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Free of working as our informant. Free of being under our watch. Free to do anything he wants.

Including revenge.

It has to be revenge, right? Scarlett said it herself earlier. The man hates Christmas, and he must hate us. Surely Bijoux realized on the speedboat, or shortly after, that Hawk had betrayed her. Hawk had been the one who worked with me to secure the Icicle necklace so I could turn it in to the FBI. That necklace was real. Our jewelers verified the authenticity of every single gem and piece of jewelry I was given to “sell.” Submitting costume jewelry as evidence in court to put a criminal away for fifteen to twenty, more if we’re lucky, wouldn’t be incriminating. It would be a joke.

But then Icicle was returned to the owners a few days after the case was made. It isn’t uncommon for a few diamonds to be replaced here and there in a piece, so the owners had their own authenticity checks completed once they received it. Turns out, that necklace was a fake.

If Hawk never served time, he could’ve made the switch. He wouldn’t have had access to the evidence vault, but he could’ve gotten to the necklace when it was brought back to the store. Who transported the jewelry? And when, exactly, was the necklace returned? Is he the one who tried to frame me? Did he—

“Lambros?” Meyers asks. “When did you last see Hawk?”

Going overboard. “Maui,” I respond.

Maui, where we made a lot of enemies on a boat.

The boat, which we have footage of from Scarlett’s necklace.

“Meyers, I need you to pull a recording from the archives,” I say, following up with details.

“Give me a few,” she says, quickly tapping into the server where evidence is digitally stored. “Where’s Payne? She might want to see this, too.”

“She was on her way,” I say, checking my watch. But why isn’t she here yet?

“Payne,” I say into my mic, “respond or I’m coming up for you. We’re at HQ.”

A few seconds later, a text comes through. Don’t come up.

Dread forms in my stomach. It’s the same pit that materializes any time I think Scarlett might be in danger. Every past mission I’ve ever been on with her, I’ve felt it. Anytime I imagine her out in the world working a case without me, that feeling comes back. It lingers, swirls, festers. Just like every other time when I force myself to imagine she’s okay, I have to think that now, too.

If there’s anything I know Scarlett can do well, it’s handle things. That’s what she’s probably doing right this second.

I gather every message and riddle from Sadistic Santa. On the bed, I lay out the evidence-bagged communications we’ve received: the tip, the invite, the riddle on hotel letterhead, the map and note, the jewelry box lid, the windshield note, and the note card from the silver platter.

I read through each one. And then again backward. Anywhere there’s a line from a Christmas song I recognize, I write it down. I note references to the bomb and when he calls out Scarlett or me.

Seeing everything together like this makes something clear. There are clues here, for sure. But they’re not leading to the bomb. They’re clues that will answer the Why.

Behind me, Bird turns on the volume to the livestream. Todd’s introducing the final musical act, an a cappella group, before the milk and cookies competition. I need to be back down in fifteen minutes.

Bird leaves the sound on, the group’s voices melding together in harmony. They’re singing a medley of Christmas songs, starting with Ariana Grande’s “Santa Tell Me.” That turns into Kelly Clarkson and Chris Stapleton’s “Glow.”

“Aha, yes!” Meyers says with a single clap. “The hotel just sent over footage from the night Robb C. Ginsy checked in.”

The security footage shows a bellhop rolling a cart behind the man who must be Robb. He’s in thick-rimmed glasses and wearing a hat that makes it difficult to get a full shot of his face. He hands the receptionist his ID and a large envelope filled with cash.

Still in earshot, the a cappella group has transitioned into classics, now singing “Santa Claus Is Comin’ to Town.” I flinch. It brings me right back to the riddle written on hotel letterhead.

It’s official. Sadistic Santa ruined any chance of me ever giving Christmas a shot.

I tap my pen against the scrap of paper with the song lyrics on them.

Santa Claus Is Comin’ to Town. Silver Bells. I’ll Be Home for Christmas.

“Bruce Springsteen totally did the best version of this song,” Meyers says while we watch Robb interact with the receptionist.

“Not even close,” Bird pushes back. “Michael Bublé all the way.”

“Lambros, back me up here,” Meyers says.