Page 6 of The Santa Claus Con

On the back of the cherry-red—or blood, if this morning is any indication—envelope is my name, Scarlett Payne, written in white calligraphy, with the address of the office underneath. My name looks really pretty written out like this.

Everyone’s quiet in the bullpen as I remove the invitation, analyzing the weighted cardstock in my gloved hands.

“Feels expensive,” I say, holding it up to the light. The forest-green letters on the cream invitation are loopy and surrounded by an excess of swirls. Someone had fun.

“What’s that? An invitation to a Christmas party?” one of my squadmates, Special Agent Flores, jokes. “Did the jingle bells go missing?”

“Did the tinsel get tangled?” another agent teases over the short divider between our desks.

“It’s to your ex’s wedding,” I shoot back. To Barrel, I ask, “This has already been scanned for fingerprints?”

Barrel nods. “No matches in the system.”

“Makes sense. Santa wears gloves.” A disturbing thought pops into my mind. “Come to think of it, what do Santa’s hands look like? Can you recall ever seeing Santa’s hands?” For a moment, this mystery feels more pressing. My squadmates indulge me and take a second to consider this before shaking their heads. “I’m sure Santa worked clean, but you never know. He’s human”—no, that doesn’t feel right, either—“and people, fictional or otherwise, slip up.”

There have been too many unnerving Santa revelations today, and it’s not even 10:00 a.m.

“I don’t care about gloves, Payne. Read the words,” Barrel says.

I already have, and I’m trying to understand what they mean.

Santa requests the pleasure of your company,

Scarlett Payne

What’s it beginning to look like?

What’s in every store?

You found my little message,

How about one more?

I know a game that we can play,

Not one, or two, but five,

And if you make it to the end,

you just might stay alive.

At the Santa Claus Con, let’s have a blast,

It’ll be the most fun, more than all years past.

No RSVP required, I know what you will say,

For should it be a no, it’s bombs, bombs away.

The games begin on the 23 of December.

Reception to follow in the town square.

“Santa Claus Con?” Barrel asks. “The one where people dress up as Santa and drink beer?”

I plop down in my chair and rearrange the silver tinsel I’ve taped along the sides of my desk. Besides the glimmer of silver handcuffs, it’s the only other sparkle in this low-lit office.

“This is the competition one,” I clarify. “People still dress up as Santa.”