as she does it to prevent me from being seriously dead, it’s good enough.

I hit Send.

A few seconds later, Ron’s phone rings. “Shit!” he grumbles, fumbling a contact and nearly dropping it on the floor. I wonder if he has any backup eye colors.

“Holly!” Ron answers, his tone doing a one-eighty. He puts her on speaker.

She follows my loose instructions to call Ron and tell him to get downstairs immediately.

“An emergency?” Ron asks, sounding slightly alarmed. “What kind of emergency?”

“There’s been a cookie emergency, Ron!” she says.