Page 21 of The Santa Claus Con

“It can still be fifty. Give us the names of the contestants,” Nathan requests. “We’ll do our own due diligence, run background checks, and find someone to replace.” He gives them an obnoxious closed-lipped smile.

“And at check-in, we’ll need to take fingerprints of everyone who comes through,” I say. “Which means we need you to send all Santa Wannabes an appendix to the waiver stating that we’ll be collecting biometrics.”

“Well, that’s certainly suspicious,” Nelly says.

Nathan grunts. “What’s suspicious is your unwillingness to cooperate, especially when it’s a matter of life and death.”

“What’s suspicious,” I interject, removing a card from my folder that I’ve already made for this exact show-and-tell purpose and sliding it over to them, “is how good my idea is for it not to look that way.”

Nathan peers over at what I’ve shared with them. “I had no part in that.”

“What’s this got to do with fingerprints?” Todd asks, flipping over what I’ve shared.

“Don’t you see the front?” I ask. “It’s fingerprint art! I’ve done this with my nieces before. It was a huge hit. You can make snowmen, reindeer, ornaments, and string lights out of the prints. As a kid, I’d take strangers’ fingerprints and…” I shake my head. “I’m getting off topic.”

“You sure are,” the grump sitting next to me says. “What, exactly, is the topic?”

“We’ll capture each Santa Wannabe’s fingerprints on a card that you provide at check-in and run those through our system. Then we’ll return it to everyone to decorate and send to a child. Like, instead of Letters to Santa, it’s Letters to Children,” I say, beaming. Nailed it.

Eventually, I get Nelly and Todd on board. Even Nathan angles toward me and mumbles, “That wasn’t the worst idea you’ve ever had, Payne.”

My traitorous heart slams against my fractured rib. I spent the last year trying to bury my feelings for Nathan, yet here they are, threatening to dig themselves out.

Fingerprint cards? Great idea. Bringing Nathan into all this? Bad idea.

“Wonderful!” I say, forcing an upbeat tone. “Now that we’re all in alignment, we’ll get those names and figure out who to replace with Agent Lambros.”

Nelly sits up straighter. “Sorry, but you’re putting in Agent Lambros as Santa?”

“That’s right,” I say.

“As in… him?” Todd points at Nathan.

Nathan gives them a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Me.”

Nelly whispers, “Oh dear” to Todd, but we all hear it. “We’ll cooperate,” she says, her tone taking on an edge of concern. “Of course we care about protecting everyone. It’s just… the Santas who make it to the top fifty take this very seriously.”

“This isn’t just a game, you see,” Todd jumps in. “Santa of the Year inspires and empowers hundreds of thousands of people every year to do good and spread joy, and not just during the holidays. They’re an advocate for the well-being of children, doing school visits and serving on boards to take on key issues like health care, education, the increase in screen usage. Being Santa is a full-time job.”

“That’s beautiful, and we respect that,” I say as earnestly as I can. “Our aim is to find whoever’s behind this before the final competition. If we do our jobs right, no one will suspect a thing, and by Christmas, you’ll have your Santa of the Year.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Todd says. “But these competitions, they’re intense.”

“Agent Lambros is more than capable to handle the intensity,” I reassure them. “You should see his stats!”

“The physical challenges are just one aspect,” Nelly says, clearly trying to broach the subject delicately. “Our Santas, they have a certain demeanor about them. These are, for the most part… happy folks.” Her eyes flick over to Nathan. “There’s a code we live by here: Joy, Jolliness, and Jubilation, and we take it seriously.”

“At the FBI, we also have a code, and our J word is ‘Justice,’” Nathan retorts. “We take that seriously, too.”

“I’m just saying, have you considered entering yourself, Agent Payne?” Nelly asks.

“Wow, I’m honored,” I say, hand to chest. “Truly, thank you for thinking I’m those things. I did put myself up for it, but when the explosion at Rock Center happened, I was slightly, just a little, tiny bit injured.” I glance over at Nathan. I have his full attention now.

“Injured? You were there? Why didn’t you say something?” he asks, and his tone is the exact opposite of Joy, Jolliness, and Jubilation. He probably didn’t think much of the article when it was in the news—to avoid alarming the public and to not encourage the person who did this, the FBI worked with the media to say that the star overheated and exploded.

I ignore him. “I sometimes also get a ringing in my ear every now and then?” I point to my ear as if that visual cue helps them understand. “And not in a fun, bell-ringing way. It’s fine, I’m fine! But I can’t compete.”

“How horrifying,” Nelly says. “That explosion derailed our B-roll and promo shot plans.”