Page 119 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

That arranged, I head to the police station. The visit is beyond exhausting—everything in the building, from the humming fluorescent lights to the serviceable, uncomfortablechairs, saps my energy. But I’m driven by the need for justice, and it helps that the officer I speak to, Officer Daniels, seems interested in what I’m saying. He agrees to have a talk with Weston.

On the way back to the inn, I steel myself and make a different call. To Ada.

She answers on the second ring. “This is Ada.”

Oh dear. I didn’t practice what I was going to say, and for half a second, I forget every word in the English language. I can sense she’s on the verge of hanging up, though, so I say quickly, “Don’t hang up. This is Anabelle. Ryan’s Anabelle. You know, the Ryan who—”

“Got arrested last night after promising me he was going to keep his nose clean. Yeah, I remember Ryan. I’m going to be remembering him real well when I’ve got no Santa here this afternoon and the kids are pounding down the door.”

“It wasn’t his fault,” I blurt, and then add, “And there’s someone who can take his place. He wanted to make sure of that.”

Oh, dear. Joe is going to kill me. It’ll have to be him, since Jeremy is helping Ryan.

I can swear I hear a bubble pop on the other end of the line. “Go on.”

I rush through the whole story, starting from Weston paying that boy to pull down Ryan’s beard and then sending the fake inspector to the inn.

She listens, asking a few questions, and finally says, “Okay, Mrs. Claus. You can send in your Santa replacement, and tell Ryan I’m sorry. I’ll be talking to him.”

I thank her at least three times and then park the car and walk to the inn, trying to figure out how to break the news to Joe.

It’s easier than expected, which is a refreshing change.

When I arrive at the door, my friend opens it before I can take out my key. His hair is frizzier than usual, like he’s been combing his hands through it every five minutes, and he’s wearing a Christmas sweater that saysUgly Christmas Sweateron it in pom-poms.

“Oh, thank God you’re back,” he says. “Ryan and Jeremy left half an hour ago. I was worried the police were going to arrest you too, and we only know one lawyer. I’ve been going out of my mind trying to focus on something else, but I’ve packed up all the orders and brought them to the post office, and Cynthia won’t let me help her make cookies. She said something about my ‘nervous energy.’”

“I have something you can do. Something that will be incredibly helpful to Ryan. I know he’ll be so grateful.”

I walk in and close the door behind me.

Joe looks around with a cautious expression. “Is it dangerous?”

“Not in the least bit. We need you to take over his shift at the toy store. I have his other Santa costume you can wear.”

Joe gapes at me. “You tricked me.”

I don’t deny it; I can’t deny it. “Youdidlet me think you were a woman for over a year.”

“You know how I feel about children.”

I do. He thinks they’re cute in theory but terrifying in practice. “I know, but this is your chance to be Ryan’s hero, Joe. I believe you can do it.”

He rubs his cheek and takes stock of the Christmas tree behind the front desk, which Ryan carried single-handedly from Joe’s old apartment. His ornaments were stolen too.

“I’ll do it,” he says with the bravery of a man about to drive off a cliff.

“That’s the spirit!”

“I expect you to sympathetically listen to my stories when I get back, even if it only sounds like I’m complaining.”

“I’ll let you complain as much as you want.”

He sighs dramatically. “Take me to the Santa suit.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.” Smiling, he nudges his shoulder against mine. “Even though you stole my boyfriend.”

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