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“Dammit, that’ll be too late.” Freddie swears under his breath.

Scarlett raises her eyebrows and whispers to me, “Someone needs to work on his Santa language.”

“Don’t care… have to do… better have it!” Freddie says, his words cutting off as he paces. He turns and comes back toward us, and I hear more clearly, “The package better be in place when it needs to be or else…” and then he pivots away.

Is that a threat? In place when? And where? For the finale? Or for the next competition? Who is Freddie coordinating with? We need a warrant for his phone records.

I’m trying to hear the last of his call, but I’m so focused on how to get myself in a better position that I don’t realize Scarlett must have had the same thought. I bump into her from behind, reaching for her hips so she doesn’t fall forward. The Nutcracker statue wobbles when she grabs it, so I reach for that, too.

We’re both frozen in place until a few seconds pass and we’re in the clear.

Scarlett releases a breath. “That was clo—”

Ding!

I look down where I’ve accidentally kicked Scarlett’s elf shoe, the little bell on the curled tip jingling.

“Bells might literally be the death of me,” she mutters.

Freddie looks over at us. He says something into the phone and ends the call.

Scarlett ducks and flattens herself against boxes of magnetic tiles. “Think he saw us?”

“I think with how sparkly you are, astronauts in space can see you,” I mumble.

She looks over at me with a smile in her eyes. “Aw, thank you!”

“What? No, that wasn’t a compli—Quick, he’s coming over.”

There are many ways we could get out of this. I’ve implemented plenty of successful tactics before: pretending to be giving another agent CPR (“I’m saving a life here!”), faking an argument (not worth breaking up), or consoling someone crying hysterically (no one wants to get involved in that). Then, of course, there’s always the move Scarlett and I pulled in the elevator two years ago.

Then I remember Scarlett’s plan.

Freddie pokes his head over the shelf. He doesn’t frown or glare but instead just smiles, which is somehow worse.

“Nate, right?” he asks me. “I saw you on the ice. You’re very good.” He turns to Scarlett. I watch his expression closely. Does he recognize her? “And you are?”

“Oh, I’m just his little helper elf,” she says, waving him off.

“It’s not nice to eavesdrop, you know?” he asks, staring at Scarlett without blinking.

“We were waiting for you to get off your phone call,” I say, holding up the signed thank-you card and pen. “We’re having everyone sign this.”

Could we press him to see what he’d say? Yes. But he’s fresh off an aggravated phone call. Anything he’d say now would be a lie to cover up what he doesn’t want us to know. At this point, it’s better to cover our tracks so we can find out more later.

Freddie watches me with eyes that are cold and hard. Finally, he takes the card and is about to sign it—with his left hand—when he stops. “You know what? I’ll do it at the finale. I want to be able to sign ‘Santa of the Year.’” He hands the card back but pockets the pen. “Find me then.”

“My pen—” Scarlett croaks.

“See you in the next competition,” he says to us, knocking twice on the top of the shelf. He bares his teeth in a smile I can only describe as sinister.

“That was bone-chilling,” she says, watching him go. “But I think now we have our number one Santa Suspect.”

Chapter 16

SCARLETT

10 hours and 55 minutes until midnight