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“And risk getting caught? I lucked out with that one,” Arnold says. “I could look like the good guy by helping Nathan through to the next round.”
“Well, fortunately for Nathan, there won’t be a next time,” I say. “Or for me.”
“You sure about that? When you catch on to a scent, don’t you have to follow it?” he says, using my snorkeler persona’s words against me.
“And look how well that worked out for me,” I say, gesturing toward the agents surrounding the helicopter. I sigh happily. “You were right. This reuniting was sweet. Now it’s really beginning to look a lot like Christmas.”
At my go-code, agents surround the helicopter.
“FBI! Let me see your hands,” one agent shouts as I move out of his way. There’s nowhere for Arnold to go, and the agents have him cuffed within seconds.
An agent unzips one of his bags. Inside is a box. The same one from the hotel room.
“I knew it!” I say, glancing at Arnold. “At the bar, I really thought for a moment I had made this box up in my head or imagined things. How dare you gaslight me.” Another agent pries the padlock open. The medicine, the calligraphy pens, the contacts—they’re all still there. The case against Arnold is building itself. “This reminds me, you still have my pen—actually, you know what? Keep it. Consider it a stocking stuffer, from me to you. There’ll be less smudging on the letters you write from prison.”
Arnold grunts in response.
“Well, as much fun as this is,” I say, “I have to get back. Paperwork, reports, blech! And Freddie promised cake, which I’ve been looking forward to all evening.”
We stopped Sadistic Santa. Now Nathan can be released. All the pieces are falling into place for the FBI. We have photographic evidence of Arnold getting into disguise and then leaving riddles on our car. We potentially have DNA. We can work backward to figure out how Arnold pulled off stealing the necklace and his attachment to the star bomb. And, of course, we’ll get Hawk for being an accomplice. I should be thrilled.
Only I’m not. Something’s off.
Arnold’s eerily calm. He should be saying something. Anything. That’s usually how it goes when the bad guys have been caught. They make excuses, defend themselves, go into self-preservation mode. Or they curse. That’s a popular response.
But instead, Arnold’s just smiling.
And then he says, “How’d you like to spend Christmas Eve staying up late… and then waking up tomorrow with nothing to celebrate?”
I go still. Why does that sound awfully close to a riddle? For the love of garland, no more riddles.
“Why, exactly, won’t we be celebrating?” I ask, hating that I take his bait. “We got you.”
“And now you need to let me go.”
I cross my arms. “And why would we do that?”
“Because if you don’t,” he says slowly, like he’s enjoying this, “the bombs will blow.”
My blood goes cold, but I keep my expression neutral. “You’re bluffing. You wanted Nathan arrested. That happened.”
He chuckles. “Call it a… how did you put it? A stocking stuffer.” He narrows his eyes. “Or you can release me, and I’ll tell you how to stop it.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
“So you better run, run, Scarlett, or it’s bombs, bombs away,” Arnold says, miming an explosion with his fingers behind him.
I pivot away from the helicopter, turning back just long enough to point at Arnold and say, “You are so on the Naughty List this year.”
Chapter 42
NATHAN
54 minutes after midnight
I swear, the man couldn’t stop riddling even if he tried,” Scarlett says after updating us on what went down at the helipad. We’re all back at the Santa Takedown HQ at the hotel. “Oh, and I’m sending footage over to you that I received from Lambros’s neighbor, in case you needed more proof that Lambros is innocent.”
Mrs. Atkinson?
