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But then Arnold leaves a pile of cash for the drinks, and none of my questions will be answered. Not that it’d even make a difference at this point.

“Before you go,” I say, pulling out the signed fingerprint card from my pocket, “would you sign this? It’s for Nelly and Todd. Here.” I offer him my Tombow Fudenosuke brush pen. Handwriting analysts can check his signature against the riddles. It’s a stretch with the calligraphy, but it’s still better than nothing.

Halfway out of his seat, Arnold glances from me to the card. He doesn’t take my pen but grabs the one from the leather folder holding his cash. He twists it with his right hand, keeping the pen in his left. A pause. And then, like he realizes what I’m doing, he switches the pen to his right hand, shakily signing the name Ron. That’s it. Just Ron.

I hold back a sigh of defeat. “Thanks,” I say peppily right as my phone rings. It’s Meyers. “Hi.” I turn my body but keep an eye on Arnold.

“The warrants came through,” Meyers says as Arnold slides out of his seat. “We got access to Robb C. Ginsby’s room.”

I straighten. “And?”

“There’s no box. Just empty presents as decorations, but nothing hiding calligraphy supplies or medicine or anything.”

“You sure?” I grab my pen and fiddle with the cap.

“We checked the place top to bottom, and we were able to get into his Con-assigned room, too. Nothing,” Meyers says wearily. “I’m sorry, Payne.”

When I hang up, Arnold’s turned to face me, one hand on the back of his chair. “Expecting to find something, Scarlett?” he asks. There’s a gleam in his eye. A knowing one.

Was his second room… a trap? I open my mouth to say something, but my mind goes blank. What could I possibly say in this moment? He’s won, and he knows it.

But wait. Meyers said warrants. Plural. Which means I have one last Christmas card to play.

I stand to meet Arnold, extending my hand for a shake. “Good luck with the rest of the Con,” I say, sidestepping closer to his chair where his coat hangs.

Arnold hesitates, finally agreeing to a half-hearted handshake. Then he puts on his coat and heads toward the lobby. Getting away without a trace, just like last year. If he’s not going back to the tiebreaker, where is he going?

The bartender slides a folder toward me. “Oh, he was going to pay—” I start to say, but she’s already helping the next customer.

I flip open the folder, and my stomach drops. Tucked into the flaps is a napkin with one final, goodbye riddle. The handwriting on this one… it’s slightly different than the others. Still calligraphy, but the words are right slanting.

Now the game is over,

you were always a step behind,

out of all the Santas,

you know I’m the mastermind.

Thanks so much for playing,

Now I, at last, got you.

This was all my way of saying,

Merry Christmas, with love, Bijoux.

Bijoux is behind this? She concocted this entire scheme, was the brains behind the Santa face. She’s… I gasp. She’s Mrs. Claus!

This is no longer a one-man operation. If there are several people involved, it would’ve been easier for Sadistic Santa to make us run around town hunting down clues. To have someone plant those plans in Nathan’s apartment.

If Barrel isn’t going to take my word for it, I’ll have to prove Nathan’s innocence somehow.

Then I remember Nathan’s neighbor. I send Mrs. Atkinson a text asking about any suspicious activity at his apartment.

I toggle back to PennyThoughts and read through everything tagged with #HotSanta. Fans are outraged at his arrest, they’re cheering him on at the different competitions, and they’re suspicious about his last-minute addition. These people aren’t afraid to share their thoughts. They’re defensive. And observant.

In one girl’s post is an attached photo of Nathan posing for a selfie with someone at the toy store. I squint. And there I am in the background, a sparkly-ass elf with oversize white gloves on. So much for being covert.