Page 53 of The Santa Claus Con

Scarlett angles her head toward me. “What’s happening?”

I swallow. “Hold on.” I try to pull the snagged fabric out of the zipper’s mouth, but it doesn’t budge. My fingers, it seems, can’t do this without touching Scarlett’s skin. I can’t not think about what it would be like to run my hands down her body. Heat barrels through my chest and up my neck.

Then she looks over her bare shoulder and smiles, drawing my attention to her lips, and now the only thing on my mind is kissing her. I can still remember every single one.

I snap out of it. Out of all of it. Then I pull. Hard. The zipper gives from the force and slides up her dress.

“You’re good,” I say, turning away and heading straight for the toy store’s doors flanked by Nutcrackers. Once I step inside, it’s like I’ve been transported to the set of a Christmas movie. There’s a train circling a track that lines the store’s perimeter while carols play. Stuffed animals and boxed toy sets are packed into floor-to-ceiling shelves while decorated trees stand in each corner.

“It’s Santa’s workshop,” Scarlett whispers in awe behind me. “And not Sadistic’s.”

On the far side of the store, there are tables complete with a dozen rolls of silver and gold wrapping paper, ribbons, markers, scissors, and lots of tape. Behind all that is a designated area for live audience members.

“We have a few minutes until we need to be over there,” she says. “You clear on who you’re looking out for?”

Of the twenty-four Santa Wannabes left, most people with flagged background reports got eliminated, so there are a handful left that we’ll be pursuing. “Fireworks Freddie, Cameron the winner, and Arjun the calligrapher.”

There’s an amused smile on Scarlett’s face.

“What? Nicknames help me remember. Oh, and Goth Santa. He’s still on my Naughty List.” I’m half joking.

“I can’t believe it about Arjun,” Scarlett says. Arjun Dennen doesn’t have a background in explosives but has a connection with Scarlett. On the ride over, Bird called with an update that he had found Arjun’s social accounts. He’s a real estate agent by day but moonlights as a calligraphy teacher. Apparently, Scarlett beat out Arjun for her sister’s wedding invite gig, which Bird discovered in a passive-aggressive post from years ago. It could make sense why Sadistic Santa’s letters are written in calligraphy. “I can see how it’s a bit nepo-y, and sure, I wasn’t a professional”—she uses air quotes here—“but I did a good job! Do people deserve to die because my sister felt bad for me?”

“Seems too weird of a coincidence.”

“And to vent on social media? That’s it,” Scarlett says, tapping into her phone. “I’m creating a fake PennyThoughts profile to keep tabs on people myself. Some Santa Wannabes are live-posting their journeys. You might want to consider using the one I made for you, too. It’s all about the illusion of popularity these days.”

“I’m good.”

She turns her screen toward me. “There we go. I’m @Christmas Sparkles50.”

I catch the words #HotSantaNate. “Is that supposed to be me?”

Scarlett pulls a face. “Hey! That’s my nickname for you!” She places the back of her hand on my forehead. “Yep, still sweaty.”

To make her profile look more realistic, she follows a bunch of the Santa Wannabes, the Con, people who are actively posting about today’s events, and Holly Winter.

“Oh, also, I know the off-site team’s tracking the judges,” she says, “but since we’re around them more, we might want to keep an eye out. Well, on three of them. Not Holly Winter. It can’t be her.”

I scoff. “Why? Because she’s famous?”

“Because she’s a public figure,” Scarlett reasons. “And she was an FBI kid with a badge and everything. I mean, come on!”

I nod, but I’m not convinced. “It’s not uncommon for famous people to think they’re above the law, Payne. Now that her movies are being rediscovered, did she demand more money? Did she get it? Or did the Con lock her into a multiyear deal and the only way out of her contract is to blow the whole thing up? Do they have something on her that could risk her newfound fame?”

Scarlett shakes her head, the fake auburn strands swishing. “Your questions are valid, so I don’t know, maybe. I guess if this year’s taught me anything, it’s that I shouldn’t believe everything my gut tells me.”

Because I know all of Scarlett’s past mistakes are hovering near the top of her mind today, I let it go for now.

Scarlett comes back from wherever she was in her thoughts. “You need to start befriending the Santa Suspects. Like Clifford. Talk to him and learn more about what he knows about the judges—”

A hushed voice grabs our attention.

Scarlett moves slowly so the bells on her gold shoes, which curl up at the toes, don’t give us away. I follow her as she slinks from shelf to shelf, using each one as a cover.

I peek around the side of a Nutcracker. Near the window is Fireworks Freddie, whispering into his phone. “Cinnamon… clove… star anise,” he says in hushed tones.

“All highly flammable spices,” Scarlett whispers to me. Her eyes widen. “And the ingredients for mulled wine.”