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So that’s why he was talking about spices. For mulled wine.

“I even went to a Christmas market here in the city to scope out the competition,” Freddie says. “Mine’s better than theirs, I can confidently say.”

Scarlett waves toward the crowd. “I’m sorry you won’t get to be Santa of the Year.”

Freddie removes his Santa hat. “It was an honor to compete against you. Oops.” He reaches into his coat pocket and hands Scarlett her pen. “I believe this is yours. I’d still love to sign the card.”

So he does. With his right hand. Then he leaves to apologize to Nelly and Todd.

I attend the elimination announcement where the contestant count goes from fifteen to ten. Meanwhile, Scarlett updates Meyers and Bird. The Santa Wannabes are given a dinner break and are encouraged to enjoy the food trucks parked around the field before the next event, which, if the free-standing chimneys in Sheep Meadow are any indication, will be the most physical round yet.

Scarlett and I make our dinner picks and walk over to West Drive and find a bench to rest on.

“Food truck fish and chips. Bold moves we’re making,” Scarlett teases. She’s trying to make it sound light, but there’s an undercurrent of agitation in her tone.

I dip a piece of fish into tartar sauce. “We could use more of those.”

“Nearly running over a hot dog stand wasn’t enough for you?”

“Add it to the long list of things I never thought I’d do in my life,” I say.

Scarlett looks deep in her thoughts as she over-ketchups a fry.

“Hey, you okay?” I ask, turning toward her.

She blinks up at me. “Oh, yeah, just dandy.”

“Talk to me.”

She blows out a breath. “I… I guess at first this felt more conceptual, you know? There weren’t fatalities with the star bomb, and the Con has been so jovial. Now it’s real and complicated and… personal. What if I hadn’t responded to the tip? Would Sadistic Santa be going through with any of this? Did I get the snowball rolling?”

“This isn’t your fault,” I tell her. “Whoever this was knew you’d find it and care enough to follow it.” I rub my jaw. “Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt you?”

“Well, yeah. Hawk. And I’m sure lots of other people,” she says. “We literally trick bad guys and put them away for a long time. We all have enemies, I’m sure, but most of them from the assignments I’ve ever done are in prison.” Her eyes widen. “I once wrote a short story as a kid about how suspicious Santa is—”

“Well, that changes everything,” I say, cutting her off before her spiral turns into an avalanche.

Scarlett relaxes but doesn’t laugh. “I’m too predictable, and someone knows that. Now I’m in charge of this operation but only because my name was on the invite and not because I should be. If only you could’ve seen me six months ago. I believed in myself enough to run my own operations.” Now she doesn’t look so sure.

“So a flight-risk, former criminal informant got away,” I say. “It happens.”

“It happens?” She gives me a look of disbelief. “Forgetting to pick up something from the grocery store happens. Overreacting happens. What went down under my watch doesn’t just happen!”

“And yet it did.”

Her shoulders drop. “Yeah. It did.”

“Just because that happened before doesn’t mean it’ll happen again,” I say. “No one’s getting away this time.”

She gives me a grateful smile. “Didn’t realize you had such good pep talks in you, Lambros. I might’ve been calling you a lot more over the years.”

“Once upon a time, you believed in me. You wouldn’t let me quit Quantico. I won’t let you quit now, either.”

She nearly spit-takes the fry in her mouth. “Wait, what?” she asks. “You were going to quit the training program?”

Scarlett looks confused. And rightfully so. I didn’t mean for it to, but that tidbit just slipped out.

“‘You’re doing something new. Don’t be a hero. I know you got this,’” I say, repeating her words. “That’s what you told me.”