Page 94 of The Santa Claus Con

“Are you… are you looking into him?” I push, trying to get him to show his cards.

He doesn’t. Instead, he just says, “Keep an eye on him. If you notice anything unusual, tell me immediately. You’re not to say anything to him, Payne. Do I make myself clear? I know you were his alibi. If I find out you also have something to do with this, so help me, Payne, your badge is mine.”

What’s that supposed to mean? To do with what, the Con?

I swallow thickly. “Yes, sir,” I manage to say hoarsely right as the call ends and I’m alone with my thoughts.

My mind cycles through the details. It brings up Nathan’s fingerprint that Bird found on the wrapping paper. The conversation he and I had last year on the beach. I squeeze my eyes shut. Nathan is not Sadistic Santa. He can’t be. Right?

Wrong. Barrel’s wrong about this.

I got Nathan into this mess, so I need to prove he’s innocent. The emotions I’ve held inside since Rock Center threaten to come pouring out, but I swallow them down. I refuse to let Sadistic Santa, or Barrel, get a single drop from me—tears or blood. I take a deep breath and refocus.

Two more bells ring, and the cheering’s grown louder as we near the end, drawing me back to the games, where Nathan’s on his sixth and final round.

These Santa Wannabes have made it to the top ten for a reason, but Nathan’s giving them all a run for their money. The audience cheers loudly as “Up on the Housetop” blasts from the speakers.

The cold air is scented with chocolate, cinnamon, and clove—the food trucks have been replaced by vendors selling hot cocoa, peppermint churros, and gingerbread beignets. Frankly, I’m mad at Sadistic Santa for ruining these cozy vibes. This could’ve been a thrilling and delicious night filled with harmless fun. Instead, it’s still thrilling, but very much in a harmful, race-against-the-clock kind of way.

Nathan’s so close to the end and gives one last burst of effort. Just as he’s about to ring the bell, two of the hooks from his chimney come loose, and he goes tumbling down like an avalanche onto the airbag crash mat below.

There are screams, and rightfully so, because that wasn’t supposed to happen. Was this just human error? Or was it one specific human’s purposeful error?

I sprint over to Nathan, who’s rolling himself off the crash mat. One of the hooks on his suspenders has come loose and the foam blocks have spilled out of his toy sack.

“Are you okay? Who am I?” I hold up a finger that Nathan successfully follows with his eyes.

He blinks at me, slightly dazed from the tumble. “A sparkly alien from a planet where they celebrate Christmas year-round.”

“Close enough,” I murmur, knowing exactly how I look. With an answer like that at any other time of year, he’d be going straight to the hospital.

“Does anything feel broken?” I ask, helping him up.

“Just my ego,” he says, waving off the Con crew who have run over with medical kits. “Glad it was me and not you or your gelled hair might’ve snapped off.”

I smooth my hand down my head, feeling the stiffness beneath the wig. “I see you didn’t lose your sense of humor in the fall.”

“No.” Nathan glances up from where he fell. “But I might’ve just lost this competition.”

The other Santa Wannabes have closed in and caught up, and then to add insult to injury, an X buzzes across the board above Nathan’s chimney.

My confidence deflates faster than an unplugged lawn blow-up decoration.

Time’s up, and he’s been eliminated.

Chapter 29

SCARLETT

One year ago, Christmas Eve

Maui

According to maritime law, when someone falls overboard, an attempt needs to be made to try and save the person. Bijoux’s not in the business of saving, though, so it’s no surprise that she doesn’t come back for Hawk or me. She did seem like someone, though, who’d do anything for her dog.

From the water, I hear Bijoux screaming. “Stop! Go back!” she cries, and the speedboat does a U-turn, closing in on Hawk and Miss Starlite, who’s bobbing above the waves in her little orange life jacket.

This should buy the FBI enough time to get here. Red blooms around me in the water, and there’s a searing heat in my shoulder. I tread water with my other arm and both legs, kicking, kicking, kicking. Soon, I’m winded. Exhausted.