Page 107 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

Anabelle is silent and pale, her eyes far away, and my protectiveness takes over. I don’t want her to see this. I think maybe she can’t see this right now, so I turn to the officer. “She’s in shock. I’m going to bring her upstairs.”

“I’ll need to talk to her if she’s the owner,” he says.

“Of course. But she needs time to process this.”

He rolls on his feet again, and I decide he’s a douchebag. His next words hammer the impression home: “I don’t have a lot of time to spare, son. A collection of dolls and a few craft projects isn’t exactly a pressing problem in the scheme of things.”

“Her collection was written up inHouse & Gardenmagazine,” I snap. “It’s worth money. And someone clearly knew it. She also has an ornament that was onAntiques Roadshow. It’s worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. If that’s gone, it’s a big deal.”

He seems more interested by this, but he just nods. “Okay. Your little buddy here has filled me in. You come on down to talk to me, and I can interview her later.”

Now, I’mpositiveI don’t fucking like him. “Mylittle buddyis an expert with antiques, so I’m sure he can tell you exactly what was stolen. He and Anabelle are in business together.”

“Insurance fraud is a felony,” he says, giving us hard looks.

“Insurance fraud? We haven’t been here for hours!”

“What about the little guy?” He nods at Joe. “You got those stolen Santas hidden in your room, buddy?”

Joe looks horrified. “Of…of course not. I’m the one who called you. And I told you about Craig.”

“We’ll look into it,” he says dismissively. I’m guessing Craig won’t get a single phone call. Not that I think he did it. I got Craig to buy Joe replacement Crocs just by frowning at him—I’m guessing he didn’t grow a pair of balls big enough to turn aroundand do this. He’s the kind of man who might enjoy being a petty prick, but he’s not very good at it.

No, this is the work of a master.

“I need to sit down,” Anabelle says in a tiny voice, and worry for her swallows the need to take action, which would likely involve doing or saying something stupid that would result in me being arrested.

I swear under my breath and then gather her up in my arms and carry her inside and straight up the stairs, not stopping or pausing or otherwise allowing her to see the parlor.

She’s crying softly now, and I want to hold her forever. I also want to murder whoever did this to her.

Let’s be real. I want to murderWeston. Because there’s no way he’s not behind this.

Saint Nick meows and hurries toward us as I tear off the blankets with one hand and then lower her into the bed and tuck her in. The cat curls up next to her, and I give him a pat, feeling like we’re on the same team.

I know I should head down right away, but my God, look at her. I run my hand over her hair. She’s still scarily silent, and I feel like a bottle rocket ready to blow, because I hate seeing her like this.

I hurry over to inspect her super secret hiding place in the closet, which is not super secret to me given how much time I spend in here. It does look like someone might have rummaged through the closet, but the ornament is still in its spot. I return to her and kiss her forehead. “The ornament’s still there. No one took it.”

I can tell it’s no comfort at all. The ornament might be worth more than the whole Santa collection, but she doesn’t love it the same way. It’s not important to her. Even the decorations stolen off the trees on the first floor are probably more important.

Anger lashes through my veins, making the blood hotter. Weston knows that, which is the only reason he took all of it. Sure, he was probably hoping his guy would find the sweetgum ornament, but he was content to ruin her Christmas. She didn’t give him what he wanted, when he wanted it, and now he wants to break her.

“I love you,” I say. “I love you, Anabelle. It’s going to be okay. I promise.”

This wasn’t how I’d planned to tell her, but I need her to know. Before I turn to leave, she reaches for my hand. “I love you too,” she says, tears spilling down her face. “Please don’t do anything dangerous.Please.”

“I won’t,” I say as I trace away her tears with my fingertips. “We just need to figure this out. It’s all going to be okay, sweetheart.”

But I don’t really believe it. That other shoe just dropped on my neck.

Sure enough, when I go back downstairs, Weston himself is in the front room, chatting with the shitty officer as if they’re the very best of buddies. Joe is sitting behind the desk, his chair shoved so far away from them it’s practically buried in the Christmas tree we “freed” from his old apartment. It has lights and garland still but no ornaments. He looks terrified, not that I blame him.

Weston turns and looks at me, a smug smile on his face.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I say, feeling the rage pumping harder, faster.

“I saw the police cruiser. I was worried about Anabelle, obviously. We may not be together anymore, but I’m still concerned for her safety. And the safety of the guests, of course. This kind of thing can leave a stain on a hospitality business. People want to believe they’re safe.”

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