The Takedown

Chapter 19

19

Traditionally, Christmas Eve is my favorite evening of the year. Even as a kid, I’d stay up past midnight, belly stuffed with cheese and my ears trained on the roof, listening for the pitter-patter of reindeer hooves. Now, I’m sitting in the dark on the bride’s side of the aisle, one of the uncomfortable ceremony chairs creaking under my butt. My living room has never felt less like my living room. In front of me, the hand-carved altar stands between two Christmas trees, like the gateway to hell.

I take a glug of Santa’s eggnog. Grandma Ruby’s put it out on the mantel in what reads as a desperate attempt to keep something normal this year, and I’ve swiped the glass along with a gingersnap. It’s very snappy. I’m snapping with it. One thirty-three in the morning, and zero word from Gail. Sure, it takes more than a couple of hours to mobilize a governmental task force on Christmas Eve, but you’d think—

My phone vibrates, and I snatch it from the chair next to me with wrist-breaking speed.

No dice. The text isn’t from Gail. It’s from Nick: You’re not pacing on the other side of the wall, so I guess you’re probably sleeping. I hope this doesn’t wake you . Another text quickly follows, slicing through me: However I can support you tomorrow, say the word. I’ll do it . And I imagine Nick in the darkness of his room, sitting up in bed, angled over the phone, a tortured expression coating his face. The problem—the huge, huge problem—is that expression is for Johnny, not for me.

I know that I’ve lost your trust , comes a third text, and a fourth: But I’m willing to spend as long as it takes to gain it back. Merry Christmas, Sydney.

Merry fucking Christmas, Nick.

I don’t reply. I toss the phone to the side with a grunt, close my eyes. A not-so-insignificant part of me wants to stand, race up those stairs, continue this conversation in person—beg him to tell me it isn’t true, all over again—but I shouldn’t. I wouldn’t believe him. I don’t. Even if he begged. Even if he kissed my neck, or looked at me with those eyelashes, or whispered into my ear that he understood me.

Thinking about him is like a knife in the stomach. Every time I imagine us, together, laughing, in bed, the imprint of his hands on my body, the blade twists.

“Sydney Bean, you’re still up?” Grandma Ruby’s voice hits me from the corner, a splash of light switching on overhead. She’s standing in the doorway in her traditional Christmas pajamas, the ones with the dark green tassels on the sleeves. A mug of something that smells like whiskey is in her hand. “If I’d known, I would’ve poured you one, too.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” I say, finding my voice, and it really is. I couldn’t keep up with her. Grandma Ruby has the alcohol tolerance of a Siberian prison guard.

She plops down beside me with a ragged oomph , chair creaking. “Did you know that I was the justice of the peace for your parents’ wedding?”

It comes out of nowhere. I blink. “No, I... I don’t think you’ve ever told me that before.”

“My first time officiating,” Grandma Ruby says, pride dancing in her eyes. “They were a beautiful couple. Just beautiful. And so in love.” She pauses thoughtfully. “Sometimes, I do feel angry with your father for leaving, and wonder what I did wrong, if I’d just raised him differently—”

“Grandma, no,” I try to jump in, to console her, but she cuts me off with a hand, the ice cube in her mug tinkling.

“Please, I think I need to get this out. What he did was selfish, even though a piece of me does understand that he’s in pain. Losing my daughter-in-law, it tore me apart, too. But it was my honor and my duty and my privilege to be there for you girls, to stay strong for you, especially after your dad left. I tried to make you feel so tough that the world couldn’t hurt you even if it doled out its best punch. Sometimes I wonder if I taught you to be too resilient, to let that pain just slide on off you, to not really feel it.” She appraises me with one eyebrow raised. “Maybe I should’ve said this years ago, but you’re not a Teflon pan, dear. Something’s gotta stick.”

At this, I actually laugh. “Yeah, I’m realizing that.”

“Good,” she says, leaning over to kiss my forehead. “Then maybe I’ve done my job after all. And speaking of, well, speaking of that... I’ve left you something on your nightstand. A Christmas present of sorts. Let me know if you want to go through it together, or if it’s something you want to look through alone.”

My brow wriggles, confused, but she doesn’t say anything else. She stands up, wishing me good night and flicking off the lights. I hear a creak upstairs—maybe Nick, walking—and I think to myself, At least I have my family. At least I’m not alone anymore.

In the morning, I’m in the same position: curled up like a dog on the wedding chairs, my back brutally stiff, sciatica shooting down my left leg. The doorbell’s just rung. Shit, shit, shit! How did I fall asleep? Suppose that’s what nearly six sleep-deprived nights in a row will do. What time is it? Sunlight streams like daggers into the living room. Frantically blinking, I swipe at my eyes, tap my phone, and—with a shock that feels approximately as swift as a punch to the jaw—realize that my sister is “getting married” in two hours.

The caterers are here.

We might be fucked.

Gail hasn’t contacted me. No phone calls. No landline rings. My inbox is conspicuously quiet. In my clothes from last night, I swing open the front door to trays of miniature cheese puffs and bacon-wrapped dates, Sweetie Pie at my heels, her tail wagging; she is more than happy to accept that delivery.

“You can just... set everything in the kitchen,” I say, pointing, dizzy. “Our dog will show you.”

Yanking on my slippers, I head out into the front yard, ankles shuffling through snow, and dial Gail’s number. It is a glorious Christmas morning. Couldn’t be brighter, merrier, worthier of a sharp, existential scream. “Gail?”

“Sydney,” she says.

“What’s happened?”

“We’re waiting,” Gail says calmly.

“Waiting? Waiting on what?”

“A warrant to enter Porky’s.”

“How much longer?” I press, icy air clawing at my throat. In our neighbor’s yard, a gigantic blowup decoration roars to inflatable life; it’s a holiday-themed T-Rex, and suddenly feels like an omen.

“As long as it takes for the justice department to finish their Christmas breakfasts, it seems. All you have to do is keep stalling. You said you could do that.”

“I did.”

“Just last night.”

“Right. Good.” I swallow, noticing something. “I’m sorry, I have to... go. Keep me informed.”

Half jogging over in my slippers, I approach the deliveryman, who’s hopping down from his silver truck. Printed on the side—in very clear lettering—are the words careful live animal , alongside a festive logo. He actually did it. Johnny bought her a horse. Through the thin bars, I see evidence of two furry nostrils, huffing and puffing in the cold air.

“Got a delivery for Mr. Johnny Jones?” the man says. He’s wearing a crisp blue jumpsuit with a Christmas tree pin on his chest.

I breathe slowly. “Okay, is it possible to delay this delivery? We can’t take ownership of the horse right now.”

“Not a horse,” the man says, scuffling around the truck and unlatching the gate.

Antlers emerge first. The clip-clop of hooves sound down the ramp, a perfect specimen of a reindeer trotting into view—and this is fine . This doesn’t complicate things even further. I will stall my sister’s wedding with an actual live reindeer attached to my hip.

The deliveryman hands me the reins, followed by a clipboard. “Sign here, please.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, as polite as I can manage, “but I can’t sign this. You’re a—” I give the reindeer a glance. “You’re a tremendous-looking reindeer, but we’re about to have a wedding and there’s just a lot going on. How much to send him back?”

Rightfully disgruntled, the deliveryman eyes me before retrieving the clipboard, straight-up forging a signature on the bottom line, and returning to his truck without a word. The reins chafe in my palm as Rudolph bucks. He must sense the tension coursing through every vein in my body. Perceptive animal. “Hello,” I tell him.

He nearly pokes my eye out with his left antler.

“Sydney!” Grandma Ruby says, appearing on the front stoop in her robe. Curlers are tightly rolled in her puffy white hair. She calls across the yard and the whoosh sound of the inflatable T-Rex. “Did you order that, pumpkin?”

“Do you think you could go get Nick?” I ask, ducking from the antlers again, managing to maneuver the reindeer into the front yard. In less than an hour, cars will be showing up. Guests arriving to mingle. We’re running out of time.

When Nick descends the stairs, he’s already showered. Already in his clothes for the day. He stops short on the snowed-over sidewalk, wearing the same dinner jacket from the bachelor party. His black bow tie gleams in the early-morning light, and he is stupidly, exasperatingly handsome. I can almost feel his hands on my hips, the tender kiss on my neck, and the gut punch arrives. What Johnny said. What I’ve lost and also never had: A man I can put my faith in. A man who’ll look me in the eyes and tell me the damn truth. Someone I might be able to come home to, feel completely safe around, feel completely myself .

“That is... a reindeer,” Nick says, obviously unsure whether to laugh or to wince.

“You know how you said you’d do anything to help today?” I say quickly, keeping my voice flat.

Nick nods, moving closer with a serious dip of his chin. “Yeah.”

“Well.” I hand him the reins. The only thing—and I mean the only thing—I can trust him with is a reindeer. “I need you to hold this.”

—

Upstairs, Calla is keeping it together almost better than I am. “There you are,” she whisper-yells when I plow open the bedroom door. She spins around, and I have to stop myself from full-on gasping. She’s standing by the full-length mirror in Grandma Ruby’s wedding dress, except the 1960s puffed sleeves have been transformed into a waterfall of white fabric, gracefully skating down her arms. My grandmother’s added tulle to the underside of the skirt, so the bottom half is like a cloud. The word princess comes to mind in a completely organic way; my little sister is stunning. She’s also about to give me a heart attack.

“You put on the dress?” I ask. “I didn’t think you’d actually put on the dress.”

Calla lifts up the sides, shuffling over to me, voice dropping. “I woke up late, and Grandma Ruby asked why I wasn’t getting ready, and I didn’t know what to tell her.”

“You’re not having second thoughts, are you? Because if you’re having second thoughts about leaving him—”

“No! No. I just decided it would look less suspicious this way. But they’re closing in on them, right? This will all be over soon?”

“Mmm-hmm,” I manage. “Soon.”

Her face falls. “Syd.”

“There’s been a delay.”

“Syd.”

“Just stay up here,” I say. “Lock the door. Don’t open it for anyone except me, okay? I’ll tell Grandma Ruby you’re getting ready with your friends, so she should entertain the guests.”

“My friends,” Calla says, her face falling farther. “Are they here yet?”

“Let me double-check.”

“Wait, Sydney! You should probably put on something different, too.”

My chin drops as I give myself a once-over: the black jeans and last night’s reindeer wool sweater. Maybe that’s why the reindeer took an instant disliking to me! I smell like a rival. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll do that.” I back out the door, shut it, forget to breathe.

I don’t have a maid-of-honor dress. Didn’t think we’d get this far. The dress is literally the least of my worries, but Calla’s right—this morning is about appearances.

Quickly, in Grandma Ruby’s closet, I borrow the outfit that looks least like I’m auditioning for a Golden Girls reboot (a plain black slip-on with a bumblebee pin) and try to blaze downstairs, but Grandma Ruby catches me in the hall.

“That dress looks... familiar,” she says, quirking her head. She’s already in her justice of the peace outfit: a ruffled pantsuit with sparkle trim. “But never mind! You’d look good in a potato sack. I thought I’d ask if you wanted me to do your hair.” She reaches out, tender, and fingers a strand. “I haven’t done your hair since you were a little girl.”

The movement tugs at my heartstrings so hard that I let her—very quickly—stick a rhinestone hair clip on the side of my head, before she rushes off to do Calla’s hair and makeup.

All along our street, cars are assembling. Out the window, I see minivans and Ubers and suspicious black SUVs from Johnny’s side. Marco with the scorpion skull tattoo saunters past our mailbox with a large, silver-wrapped present and a bouquet of airport roses, his daughter in tow, while Diana (of the famous Diana and the bears) is waiting for Andre to retie his shoelace on the sidewalk. Andre, with his stack of wedding-slash-Christmas presents as well. Everyone from Johnny’s side is bringing so many presents. And oh— dear god —the reindeer is in the living room.

“Sydney, what is going on?” Nick asks below his breath. He’s appeared at my shoulder, reins gripped in his hands, and can this man not follow any directions?

“It looks like you’ve let a reindeer into my house,” I say, bemused, feeling like this—this, finally —is the part where I wake up.

“I did. Your grandma said if there was a reindeer for the wedding, then a reindeer should be at the wedding.” Besides Rudolph, no one else is in the room with us yet; everyone who’s arrived is mingling in the kitchen, listening to the soothing sounds of Nat King Cole. Still, Nick takes extra precautions and leans in closer, nearly whispering in my ear. His breath is hot against the side of my face, and I... I can’t stand it. “You have that look you get when things are starting to fall apart, and I know there’s no way you’re about to let this wedding happen—so why don’t you fill me in. I can help.”

“You can’t,” I say, swallowing fire.

Nick hasn’t just lost my trust; he’s obliterated it. Can’t even trust him with a reindeer, apparently.

A burst of staccato laughter sounds from the kitchen, and Nick peers over his shoulder, checking. More guests. More music. Empty seats, starting to fill. My cousin’s kids filter down the aisle, eyes saucer-wide at the reindeer, and Nick whispers once in my ear, “Please, please , believe me. Whatever’s about to happen, I’ll do the right thing.”

No, you won’t.

“I will,” he repeats, like he’s peeked inside my head.

The kids gather around, Nick shields them from the reindeer’s antlers, and I slip away again, heart in my throat, double-checking my phone. Nothing. Come on, Gail!

“La-la-la!” Grandma Ruby says in the hallway, warming up for her wedding speech; she’s clutching her justice of the peace notes, prepared to do the honors, and then Johnny’s arriving. Johnny’s here. His parents are here. Andre is here. Vinny.

“Sandy!” he calls out to me, misremembering my name.

Kill me! I want to scream back.

The next ten minutes whip by. Then the next twenty, and twenty more. Five minutes before the ceremony starts, I’m wondering if Calla could realistically jump out the second-story window. Together, maybe we could slide down the drainpipe, disappear past the tennis courts. She can’t stay here. What if we get all the way to the part where Grandma Ruby says, “Speak now or forever hold your peace”?

That will never happen.

It won’t.

Johnny’s ready, dressed in an all-red suit. Yes. Yes, he’s done that. Heavy on the burgundy. Heavy on the Christmas. And I’m standing on Calla’s side of the altar, clenching my teeth so tightly, I hear a pop in my jaw. The guests are taking their places, including a tall, mustached man who I’ve never seen in any of the case files; he strolled in at 10 a.m. on the dot and placed a small, white-bowed present by the Christmas tree. Vinny is feeding pieces of crudités to the reindeer. By the wedding cake, Andre is picking up the tiny ceramic humans in the snow village and—for some reason—sniffing them. Calla is two minutes away from descending the stairs.

This isn’t just a nightmare. This is the nightmare.

It gets worse.

My phone buzzes. As subtle as one can be in front of a crowd of people, I check the message from Gail. It says one pitiful word: Empty . A picture is attached to the message: a storage unit off the Massachusetts Turnpike, concrete swept bare, nothing but glistening walls and dead space. No mountain bikes. And definitely no stacks of contraband. No boxes of jewels, no pallets of cash, no C4. A brick drops in my stomach, and I... think .

I’m thinking. Something’s swirling in the back of my brain. If the storage unit is empty...

Behind Johnny, Nick struggles to catch my eye. Finally, I let him. I give in. And I mouth, “ Stall .”

“What?” he mouths back.

“ Stall ,” I breathe again. If Nick wants to play this stupid I’m innocent game, let him play it. Let him try to prove it. I’ll use him like he’s used me. Nick understands what I’ve said this time, just as Grandma Ruby steps in between us.

Her hands open up to greet the guests, who are quieting down now, eager for a wedding—all firmly in their seats. “It is so wonderful to see you all here,” she says. “In a moment, we’ll—”

“Nick has a speech!” I interject, clapping my hands, gaze swiveling around the room—to the mustached man in the third row. To the three-tiered wedding cake and the Christmas tree at the back of the room. And through the window, out in the driveway, the reindeer van is... still there.

“Oh, you do, dear?” Grandma Ruby says as Nick raises one of his eyebrows. “Oh, that’s so nice. Step right in the middle, then. We’ll swap. Go ahead, don’t be shy.”

Nick does not stiffen. He plays his part, adjusting his bow tie with a boyish smile. Stepping forward, he gives a grand wave between the two Christmas trees. “Hello, everyone. Hello. I’m Nick. About half of you know that already. Thank you all for coming, especially so last minute, and on Christmas Day, no less!”

Discreetly, I twirl my hand near my hip, urging him to keep going, and start to walk backward—around the left side of the aisle, into the corner of the room.

Toward the white-bowed present.

Peeking out the window, I notice that the reindeer van driver hasn’t stuck around.

“Love!” Nick says, clapping his hands like I did. “Uh, I’m not usually a big speech giver, but I...” When Nick clears his throat, nerves ricochet down my body. “I really want to give this a chance because, honestly, I love weddings. I love the food , and the emotions , and seeing everyone brought together by two people who’re so committed to each other, they’re planning on spending the rest of their lives sharing the same toothpaste. Maybe not the same toothbrush, though. That’s going a little too far.”

Some light chuckles erupt at the toothbrush comment. I barely hear them.

I’m so focused, it’s almost like no one else is in the room.

“But the truth is,” he says, “I never understood the couples who get married so quickly. Like Calla and Johnny.” Here, a line pops in Johnny’s forehead. Nick ignores it. “How can you actually get to know someone in three months? How much can you know a person ever ?”

I’m still walking backward, panic starting to fizz in my gut.

Panic and pure triumph.

I think... I think I might’ve figured it out. What I’ve been missing. The van. The blue mechanic’s jumpsuit that Vinny purchased. The stranger in the third row.

“Someone I trust,” Nick says, “told me a story about love. About this old couple on a cruise ship who were sitting across from each other, just silently eating their cheese. She said that’s love. Being comfortable. Talking or not having to talk. To know the other person so thoroughly, no words are necessary.” Nick’s throat bobs, and mine does, too. “I think that was the moment I changed my mind. When she told me that. I was wrong. You can get to know a person in a month, in a few weeks, in a few days, if they let you. If you know it’s right. And you’ll be fascinated. Falling for someone is like reading a book, and the pages keep turning themselves.”

The knot in my throat tightens as tears start to burn in the corners of my eyes.

“Now, this person might drive you a little up the wall sometimes. She might have an excellent right hook, and...”

He trails off.

His gaze is fully locked on mine.

At the top of the aisle, I’m standing firm, gripping the white-bowed present with both hands. It has silver foil wrapping. It’s light. And my ears are ringing. My breath is coming out in slow, thick streams. If I’m wrong about this...

But if I’m right .

Johnny snaps his head to look at me, his vision falling on the present. The way I’m holding it. The way I’m staring him down. And I think he knows, in one hideous instant, that I’m about to force his hand. He holds up his palm to stop me, but I’m already picking at the corner of the present.

“It’s Christmas morning!” I say, possibly a bit too theatrically. Everyone in their seats turns and stares, including the tall man with the mustache. “And it’s a Christmas wedding! We should open a present. Right now.”

“Sydney...” Johnny warns, taking a few careful steps forward.

But I’m already ripping. Already taking a fistful of paper and rip, rip, ripping a long band down the middle. In the hush of the living room, it sounds like the slash of a knife.

Johnny’s face pales as I dig into the box.

And emerge with a palmful of diamonds.

“You fucking ...” Johnny says, darkness clouding his face. The corner of his mouth trembles, then stiffens. He’s putting the pieces together about me. That I’m not who I said I was. That it’s in his best interest to run. And he does run—straight-up bolting around the aisle. The soles of his shoes are even redder than his suit.

Oh, no, you don’t—

My body’s moving before my mind even processes the next steps. I’m charging, racing after him. Nick weaves around the aisle, so quick, on Johnny’s heels. Is he... trying to help his boss escape? Keeping him covered from behind? Or—

Nick grabs the top tier of the wedding cake and absolutely flings it at the floor in front of Johnny, like a giant cake Frisbee. It lands with a smash, buttercream frosting slickening the floor by Johnny’s shoes, and he slips, slides. Did Nick... did Nick just...?

Well, yes, he did. And he’s trying to tackle Johnny now, springs off one of the empty seats, but he misses, crashing into the snow village, and no, stop it, the reindeer intercepts me for a good three seconds, long enough for Johnny to grab the spare set of keys to the van and race out the door. I rush to swipe my own keys, still processing what Nick has just done. Still processing that maybe— maybe —I do know him after all. This man who told me I was knowable, too.

People can surprise you in all sorts of ways.

And sometimes, those surprises are good.

Shoving the diamonds into my dress pocket (hurray for pockets!), I sprint, snatching my keys on the way outside, where the temperature has warmed to a balmy negative seven degrees. Twenty feet in front of me, Johnny’s running, jumping into the front seat of the van, and starting the engine. So it’s a race, huh? Keys fumble in my hands as I unlock my door, swinging inside and switching on the ignition. The Prius roars to life. Not the car I would’ve chosen for a high-speed chase, but—

“I’m coming, too,” Nick says, practically throwing himself into the passenger seat. His voice is thick, rough. There’s fake snow from the Christmas village on the lapel of his suit, and a determined look on his face, and he... tried to tackle Johnny. Tried to take him down, hard. Which means...

I can either live my entire life trusting no one.

Or I can let someone new in.

I can let Nick in.

“Nice speech,” I rasp out, a peace offering, a heart offering, no time for anything else. I just throw the car into reverse and speed out of the driveway, avoiding the dozens of parked cars on our road, before slamming the Prius into drive. It purrs indecisively, like Me? You want me to do what? I think you might be mistaking me for a Porsche? Then it leaps forward, playing catch-up with Johnny, who is already swinging a left at the end of our street—blasting out of vision.

“Mind filling in some of the gaps?” Nick asks, gripping on to one of the roof handles for stability.

“Those diamonds,” I say, gritting my teeth, “are part of an arms deal. Think about it. That guy with the mustache? He’s the buyer. He came to trade the diamonds for the weapons. That’s what the Joneses have been up to. Vinny said that Johnny wanted to evolve the business. I thought he was talking about heists, but this is what the heists are for —including the one that’s going down near the bridge, if that wasn’t a complete misdirection. Money. Pure and simple. Money to buy weapons of mass destruction, to sell to nefarious people. I’ll bet you just about anything that the gift shop is one of their new warehouses. The wedding was always a cover, a place to make the first trade, right under the noses of the law. And that van —” I point in front of us, at the white reindeer van, rocketing ahead. “That van is chock-full of explosives.”

Nick’s eyes widen. “Are you kidding me? And we’re chasing it?”

“I’m sure they’re bubble-wrapped.”

“Sydney...”

“You know they’re not going to explode now. They need a spark. Otherwise, they would’ve exploded with the reindeer.” I shake my head, lead foot on the gas. “Vinny bought a blue jumpsuit for one of his associates and had him drive the van to the wedding. The buyer was supposed to drop off the diamonds, then drive the van out.”

“Where’s Johnny headed, then?” Nick asks as I’m mentally reviewing my driving course at The Farm: what to do if I have to make a fast turn over a slick patch of ice; how to safely flip a vehicle.

“My guess? He grabbed the first set of keys he could and now he’s panicking. He’ll try to stash the van somewhere. Hide as much evidence as he can, along with himself... Speaking of evidence, here.” One hand on the wheel, I pass Nick the diamonds to store in the glove compartment. If this turns into a footrace, I don’t want them weighing me down.

Nick quickly obliges, then whips out his phone, tapping the screen. “He just took a right onto Route 1. Blew through the stop sign.”

I keep my breath steady, following Johnny’s tracks in the snow, picking up the pace until we’re far above the speed limit for a residential area. In my rearview mirror, I think I catch the blue flash of Grandma Ruby’s Oldsmobile—but no, can’t be. “How do you know that?” I press as the Prius makes the Route 1 turn. In front of us, Johnny is clocking in at least 110 miles an hour. Impressive pickup for a reindeer van.

Nick leans forward, squinting at his phone. “I put a tracker on the bottom of his dress shoes last night. Normally I don’t mess around with that stuff, because the Joneses always find it, but—Sydney!”

“On it,” I mumble, swerving skillfully around a firewood truck that’s entering the road. The Prius handles surprisingly well in an emergency.

“I think...” Nick begins, widening the map with his fingers. “Yeah, there’s an airport nearby.”

Barely. More like a short field of snow with one runway and a couple of seaplanes. It’s mostly for crab fishermen blowing off some steam on the weekends. But for Johnny, in this situation, it’ll do. That was probably the original plan. Unload the contents of the van in a cargo jet, fly it to the dealer’s warehouse. Something tumbles in my stomach. “I told you we wouldn’t be hugging at the airport,” I grit out, foot almost fully down on the gas pedal, speed climbing: 102, 103, 103 and a half . Okay , Prius, you can climb a little faster than that! Up ahead, Johnny is gaining distance, but...

“Oooh!” I wince.

“Ooooh!” Nick says.

The van must have hit a patch of ice, because it wibble-wobbles, swerving in a tight zigzag down the dead center of the road. Johnny slows down a hair. Just enough to catch him.

Glass-crusted trees whip by. Snowflakes hit the windshield in sharp, staccato bursts. Right outside the town, we’re bumper to bumper. If Johnny slams on his brakes, we’re toast.

“He’s not going to shoot at us while he’s driving, is he?” I muse out loud.

“Johnny isn’t great at multitasking,” Nick says in a way that is far below the bar of reassurance. “He’s much more likely to shoot at us once he stops.”

“That makes me feel a lot better,” I say, revving the engine and lurching straight forward, slamming the tip of my car against the back of the van.

Hey, this is a rental! I can almost feel Johnny say that, and I have the distinct sense that by the time we’re done, my car might be returned to the airport in a slightly different condition. The van rocks from side to side, regaining balance, so I do it again—nudging, trying to slow Johnny down.

All of the sudden, he cuts a right, nearly toppling his vehicle, and I follow, both hands clamping the wheel. We’re on the backroads now, lined with wooden A-frames and summer cabins. Come June, beach towels will flutter on clotheslines, but right now it’s just dead silence and wind and us. Should I stay on Johnny’s tail until the airport if that’s where he’s headed? Or should I stop him right now?

“Have you ever been in a car crash?” I ask Nick, breathy.

Nick wipes a hand down his face. “ Speaking of feeling a lot better.”

“Let your body go as limp as you can right before the moment of impact,” I say, keeping pace with the back of Johnny’s car, scuttling down another side road. Potholes. Big bumps. “Whatever you do, don’t tense up. I’m not going to intentionally crash, but—”

I let up on the gas, just enough so we’re not bumper to bumper, then carve a very slight right, edging the side of Johnny’s car. A little more. Farther. Until we’re neck and neck, speeding down the long, tight road. I spin my head to look at Johnny. He spins his head to look at me. Granted, I’m quite a bit lower down, so we can barely see each other, and yet—

Johnny rolls down his window. “I SAID I WOULD GRIND YOU INTO THE FLOOR! AND I WILL GRIND YOU INTO THE GROUND !”

“Grind you into the ground,” Nick repeats, fists tense despite what I told him. “Original.”

“Hold on,” I say, steeling myself before jerking the wheel a quarter turn, then back again—pounding Johnny’s vehicle from the side. My seat belt clamps hard against my chest, biting in as the jolt reverberates through the whole vehicle.

“WHAT THE FUCK!” Johnny is screaming. “WHAT THE FUCK ?”

It occurs to me that—for all intents and purposes—if anyone’s watching us right now, I look like a maid of honor who witnessed her sister get abandoned at the altar on Christmas Day—and I’ve taken it rather badly. More seriously than most.

“YOU’RE DAMAGING THE PAINTWORK!” he yells again, right before I strip another set of black lines off the exterior, Prius ricocheting against his van. In my ears are the crunch and squeal of metal, and I think if I can just get the angle right, just ram him hard enough, he’ll be ditch-bound. Immobile for the time being. Enough for the rest of the team to swarm.

Johnny, unfortunately, is smarter than that.

He dramatically stamps on his brakes as we speed past him.

“ Damn it,” Nick swears, craning his neck, watching as Johnny cuts clear across the front yard of what is clearly not a summer home. Twinkle lights are strung between two trees, and he blasts right through them, decorations tangled and whipping against the side of his car. I swallow hard, fighting the anxiety that’s quickly scratching up my throat— he cannot get away, we’ve come too far to let him get away —before I make the world’s most illegal U-turn, off-road, around a winter greenhouse.

The pit in my stomach gutters. I’ve remembered something. “He’s headed straight towards town. Shit! What time is it?”

I glance at the dashboard clock just as Nick says, “Eleven-oh-two.”

“No, no, no—the parade .” I press my foot all the way down on the gas pedal again, snow flying under my tires. We’re completely off-roading now, in hot pursuit of Johnny, trees popping up out of nowhere. “There’s a big Christmas parade that always starts at eleven, and yes , maybe this town does take the holidays a little too seriously, it seems like we have about two hundred different events, but—”

The woods spit us out near the center of town. Just off Main Street. One of Grandma Ruby’s lit-up candy canes smashes against my bumper. Shop windows glisten in midwinter light. Beyond that, floats, barges, crowds—and a giant yellow blockade. Johnny stomps on his brakes rather than plowing right through the cement barrier. He’s... he’s cornered! Buildings on both sides. Us behind him. Maybe, maybe , this parade is a blessing. Unless he decides to run.

Great, he’s decided to run.

After all that, he’s had to choose between his goods and himself. He chooses himself. His driver’s side door swings open with abandon, and Johnny sprints into the holiday crowd, elbows popping the air; he disappears into an assembly of my high school’s marching band. My old marching band. They’re playing a tuba-heavy rendition of “The Little Drummer Boy.”

I’ve stopped the Prius within an inch of Johnny’s car, leaping out as Nick yells, “You take the north side of the street! I’ll take the south! And Sydney, just... be careful.” He fixes me with a gaze that says more than words, and I speed off like a shot in my maid of honor dress, gathering some looks from the older members of the Cape Hathaway Knitting Club, who are perched inside a Christmas-red convertible, crowded around an immense ball of yarn.

Johnny is darting through the chaos, taking the path directly through the parade. For a second, he’s caught up in the trumpet section, and I tell myself, Whatever you do, don’t lose sight of his hair! Right now, his blond curls are catching the sun, and he’s just a floating head, frantically yelling something into his cell phone as he runs. He’s managed to dial while sprinting—impressive, for someone who “isn’t great at multitasking”—but I’m not catching any of the words. He’s probably meeting someone on the other side of the parade. Vinny? Andre? Whoever’s coming to collect him. Save him. Help him escape.

Not on my watch.

“Ma’am!” someone is yelling at my back. “Miss! No running through the parade!” I barely hear them. On the sidewalk, young children are clapping for the toilet-shaped balloons on the Al’s Plumber float, which I’m rushing past—Johnny about fifteen paces ahead of me and slowing down. For all that muscle, he doesn’t seem to have the endurance. Nick and I are closing in as a team, expertly shuffling around people—but the parade is ending. We’ve almost reached the front of the line, where the crowd thins, where it’s a straight shot to the grocery store parking lot. Bet you someone’s meeting Johnny there.

Faster, faster —

I push myself— this is for Calla —arms swinging, boots pounding the pavement, but it isn’t enough. One of the floats lurches to the side and clips my hip as I sprint by. Pain starbursts inside my bone, and yep, that definitely hurts, that—

That’s the end.

Johnny has reached the end, where the parade disperses and the barriers open up again. He clears into the parking lot and spins around. A jet-black SUV with tinted windows is waiting for him a few feet away, but Johnny has several words to say to us first. “Don’t...” he breathes, “move.” The gun he’s just pulled from his waistband underlines his words. This should tell you everything you need to know about Johnny Jones. Instead of a boutonniere, the man wore a gun to his own wedding.

A spike in my heart hurts even worse than my hip.

Nick stops short, thrusting an arm out to stop me, too. His palm flattens on my stomach, his pulse thudding into my skin.

Behind us, a few people start to scream. They’ve seen Johnny, seen him draw his weapon. My gut tightens to the size of a fist. If we didn’t have evidence against him before, we sure as hell have it now.

“You would’ve made a terrible husband,” I spit at him, once again certain that I could’ve found a more cutting insult. But it’ll still keep him engaged. Give us time for the FBI task force to show up. If they ever do.

Johnny tilts his head, cocking the gun and pointing the barrel straight at me. Never been in this precise situation before. Zero out of ten, do not recommend it. They tell you on The Farm, though, never plead. Pleading does not wind down the clock. Pleading only gives the aggressor power, makes them pull the trigger faster.

Nick gives an appropriately declarative sentence. “Walk away, Johnny.” His voice is practiced and steady, his hand still placed protectively against my stomach, and he’s shuffling slowly to block me. I feel a surge of love for him, from the depth of my stomach. “Get in the car, and—”

“No one gets hurt?” Johnny asks, a laugh in his throat. “I think we’re a little past that, don’t you, Nicky boy?”

“Not really,” I mumble, the crowd rapidly dispersing behind me.

“I meant emotionally!” Johnny yells back, having read my lips. “ Emotionally! You couldn’t mind your own damn business, and you —” He points the gun at Nick this time, jaw tensing, and something in my chest erupts. “You’re chasing me down now, are you? That’s what all my loyalty’s gotten me? After everything, all these years? You were like family.”

“Your idea of family is s eriously messed up,” Nick bats back, and he’s right. Of course he’s right. Now that he’s in the direct line of fire, though, I wish he’d kept his mouth shut. Instinctively, I try to step in front of him , which leads him to try and step in front of me , and—

“Fine!” Johnny says. “I’ll just shoot you both.”

There’s no time for one last look. One last glance between me and Nick. One last time for me to say, I love your Christmas sweater. I love how you want to play the ukulele, and how you want to train dogs. I love how I met you in an imperfect situation, but you turned out to be —

A loud sound follows Johnny’s words.

A very, very loud sound.

It is not the shot from a gun. My stomach doesn’t even have a moment to drop before the air starts screaming, and Grandma Ruby’s electric-blue Oldsmobile T-bones the SUV. It plows right into the back seat, metal shrieking and wrapping around the hood, a deafening crunch, the explosive sound of airbags . Grandma? Grandma, no! A cry wells in my throat, and I stumble forward, and... Someone else is here, too. Just as the crash happened, just as Johnny spins around, Calla’s come out of the alleyway by the Chinese food palace. How? How is she here? She must’ve... she must’ve ridden with Grandma Ruby. Must’ve jumped out to pursue on foot.

She’s in her wedding dress, left sleeve hanging off her shoulder, and she’s toting one of Grandma Ruby’s gigantic ceramic candy canes. It feels like my pupils widen to the size of dimes. With one propulsive movement, my little sister—the gentlest, kindest person I’ve ever known—thwacks Johnny right between the shoulder blades.

The women in my family? They might not have the proper training, might not do things as elegantly as federal agents, but damn , have they showed up.

Johnny’s gun falls to the ground, skittering, and I lunge for it while Nick rushes forward and side-tackles Johnny, successfully this time—dropping him hard against the cold, cold pavement. My grandma stumbles out of the Oldsmobile, dazed, and she just... she did that . She just crashed that car rather than letting Johnny get away.

And he doesn’t get away.

The sky is already filled with the swirl of sirens.

Blue lights, red lights.

Christmas lights.

My head spins as the FBI swarms, black cars rushing to the scene, and suddenly there’s a cloud of federal agents, so much shouting, and Calla? Calla? Disarming the gun, I weave through the agents, never losing my sister, and grab her hand. She squeezes it tight, and in the chaos, we rush toward Grandma Ruby—who, to be honest, appears a little worse for wear. Her white hair is cotton ball puffed, sticking out at odd angles, and there’s a thin scratch on the plump of her cheek.

“Oh, don’t look so worried,” she tuts at us, voice loud over Johnny’s moans. He’s still grumbling under Nick in the background. “That car’s built tough, and so am I.”

“You just...” I almost stutter as Calla says, breathless, “ Grandma , are you okay? That wasn’t part of the plan!”

I blink at them both, federal agents jostling at our backs. Steam is pouring out of the Oldsmobile, almost stinging my eyes. Or maybe I’m crying. I could be crying.

“Calla told me everything, dear,” Grandma Ruby clarifies, placing one hand on my shoulder, the other on my sister’s. She draws us together, like magnets. “On the way over. About you, about the CIA—and Johnny.” She says his name like it tastes terrible. “I had my suspicions about that boy. He told me I shouldn’t knit a Christmas sweater for my dog, and I will knit whatever for whoever I damn well please.”

Yep, I’m definitely crying now.

And Calla’s crying, and the three of us are holding one another, and Grandma Ruby’s telling us, “Life’s going to throw you knocks, girls. Sometimes it’ll throw you hand grenades. But you have each other—you’ll always have each other. And you’re worthy of love. Real, truthful love. Did you hear that? You are worthy .”

I feel Calla nodding against my shoulder, really leaning in, and I hope she is hearing that. I hope she’s feeling that. I hope she’ll be okay.

“Sydney!”

Nick’s voice rises above the din, and I turn toward it, still holding my family. He’s by the farthest vehicle, hair mussed, motioning to the back seat of the car. Johnny’s inside—and I know that Nick will personally want to take him in. Good. Nick deserves this, really deserves this, after everything that Johnny’s put him through.

I give him a sad but triumphant smile.

“Maybe it’s not my place,” Grandma Ruby chimes in, glancing between me and Nick, “but if you’re going to choose a man, one who’s willing to take a bullet for you isn’t a bad option.”