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“Twenty-eight thousand?”

“Not quite—” she starts.

“Twenty—”

“You had thirty-six thousand five hundred and two applications this year,” Nathan interjects. “Thirty-six thousand four hundred and two if you don’t count the one hundred Santa Wannabes who sent in duplicate applications thinking it’d help give them a leg up.” He sounds bored saying this, like he’s trying to hurry us all through this meeting.

“I was getting there!” I say, shooting him a look. Then, in a lowered voice to just him, I add, “Santa Wannabes, that’s a good one. We should use that.”

I know he’s heard me, but Nathan stares straight ahead at Nelly and the other show host, Todd Blossom. Nathan’s profile is all sharp angles, his jaw so square it casts shadows on his neck. The lines in his forehead have been etched deeper with time and stress and high stakes. Even though he looks nothing like the guy from five years ago when we entered Quantico together, when we were so green and naive and ambitious, he’s still very much Nathan. Gone are his soft cheeks, but the soft spot I have for this man doesn’t seem to ever disappear, and that fact alone sometimes makes me want to create a whole new identity for myself so I can start fresh—without the history.

Todd smiles. “That’s right, Mr. Lambros—”

“Agent,” Nathan says, squaring his confident set of shoulders.

“Of course, Agent Lambros,” Todd corrects. “Of those applicants, we only accept fifty. You’ve seen how many disgruntled letters we receive every year, and those aren’t just from the rejected Santas! You’d be surprised how many viewers don’t believe in Santa and have something to say about it.”

“The letters are very passionate.” This I can say with complete confidence, having spent all night reading through every single one sent in this year. “Mr. Blossom, the message we received isn’t like the ones you’ve provided us, though there are a few I’ll be looking into more for reasons unrelated to our situation. We have reason to believe that this Santa was one of the accepted applicants. Now that they’ve threatened the Con, it’s our duty to protect the Santa Wannabes, the live audience, and every crew member from danger, including you two.”

“Would you consider canceling the Con?” Nathan asks point- blank.

This makes Nelly and Todd gasp. “Not once in the past fifty years of running this event have we ever had to move, postpone, or cancel a single one,” Nelly informs us. “We certainly won’t be doing that on such a momentous anniversary.”

“That’s not what we’re asking,” I say, nudging Nathan before trying to steer us back on course.

“We’re not?” Nathan asks.

“No,” I emphasize. “That would only raise questions from everyone involved, but also from everyone who watches the event at home. We’d like to do everything in our power to avoid a widespread panic.”

Would canceling the Con make life easier? Probably. I could go on my family trip and erase all the hurt and disappointment I’ve caused over the years for my absences.

“Great, that’s really great,” Todd says, wiping his forehead dramatically. “A big streamer secured rights to this year’s televised events. It’s big money. Too big to turn down now.”

“Contracts have been signed, you see,” Nelly adds.

“That was before an imminent terror attack on innocent lives,” Nathan says.

I’m so glad I’m not on the receiving end of the daggers shooting out of his eyes. I got all my daggers yesterday.

“Santa wants a game,” I say. “If it’s not at this Con, it’ll be somewhere else. At least here we know where this person will be, and we can use that to our advantage. We believe we can stop Santa before anything tragic happens.” I don’t mention that the bomb’s whereabouts are currently unknown.

Nathan checks his watch. “Look, we’re trying to help you here. It wouldn’t look so good if a bomb goes off during one of the competitions, would it?” He’s getting frustrated and leans forward in his seat, clasping his hands together on the table. “Your fiftieth anniversary would be your final one.”

It’s aggressive, but he makes a good point, and it seems to land with Nelly and Todd. They exchange concerned glances, and Nelly finally says, “We do our due diligence in who we accept into the competition, and threats aren’t new, but of course we don’t want anyone getting hurt. We’re listening.”

I seize the opportunity. “We’re requesting permission to wire the events with cameras and have full access so we can keep an eye on what’s happening on the inside.”

“What you’re suggesting sounds like surveillance,” Nelly says.

“And agents in black suits and sunglasses walking around talking into walkie-talkies kind of kills the cheery Christmas vibe we’re going for,” Todd says.

“That’s not what we do,” Nathan says in that can’t-be-bothered way. “Or how we look.”

“Access to the cameras is nonnegotiable. We’ll be working with the hotel on this, too. Everyone’s already signed waivers for recording, right?” I say. “We’ll need to see those so we can compare the signatures against the writing on the riddles.” I lift my finger. “Another thing. Santa will be playing in the games and has requested that we do, too.”

Nelly and Todd sit up straighter.

“I suppose if that’s what’s required, we can have fifty-one contestants,” Todd says wearily.