As for Eleanor, she was by herself at the cookie table. She looked up and waved me over with a beaming smile.
As I approached, I glanced down at the four clearly labeled sections of Christmas cookies: gingerbread man cookies dipped in white chocolate, iced sugar cookies shaped like stars and Christmas trees, chocolate chip cookies with red and green M&M’s, and thumbprint cookies filled with raspberry jam. All of them were individually wrapped.
I glanced at the “One Cookie Per Child” sign, then shook my head in amazement at the quantity of cookies on the table.
“How long did it take you to bake and package all these?” I asked.
“It would have taken me an entire week if I had actually done them myself, but we were lucky enough to have an anonymous donor buy them from the bakery next door and have them delivered a couple of hours ago,” she whispered with a smile.
I had a feeling I knew who that person was.
Eleanor glanced at my costume. “You look as cute as a button. Sam will be so pleased you’re here.”
“Is everything on schedule?” I whispered back, tugging at the tunic again.
“Yes—there’s about twenty minutes left with reading time,” Eleanor explained, her eyes twinkling with warmth. “Then you’ll both transition to the photo area in the community room, where you’ll help wrangle the little ones. Don’t worry—Sam’s wonderful with children. They absolutely adore him.”
As we stood watching, I marveled at how natural he was. Sam read with theatrical flair, but it was more than just performance—he made eye contact with each child, answering questions and laughing at their silly comments, like they were the most brilliant observations he’d ever heard. When a shy little girl in pigtails whispered something in his ear, he leaned down to listen intently, then nodded seriously as if he totally agreed with her.
How could someone so genuinely kind be a mastermind hacker who was stealing millions of dollars? The tenderness in the way he spoke to the children and the way his eyes litup when they giggled made it impossible to reconcile with Thorne’s warnings.
“He’s something special, isn’t he?” I heard one mother whisper to another mother nearby, her voice carrying a note of longing that had nothing to do with children’s holiday literature.
“Special doesn’t cover it,” her friend replied with a dreamy sigh. “Single, kind, caring, with the perfect smile, and amazing with kids? It’s like he was designed in a lab. And don’t let the Santa belly fool you. I’ve seen him at the gym. The man is ripped.”
Eleanor leaned closer and whispered, “Sam is the most eligible bachelor in town, but he won’t give his heart to just anyone. He’s very selective.” She studied my face with knowing eyes. “Do you have someone special in your life, dear?”
“I’m too busy for relationships,” I said automatically, the practiced response rolling off my tongue.
Eleanor shook her head and made a dismissive sound. “Nonsense. When the right person comes along, it’s easy to find time for them. You make the effort because suddenly, nothing else seems as interesting or important.”
Her words made my chest tighten with cynicism, and I caught myself watching Sam with the weary knowledge that perfect men—as well as perfect people—were just elaborate illusions. I would be better off at home planting tomatoes and chili peppers, deep-cleaning my refrigerator, or learning Mandarin—literally anything would be smarter than falling for his charm.
Yet, there I was, unable to pull my gaze away from the man.
“By the way, your job will be to keep the kids in line while they wait for photos with Santa,” Eleanor said, handing me a clipboard thick with forms. “Make sure we get contact information from each family. That’s crucial since we'll email the photos directly to them in the next couple of days. They’ll also learn more about the community programs available.”
“Of course,” I replied.
I glanced down at the form, my investigative training automatically cataloging the contact information requested, which was standard stuff for many community events. But it was the section at the bottom that made my pulse quicken—an innocent addition that suddenly felt loaded with significance:
Community Outreach Information (Optional):Local organizations are available to support families during the holiday season. Resources may include holiday meal assistance, winter clothing drives, toy donations, food pantry programs, financial assistance, and other community support services.
Would you like to be contacted about any of these programs?
If yes, please briefly describe any areas where your family might benefit from community support:
It was carefully worded—helpful rather than intrusive, optional rather than mandatory. Nothing that would make families feel embarrassed or singled out. But for someonelooking to identify struggling households while maintaining complete deniability, it was absolutely brilliant.
I stared at the form, realizing I was either looking at the most thoughtful community outreach program I’d ever seen, or the most sophisticated criminal intelligence gathering operation disguised as holiday cheer.
“Would you be so kind as to watch the cookies for me for a few minutes while I use the restroom?” Eleanor asked.
“No problem,” I said.
“We have a strict limit of one cookie per child, so we don’t run out,” Eleanor explained, her tone suggesting this rule had been learned through bitter experience. “And a parent must be present for them to get one, so we don’t run into any problems with unforeseen allergies.”
“Got it,” I said.
