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David Cruz, a fifty-two-year-old from Telluride with military explosives experience. We can’t overlook that.
I get a good look at people through their masks as they thank me for the drinks. I memorize bodies and mannerisms, mouths and hair. I scoot past Martina Perez, who has a memorable shoulder tattoo of Jack Skellington from The Nightmare Before Christmas, which I’m really hoping won’t be the case here. They’re a thirty-year-old script supervisor from Los Angeles with an impressive credit score and a clean report.
They’re talking to Louise, whose long, curly red hair is even brighter than the photos of the competitors that the Con provided us. I circle slowly, offering drinks as I eavesdrop on their conversation.
“That fingerprint art was kind of weird, right?” Louise says to Martina. “Now they have our prints.”
Martina nudges her. “Why? You got something to hide?”
“I kind of have a… past.” Louise shrugs. “I snuck onto my ex-boyfriend’s property to prank him. Put eels in his pool.”
Martina nearly spits out her drink. “Dang, I gotta watch out for you tomorrow.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Louise mumbles. “I was bitter and hurt. Haven’t so much as run a red light since. I entered this Con to get back at him legally. He always wanted to do this.”
“Oh my god, I hope you make it to the finale,” Martina says with a laugh. “I heard a rumor that someone tried to check in by pretending to be one of the registered competitors.” She sips her white wine. “They’re probably just being extra cautious.”
Not a rumor. The man—who wasn’t a risk but a rejected applicant (we took his fingerprints to be safe)—was removed from the premises.
“I guess I feel safer knowing that only authorized people are playing in the games,” Louise says, visibly relieved.
Safety. Yep, that’s the goal. I turn back toward the bar, mentally crossing Louise off my suspect list.
Suddenly, the crowd parts and angels sing. Nathan materializes on the other side in an off-white suit that fits him like Santa’s gloves. Then I notice there’s a choir group in the far corner singing like literal angels.
Nathan’s dark brown hair has a little bit of gel to keep it in place, and he’s shaved for the occasion, his skin smooth and glowing against all the twinkly lights underneath his red eye mask, a rebellious touch of color given the theme. He stands like a model—or a mannequin—slightly stiff and leaning back with a hand tucked into his pocket. Nathan may be replacing a tax-evading Santa Wannabe from Santa Barbara at the Con, but he looks like he could’ve been here of his own accord.
He looks right at me and smiles, like he’s forgotten that we don’t do that with each other. At least not lately. Eye rolls, smirks, eyebrow lifts that challenge each other, that’s all fair game.
Nathan approaches, and everyone else disappears. I wonder if this silver gown does something to him the way my red one did last year. We’re physically in the Grand Ballroom at the Plaza Hotel, but for a second, it feels like it’s last Christmas in Hawaii. Right before everything went south.
He doesn’t have a signature scent, but tonight, I can smell the subtle spicy notes of sandalwood from his aftershave.
He steps closer… and then closer…
And then grabs a drink off my tray.
I swallow, my neck flushing.
“Notice anyone unusual?” he asks, looking away so it doesn’t appear as though we’re engaging.
Unusual? Right! Murderous Santa. The whole point of being dressed up like a piece of tinsel.
“You look beautiful, by the way,” he adds in a low voice that sounds like velvet. At the mix-up of memories from last Christmas, our current mission, and a free-of-sarcasm compliment from Nathan, it’s all too much. My brain short-circuits.
“You’re beautiful,” I think I mumble.
His lips quirk, and he takes a pretend sip of his drink. “We could shut this down right now. Close off the room. The Santa we’re after is here, right now.”
This clears me out of my haze. “And, what, interrogate everyone? That defeats the entire purpose of being covert.” I busy myself by cleaning one of the many cocktail tables, picking up dirty napkins and used cocktail sticks. “Santa wants us to play.”
“Well, I asked Santa for a Super Soaker when I was a kid and didn’t get one,” Nathan says, keeping his eyes on the ballroom and everyone in it. “It’s about time Santa’s the one who’s disappointed.”
I imagine little Nathan not getting the water gun of his dreams, and it makes my heart pinch.
“It’s strange you haven’t received any more letters since the invite,” he says, setting his drink on the table.
“Right? No calls, no riddles, nothing.” I lean over to grab a napkin, the silver beads on my dress sparkling in the light. It catches Nathan’s attention, and his eyes drift lower.
