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“How is that relevant? What am I supposed to be laughing at?”

“Doesn’t matter. Santa can laugh on command,” Scarlett says. “Now ho-ho-ho like your life depends on it! Because, well, it kind of does.”

“When will I ever have to do that? Do Santa Wannabes just walk around laughing?”

She thinks for a second. “Honestly? Probably.”

“Well, I’m not ho-ho-ho-ing or jingle-belling or rocking around the Christmas tree,” I say, but it’s a lie. I already vowed to myself to try, for her, for our country. So I need to—I know I do—but I’m just not ready yet. Headspace and all.

“Nice references!” Scarlett sorts through Santa hats on a rack filled with way too many variations. “Do you trust me, Lambros?”

I look down. “Of course,” I say, because somehow it’s easier to admit something like that looking down at polished black Santa boots than at her directly. “I think you’re the only one I can trust.” Maybe ever have.

“Then laugh for me,” she says gently. “Your competition will be taking these events seriously. It was probably as hard to secure a spot in this Con as it was getting into the FBI.” She makes a face. “Fine, maybe I’m exaggerating a little, but my point stands. Don’t let anyone’s jolliness and jubilation fool you. All forty-nine Santa Wannabes are out for blood, and they want to be the one sitting on that sleigh come Christmas. If you don’t go in prepared, they’ll destroy you. Or catch on to you. We can’t let either of those things happen.”

“No, we can’t,” I agree, reluctantly adding, “We want it to be believable.”

“We need it to be.” Scarlett hands me a hat she seems satisfied with. “You’re going to learn how to walk, how to talk, how to wear the suit, and yes, how to laugh. Have you ever seen Santa frown? No. So that”—she makes a circle in front of my face—“needs to be turned upside down. Permanently.”

“I’m not permanently smiling. That’s not even physically possible.”

“Better start building those cheek muscles.”

“I can’t believe I was tricked into a Santa makeover.”

Of all my previous personas, this should be the easiest, but it isn’t. And Scarlett knows why. So if she isn’t letting me off easy, that tells me she’s serious. Because of course she is. There was the invite and the Rock Center bomb. The Con may not be my version of fun and games, but this Santa isn’t messing around. I’m not going to either.

I release a pitiful “Ho-ho-ho.” It’s actually embarrassing.

Scarlett looks around. “Just me, or did you hear a rat laugh?”

I take a breath. “Ho! Ho! Ho.”

“You’re losing steam at the end. You need to pace the ‘hos.’” She claps her hands to a beat. “It’s ho-ho-ho.”

“You want to show me how it’s done, maestro?”

Scarlett takes a deep breath, bending her knees to get low. She rises to release her loud and enthusiastic “HO! HO! HOOOO!,” moving her hands around like a conductor.

I can’t help it. I burst out laughing, and so does she. The past year of feeling frustrated and lost and purposeless melts away like thawing ice. And Scarlett’s the crackling fire. What’s happening is ridiculous but it’s also critical, and my brain hasn’t been able to reconcile the two until just now, seeing Scarlett laugh like Santa. She doesn’t take herself seriously, but she takes her job very seriously, and I’ve always admired that. Have always tried to learn from her in that way.

She shrugs, one hand gripping her rib. “And that’s how it’s done. But hey, I get it if that’s the best you’ve got. It’s not an easy laugh—”

I suck in the deepest breath and release a mighty “HO! HO! HO!” Each “ho” is perfectly spaced and just loud enough with the right intonation. Because Scarlett’s not beating me at being Santa.

This is my purpose now: being the best damn Santa I can be.

“That was okay, I guess,” she says before clapping her hands. “Just kidding! That was amazing! Once your bosses see this transformation, you’ll be back in the field in no time.”

“Not like it’ll matter,” I mutter to myself.

Scarlett freezes. “What?”

I busy myself with my jacket buttons. “Nothing.”

“Okay, I actually heard you but need you to explain,” she says. “Why won’t it matter?”

I let out a breath. “Payne, when you found me at Hogan’s Alley, when you asked me to be your Santa…”