Page 95 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

Shit. This is spiraling quickly. Anabelle’s eyes still on me, she gives me an encouraging nod, and purpose rolls through me.

She believes I can fix this.

Joe clearly doesn’t. I don’t. But Anabelle does.

So I stand up and clear my throat. “Kids, I’m not the real Santa Claus.”

“No shit,” a little boy calls out, and a woman hurries forward to cover his mouth, two seconds too late.

“Because it’s December eleventh,” I continue, “the real Santa is up in the North Pole, busy as hell—”

I cut myself off as the mother whose little kid just swore in public frowns at me, and start again.

“He’s busy, kids. Busy getting your presents ready and checking that list twice. Do you know how many kids there are in the world?”

I have no idea, actually, but I’m not surprised when Anabelle calls out in a small voice, “Approximately 2.4 billion.”

“That’s a lot,” I say dramatically. “So my man Santa is busy. He needs helpers like me to visit with you and find out what you want for Christmas. There are a lot of us.”

One of the kids in the back raises her hand.

“Yeah?” I ask, pointing at her.

“But why couldn’t he find someone with a real beard? There are lots of men with real beards. My daddy has a beard down to his chest, and Momma says she’s going to shave it off when he’s sleeping.”

It’s hard not to laugh at that, especially since there’s a big, sleepy-eyed dude with a long braided beard standing at the back of the group, and he looks like someone just took a boot to his balls.

I clear my throat. “Well, Santa is an equal opportunity employer. He wouldn’t tell me I can’t help him just because I don’t have a beard. That’s not the kind of guy he is.”

“So you really know him?” asks the kid with the sticky hand.

“I do,” I say, nodding emphatically. “And he is one hell of a guy.”

Oops. The woman with the swearing kid gives me a dirty look and tries to hustle her child away from the crowd, but he makes his body go limp. Faced with the choice between bodily carrying him out and pretending she meant to stay, she decides to pretend.

Being a parent is no joke. No wonder Joe is terrified of kids.

“How do we know you’re not lying?” a girl calls out.

“You don’t,” I tell her. “But if you ask me, Christmas is all about the power of belief. I believe in Santa. That’s why I wanted to be one of his helpers. Do you believe in him too?”

The girl crosses her arms over her chest, looking like a little Ada. “Of course I do. But if you really believe in Santa, then why did you pretend tobehim?”

“Don’t you ever dress up like people you admire?”

She pauses before nodding. “I was Duo Lipa for Halloween.”

I have no idea who that is, but I give her a knowing nod. “See? Now, who has my beard?”

Someone throws it to me, but it’s covered in dirt and what looks like animal hair, so I shove it into the pocket of my Santa coat. Only I do it too hard and the extra pillow Ada shoved in there, which didn’t get tucked in well enough, tumbles out.

“What else is a lie?” cries out the little boy who snatched my beard.

Damn, might as well put it all out there. So I pull out the other pillow while the kids gape at me. Ada watches with those folded arms and an expression that would do a statue proud, and Anabelle regards me nervously. Then I tug off the wig and stand before them: Ryan, in a Santa suit that now sags. “Any more questions, kids?”

A hand lifts in the air, and I call on the kid whose daddy has a huge-ass beard. “Can we still tell you what we want for Christmas?”

“Yes,” I say, rubbing my hands together. “That’s what I’m here for, kids. Memory like a steel trap.”

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