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There’s no graceful way for a grown person to scale a freestanding twenty-two-foot climbing wall designed to look like a chimney and make it look good, but somehow, Nathan does. He’s halfway through his first round.

The objective of this competition is clear: Get from the ground to the top of the chimney as fast as possible with a toy sack full of foam blocks, ring the bell, and then race back down. Rinse and repeat six times. Only five Santa Wannabes will move forward to the final round.

It’s nighttime now and fully dark, except for the moon hanging like an ornament and the floodlights that illuminate Sheep Meadow. The difficulty of this competition—and operation—has significantly increased. Everything is harder. Maneuvering quickly, watching everyone closely, and pretending like someone dangerous isn’t lurking in the shadows. I respect that the Con took this competition so literally, doing the chimney climb at this time of night closer to when Santa completes his deliveries.

But also darkness. Shadows. Danger.

Something I’ve got going for me: The judges and hosts are all gathered under bright lights on the stage near the bleachers. I study Nelly and Todd, who have been glued at the hip this entire day. The math of them being Sadistic Santa doesn’t add up. They’re accounted for on the livestream, and when they weren’t hosting, they were conducting post-game interviews with Santa Wannabes and attendees. Unless they have someone doing their dirty work, they have no clear motive and have been overly visible and too busy to run around town delivering threatening riddles and presents.

Digital boards mounted on top of the chimneys tell everyone which round each person is on. Nathan’s about to start his second. After interviewing Cameron, something in his demeanor shifted. He focused, he stretched, he made a game plan. He didn’t even make a quippy remark about breaking and entering before he started scaling the chimney. What did Cameron say to him to make him take this so seriously?

“Look at you go, Lambros!” I cheer into his earpiece as I watch him begin his ascent from where I stand on the sideline. He can’t—and shouldn’t—respond to me right now, so I sprinkle in words of encouragement while keeping an eye on the judges and then turn off my comms to his earpiece so I don’t distract him.

Nathan powers himself with his legs, knowing those are his engines in this race, instead of relying on his arms, and positions the toe of his boots into each hook seamlessly. He’s shed his Santa jacket for this mission, and the lights cast deep shadows through his fitted, white, long-sleeve shirt and over his defined back and arm muscles. My heart beats a little faster watching him. I think maybe it’s always been like this.

He might not have thought so, still might not think so, but he’s good. At this, at his job, at helping people. It’s an honor to be his partner in his final operation, just as it was to be there from the very start. At Quantico, we challenged each other in the best ways—not to tear down but to build up. To make each other better. We needed the other person to be prepared for when it one day came down to life or death. If not for ourselves, then for each other. If only we knew then how true that would be not just now, but over the years.

My gaze slides over to Holly, who’s tapping quickly on her phone while the camera’s off her. Who is she texting? What’s she plotting? We have her literal fingerprint on the map and Arjun sabotaging our car. It’s time to start asking questions.

I find Arjun near the craft table filled with an assortment of cheeses, bread, and pastries. When he sees me, his eyes widen. He looks so guilty.

“Arjun, we need to talk—”

“It was me!” he blurts out, crackers sliding all over his plate.

I cross my arms. “Care to elaborate?”

He winces. “It was suspicious that you stopped at a jewelry store when you were done with your deliveries. So rage took over, and I did something horrible. And then when I saw you guys cross the finish line… the three tires… the branch stuck in the windshield… you both looked like you had been through it. I’m so, so sorry.”

“Wait, how’d you even know where we were?” I ask. “Oh. You were the one who put the trackers on our car.”

Arjun had enough audacity to stick a knife in our tire but to harm hundreds of people? Or even a single person? I’m not getting that sense from him. At all.

“Found those, huh?” he asks sheepishly.

“You did this over wedding invites?” I ask him, grabbing a candy cane brownie for myself.

“I’m not proud,” he admits. “I thought you were up to your usual tricks, like using who you knew to get ahead or something, which is totally unfair of me. Your flourishes and letterforms are so much stronger than mine.”

“Wow, hank ew,” I say mid-bite. Maybe we can trade calligraphy tips, after all. Once this Con is over and we all survive it, of course.

“At the time,” he says, “I had just been passed over for showing a house for someone whose son knew the owners. I was done with real estate politics, and I needed as many side-hustle projects as I could get. Then you got your sister’s gig, and it just felt like I couldn’t compete with people who knew people.”

“That’s rough,” I empathize, though I’m not falling for it. He might’ve come clean on his own, but what he did was vandalism. He’s still a suspect, along with Holly Winter and Cameron Pearson.

My phone buzzes with a call from my boss. I excuse myself to answer it.

“Payne,” Barrel says. His tone puts me on alert. “Is Lambros with you?”

“He’s climbing a chimney, sir,” I tell him.

“Has he been acting suspicious?” he asks.

“Has he been—Are you serious right now? Lambros and I are doing everything we can to find Sadistic Santa.”

“Have you two been in contact at all since last Christmas?”

This conversation is so far out of left field that it takes me a second to fully understand what he’s really saying.