Page 3 of The Santa Claus Con

I look like gold, have a little shimmer,

I shine brightest in the winter.

I pause next to the water feature lined with wire-sculpture angels playing trumpets. I drag my gaze from the closest angel’s fingers to the end of the instrument up toward the sky… to the tree… to the…

Oh no.

I hold up the hem of my dress and sprint toward the rink.

“Scarlett?” Kate says, but I barely hear her.

“I’ll be there,” I say into the phone before hanging up and yelling to bystanders, “Move! Get back!”

People look at me and then back at each other like, Only in New York! It’s when I shout a second and third time and wave my arms, motioning for everyone to clear out, that they finally listen and jump off the benches and hurry away from the railings.

That’s when the star on top of the Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree explodes.

Chapter 2

SCARLETT

Payne, aren’t you supposed to be sick?” my boss, Supervisory Special Agent Frank Bowman, asks when he finds me sitting in the back of an ambulance holding gauze to my temple. Police, FBI, and ambulances were quick to arrive on the scene. Several people have been rushed to the hospital for minor injuries.

“Yes, sir,” I say, and make a show of coughing into my fist. I wince at the effort. I’m already sore and bruised, and the high pitch in my ears sounds like a bell stuck in one high, annoying note.

“Paramedics can’t clear you until you’ve gone to the hospital. Looks like you had a pretty bad fall,” he says.

“All superficial injuries. I’ll live.”

“Looks like real blood to me.”

Bowman is known in the Bureau as Barrel for being a combination of forceful and forthright. He’s great at clearing obstacles for his team, but his bluntness can take some getting used to.

I remove the gauze and find a spot of blood. Exploding Christmas star—that’s definitely a tick in the Con column.

“It’s just a scratch, I’m fine,” I say, tilting my throbbing head. There may be a ringing sound still there, but the jingling is gone. “My bonnet!” I scan the area covered in debris, but it’s pointless. There goes my undercover disguise.

Barrel doesn’t care about my accessories. “Why are you here?”

“I like watching them Zamboni the rink,” I say. “Healing powers of ice… or something.” I attempt another fake cough.

He raises an eyebrow. “Dressed like that? What the hell are you wearing?”

I brush the dirt off my dress. “I was… running.”

Barrel frowns. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be, Payne.”

“Okay, but you asked…” I hesitate before pulling out a scrap of paper from the pocket of my dress and handing it to him. He reads it out loud, and I mouth the words along with him.

He shakes his head and gives me back the paper. “You experimenting with poetry, Payne? Sorry to say, it’s not very good.”

“Sir, believe me when I tell you I would never say something as trivial as I am sharp, but I’m not a knife,” I say, kind of insulted by that. “It’s a riddle.”

He crosses his arms and glares. I’ve been trained not to fold so easily—in real-life situations, I’ve endured more and said nothing—yet this silent intimidation is what breaks me.

“Fine, it’s a tip, sir,” I blurt, jumping out of the ambulance to follow him as he surveys the damage, walking around the glass and shattered ornaments that flew off the tree in the explosion.

“A tip?” he asks. “What tip?”