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“I was thinking maybe you caught something on your necklace last Christmas,” Nathan says. “Or Arnold might’ve said something to you or talked to someone. Look for anything that might give us a clue for what he’s planning or who else might be involved.”

I take a seat at the desk.

“Ten minutes until you need to be downstairs, Lambros,” Bird says.

Everyone peers over at the screen as I fast-forward through wandering the boat and making sure the team gets eyes on the guests. We go quiet during my interaction with Hawk, but he doesn’t say anything particularly unusual. The video captures my journey over to the bar. When Bijoux comes into frame, I instinctively grab my shoulder and rub the spot that’s now healed over.

I fast-forward the video to where I sit down and order a Peppermint Bling. Arnold’s Hawaii Bling sits in front of him. The one without peppermint because he’s allergic. I recall the antihistamine Ron took moments ago after eating peppermint cookies. On camera, he takes a sip, his pinky with the missing tip pressed against the glass.

I skip ahead and play the video right around the time Arnold appreciates people’s efforts during the holidays. He talks about how he wears the shirt, gets on a boat, sings the songs, all in the name of love.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but at this exact moment, the camera doesn’t lie. I full-on turn to face Nathan. And then I say, “Funny what love makes us do.”

For the love of Rudolph. I glance over at Meyers and Bird, who either haven’t detected that I’ve just basically declared my love for Nathan or are being very nice and pretending not to. Nathan, however, wears a small smile. Heat explodes across my cheeks. I just had to play the footage from that point.

“Mele Kalikimaka. That’s the thing to say, isn’t it?” Arnold says over the speakers.

“Another Bing Crosby song,” Nathan points out, writing something on a notepad.

Then, in the corner of the video, Arnold looks in the same direction I do, watching the sunset and smiling.

“Six minutes,” Bird updates.

We move quickly through the last of the footage. I stop once more at Hawk, freezing right as I approach him, and he’s looking at me with wide, gray eyes. Hawk might not be Sadistic Santa, but could he be working with him?

I move through the rest of it: the exchange, me dragging Hawk to the speedboat, falling into the water—it all passes by in a blur.

Then comes the part I don’t remember. The part I didn’t even know about.

Just before I sink below the waves, Nathan jumps off the side of the boat. Seconds later, he pulls me out of the water. The look on his face, it’s devastating. It’s panicked and terrified and angry. He swims me over to one of the speedboats where a couple of agents help lift me in. Nathan gets in after, pressing down on my wound. Stopping the bleeding. Pleading with me to hang on, to come back to him.

Then footage cuts out, and the screen goes black.

Nathan… saved me.

My vision’s gone blurry with tears. That was a lot. Nathan’s got a faraway look in his eyes like he’s also right back in that moment.

“Well, as fun as that was, we need to go,” I finally say, trying to lighten the heavy silence hanging in the room. No one makes a move.

Meyers clears her throat. “I guess the good news is we can cut Arjun and Cameron from the list. Arjun’s been out of the country for two years for a job in the UK. That predates Maui and the star bomb.”

And Cameron wasn’t on the Silver Belle last year. She was here. Winning.

Bird crosses his arms. “So what now? We’ve got no fingerprints for Arnold.”

Which means we can’t compare them against Ron’s.

“Everyone on that boat was fingerprinted,” Nathan says.

“And clearly”—I gesture toward the screen—“Arnold was on the boat! But then he wasn’t. Where’d he go? And who was he there with?”

“The list we pulled didn’t have him associated with anyone,” Bird updates. “Could’ve been a lie.”

Why would he lie to a random snorkeler about being a plus-one?

“Apparently, the Bureau has been looking for him,” Meyers shares. “The man’s been lying low since the Maui sting.”

Or they don’t know who they’re looking for anymore. Physically. “Surgery,” I say. “Arnold got plastic surgery. That has to be why he doesn’t look like himself anymore. It’s not prosthetics. We’d be able to tell. We’ve been up close to him this entire day.” I point to the screen. “This is the last visual we have of him before he disappeared.”