Page 87 of Meowy & Bright

“I think they are filling that name in because it’s Christmas. It’s your address though.” He has me there; it’s definitely my address. My stomach starts to churn when I open the first letter. As I feared, it’s a letter addressed to Santa. It’s written in red crayon. There must be a mistake. Or the man in my garage wasn’t some crazy person having a mental break. He was really Santa. I shake my head because that’s crazy. And getting his mail is crazy, too.

This isn't happening.

“You’re very popular,” Mac grumbles again as he comes to stand next to me and all the packages that have already been scanned in. I hand him the letter. He quickly reads it. “That’s cute, but why are they coming to you? You set up some sort of exchange or something?”

“These aren't meant for me. You should return them.” That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it. No one can prove otherwise.

“If you want.” Ted starts to pull the bags back, but Mac takes hold of them.

“We aren't returning letters that kids sent to Santa. Imagine the heartbreak they’ll feel if they think Santa doesn't give a crap.”

“Oh gosh.” I look up at Mac, who’s glaring at Ted. “I didn't even think about that.”

“I’ll take these.” Mac says, and pulls both bags from Ted, who he is still glaring at. Do these two have some kind of beef or something? As much as I want to know the gossip of why they don’t get along, I don’t have time to get into the details because obviously I now have hundreds of letters to deal with. “Come on, lil bit. Let’s get some food, and then we can figure out what to do about the letterstogether.” He emphasizes the last word.

“Thanks,” I say to Ted as I pass by him.

Mac gets us all packed back into the truck. I watch as snowflakes start to fall. My eyes sting with tears. I’m going crazy. I glance over my shoulder to the back of the truck to see the two big bags of letters. Or maybe I’m not crazy. The mail is real. Ted sees it and so does Mac. But that would mean the bells I’ve been hearing are real, too. What do they even mean? I take a deep breath. This is a lot to handle.

“What if Santa is real?” I ask Mac as he pulls out of the post office.

“I think that would be kind of cool. This world could use a little magic.” His answer warms my insides.

“Mac.” I sigh his name. He’s already making me feel better. “You’re a gentle giant. Did you know that?”

“I don’t think anyone has ever called me gentle before.”

“Really? You’re always so sweet to me.”

“Toyou.” He pulls into the parking lot of our local diner.

“Whatever.” I roll my eyes, not believing him for one second. I don’t think Mac has a mean bone in his giant body. I can’t imagine what he'd think of me if he found out I killed Santa. Which I’m really starting to think I did. How else could you explain all this?

I unclick the seatbelt and go for the door. Mac grabs me. In a blink of an eye he pulls me into his lap. I don’t even try to resist. I want him to hold me and comfort me.

“Something is bothering you.” His big hands cup my face. Concern shows in his eyes. “Is there something more to this man you saw lurking around your house the other night? I promise, lil bit, I’m not going to let anyone hurt you.” My eyes fill with tears again. He’s so freaking sweet, and I’m nothing but a killer. I’m the worst killer of them all in fact, because I knocked off Santa.

“I killed Santa!” I blurt out. I cover my mouth with my hands. I wasn't even under investigation, and I folded like a cheap chair. Mac stares at me for a moment before a deep laugh comes from him, shaking my whole body.

My phone starts to ring. I scramble off Mac’s lap and grab it. My eyes pop out of my head when the name Head Elf shows on the screen. I hit decline, but it doesn't work. It keeps on ringing. I do the only thing I can do to get it to stop. I throw it out the window.

Mac stops laughing.

“Why the hell did you do that?” he asks. Then his phone starts to ring. He reaches for it, and I snatch it from his hand. I go to toss it out the window too, but he’s quicker than me and takes it back before answering it.

“Mac,” he says when he takes the call. He hesitates for a moment, then turns his gaze back to me. He pulls the phone away from his ear. “They’re asking for you.”

11

MAC

She takes the phone from me, then taps the speaker button so I can hear, too. I don’t know what’s going on, but there’s no way Jocelyn killed Santa. She’s far too sweet and innocent for cold-blooded murder, especially not of an imaginary guy with flying reindeer.

“This is, um, Jocelyn?” She winces away from the phone.

“This is Cinnamon Stick. I’ve been trying to contact you via Jingle Phone, but you’ve refused to answer, which has left me no choice.”

“Wha-what?” Her wide eyes are locked with mine.

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