Page 44 of The Santa Claus Con

David Cruz: By a thread. I come from a long line of men in my family who’ve competed in the Con over the years. They’re probably just as shocked as I am right now.

Agent Nathan Lambros: Were you peer-pressured to do this?

David Cruz: Only every Christmas. I applied just to get them to stop hounding me about it, thinking there was no way I’d get in, but then I did.

Agent Nathan Lambros: Feel any resentment toward it? That must’ve been pretty annoying.

David Cruz: A little at first, but it’s what my family does. They’re all about legacy. What brings you here?

Agent Nathan Lambros: I owed someone a favor.

David Cruz: [laughing] And now look at us, both making it through.

Agent Nathan Lambros: You might have a shot at the title after all. Anyone in your family ever win?

David Cruz: My brother came close, but the year he competed, a power outage shut down the entire operation. When no one wins, the previous Santa of the Year keeps their title.

Agent Nathan Lambros: Is that right?

David Cruz: I’m just thrilled I didn’t get eliminated on the first round. Now I can relax and have some fun.

Agent Nathan Lambros: Good luck. Rooting for you. Oh, would you mind signing this card?

David Cruz: Happy to!

Chapter 13

NATHAN

12 hours and 15 minutes until midnight

We can strike David Cruz from the suspect list,” I tell Scarlett as we enter Bryant Park after taking the F train downtown. “He’s here to satisfy his family’s wishes, not execute some malicious agenda. He’s not a threat, but he did say something interesting. If the show has to stop for some reason, the previous Santa of the Year keeps their title.”

She sticks by my side as we wind through visitors enjoying the park’s Christmas market. “Only the previous winner would have incentive for that to happen.”

“Exactly.”

“That could give Cameron motive,” Scarlett says.

I look around, gaining my bearings. “First things first. The clue.”

During eliminations, the riddle kept playing on a loop in my head. One by one, I broke down the sentences and pieced them back together again. I barely heard my name being called when they announced who made it through to the next round. I did, however, catch that, in addition to the twenty-five people with the slowest times being cut, an extra person ended up going home after slipping on the ice and falling the wrong way on her wrist. Which leaves twenty-four Santas for us to look deeper into.

After a quick chat with David, I ran to my room to change into plain clothes. Then I grabbed Scarlett to go downtown while performances started and the Con crew set up for the next competition.

I glance back at Scarlett, smirking at the sweater she’s wearing. The one with dozens of Santa heads on it. The one I said I’d get her in Los Angeles.

“I’m trying to blend in, too,” she says, catching me looking at the sweater.

“It’s working.” It’s a lie. Scarlett stands out no matter where she goes or what she’s wearing. But now’s not the time to be thinking about that, so I fill her in on my theory about the riddle. “Everything Sadistic Santa does has meaning. If he’s truly masterminding this whole thing, he’s going to be purposeful with his words. We know he wants us to play. We can’t do that if he doesn’t give us anything to play with.”

“Right, sure,” she says. “Otherwise, he’d have just moved forward with his plan without telling anyone. You don’t involve the FBI if you’re trying to fly under the radar. He wants us—me—involved.” She crosses her arms protectively over herself.

We pass an ice rink on the way across the park. “If we have time afterward, I’ll give you lessons?” I tell Scarlett, hoping this puts her at ease. “A little bit of this…” I waddle like a penguin toward her. “A little bit of that…”

The physical humor works, and she laughs. Man, I’ve missed the sound of that laugh.

“You have no idea how much satisfaction that’d bring me,” she says as she glances into kiosks selling chimney cake, grilled cheese, and Halloumi fries.