Page 110 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

“Oh, that jerk. He all but admitted to setting this up.”

“It’s not enough,” I say softly, my voice gruff.

She pouts at the phone. “No, I guess not. Can we tell him to fuck off?”

“You’d better not,” Joe says, glimpsing the message. “We don’t want to play our cards too early.”

He’s right, unfortunately, so I reclaim my phone and search for the couple’s message. I quickly draft a note to them, my heart beating fast as I press send.

I will them to answer quickly. Because if they don’t, I’m going to have to do something unthinkable in the morning and call them on the phone.

“This is good,” Cynthia tells me, helping me up off the bed. “We’re putting the pieces together, Sherlock Holmesing this shit, and it’s definitely to our benefit tonight that my father is an asshole. He’ll take care of business. I’m going to call him and tell him about that Stanley guy. Maybe they can send a police officer to find him. Do you have the information he used to check in and out?”

“A credit card and name,” I confirm. “It’s on my computer downstairs.”

“That’s not nothing. I’ll send the information to my dad.”

“We need to work with a different police officer,” Joe says, sucking on his second candy cane. “That cop knew Weston. They were talking like old friends.”

“This was all a setup.” I shake my head, feeling hopeless, but also pissed off enough to do something about it. If Weston had done something awful to me, I might have let him get away with it to avoid an uncomfortable conflict. But this is different. He went after someone I love and stole my most precious belongings. He needs to be stopped.

“I’m not going to sleep until Ryan comes home either,” Joe declares.

Cynthia sighs. “Same.”

“Let’s go watch Christmas movies in the parlor and drink,” I tell them as I finally get up from the bed. I reach into the closet and pull on a sweater. It’s freezing in here, suddenly, as if someone ripped a hole in the outer wall.

“Honey, I don’t know if you should go down there,” Cynthia says. “It’s not the same.”

We’ve moved around my Christmas collection, but the nexus was still the parlor. Bracing myself, I step toward the door. “I can do it if you and Joe are with me.”

It does hurt to see the parlor, empty of my little, red-suited men, and the tree, glowing but devoid of ornaments. Still, it doesn’t hurt as much as missingmySanta.

I send Cynthia the information I have about Stanley, and then I settle in to do my least favorite thing.

I wait.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Texts from Ada

Just got this in my inbox

[Photo of “Free Santa” post]

I’m disappointed in you, kid

Maybe this is my new lowest moment. Sitting in the back seat of Cynthia’s dad’s car with a bag of frozen peas wrapped around my bruised knuckles at three in the morning, listening to Christmas carols while Jeremy keeps hopping over land mines planted for him by his girlfriend’s father.

Yes, I really do intend to continue making a living by playing the trumpet. I know, it’s wild.

No, I’m not very interested in making money. If I were, I’d probably have a different job.

Yes, Cynthiadoesdeserve the best. That’s why she’s with me.

I’d be impressed if I weren’t so miserable.

I wanted to save Christmas for Anabelle. I promised her I’d never let anyone hurt her. But her inn was robbed, I got myself arrested, and here’s a cherry to top off the shit sundae…

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