I can’t leave. Not yet.
There’s a half-dozen still in line, and if Santa stands up and walks away, the whole room will pivot. Eyes will track me, and if Henry’s here, I don’t want to telegraph my panic.
I buy myself another sixty seconds.
That’s two more kids, quick. Enough to not draw attention, not enough to calm the roaring in my ears.
“Bran,” Floyd’s voice says near my elbow.
I hadn’t seen him move closer.
He’s watching me with pinched brow.
“You’re lookin’ twitchy,” he says under his breath. “Is everything all right?”
I bite back a hysterical laugh. “She went to the bathroom,” I tell him. “She should’ve been back by now.”
He glances toward the hallway, then toward the front window, where the woman from State, Maris Wright, is dividing her attention between the store and the area just outside the storefront. Jack is outside somewhere, with other units stationed around the downtown area.
He has it covered, but I can’t help the itchy feeling crawling between my shoulder blades. Apparently Floyd can’t, either.
“Oh, dear,” he mutters, looking at the line of children and parents. “Go.”
I make a decision.
I stand up.
“Santa?” the little boy at the front of the line asks, alarmed.
“Santa’ll be right back, buddy,” I say, forcing jollity. “I need to go check on the reindeer.”
He frowns. “They’re on the roof.”
“Exactly,” I say. “Terrible parking conditions. Be right back.”
He doesn’t buy it, but his mom gives him a gentle tug, nodding at me with understanding that says she’s been to enough small-town events to know nothing runs smooth.
Floyd steps in smoothly, putting a hand on the back of the chair.
“Santa’s helper’s gonna take over for a minute,” he says.
I don’t have time to cringe.
I hand him the hat and beard in one motion, my fingers already clawing at the velcro strap digging into my neck.
He stuffs them on his own head. Without waiting to see the children’s reactions, I go.
The hallway feels longer than it is.
Noise from the main floor dampens. The fluorescent light buzzes. The restroom door is half-open—enough for privacy, not enough to latch.
Something cold slides down my spine.
“Tally?” I call, keeping my voice low. “You decent?”
There’s no answer. Every nerve I have shrieks in alarm.
I push the door all the way open.
