Chapter 6 #2
Once inside the library, I said hello to Leo at the front desk, then walked directly to the coat rack and hung up my coat with the others. The scent of hot cider with the comforting smell of old books seemed to relax me, which was very much needed.
I spotted Sam immediately—he sat in the children’s section, surrounded by a semicircle of wide-eyed kids, holding a worn copy of The Night Before Christmas. The parents stood off to both sides, smiling, taking pictures.
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 lit up 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 someone looking 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.
“Great—I’ll be right back,” she said.
I positioned myself strategically in front of the table while hoping everyone would be so engrossed in Sam’s storytelling that they’d leave me and the cookies alone until she got back.
Maybe I’d get lucky ...
Then again, maybe not …
While I was watching Sam continue with the story, a movement off to the side caught my eye. A girl, around five or six years old, approached the cookie table with Navy SEAL stealth, swooping in to grab three cookies in one fluid motion.
Fortunately, my reflexes were still top-notch. I reached out and caught her by the arm just as she turned to make her escape.
“Not so fast there, speedy,” I whispered, hoping not to disrupt the reading as I smoothly snatched the pilfered cookies back from her grasp. “There’s a one-cookie-per-kid rule. And where’s your mother?”
The little girl shrugged, then looked up at me with wide, innocent eyes. “I haven’t had any cookies yet,” she declared with the earnest conviction that professional con artists would envy.
“Really?” I asked, pointing to the telltale evidence on her left cheek. “Because you have some raspberry jam on the side of your face.”
She wiped at it, making it worse. “That’s from home.”
“From your morning toast?” I asked, falling into interrogation mode and setting a trap for the little rugrat.
She nodded eagerly.
“You went to school today, right?” I continued.
She hesitated, then nodded again, with a confused look on her face.
“So you had jam on your face all day—through classes, lunch, even after school—and nobody mentioned it? Not even your parents?”
Her confidence wavered slightly. “Yeah …”
I had to admire her commitment to the lie.
“I’m sorry, but rules are rules,” I said. “One cookie per child.”
The little girl’s face began its transformation into what could only be described as the boo-boo face of mass destruction.
Her lower lip pushed forward with the calculated engineering of someone who’d clearly perfected this technique through countless hours of research and development via her parents.
“That’s not fair,” she whimpered, her eyes beginning to glisten with the promise of incoming tears.
I glanced around nervously, hoping this would not escalate any further. Sam was still reading, the parents were watching him, but this tiny human was clearly building toward a meltdown that would make a volcanic eruption look like a campfire.
Where was her mother? I wouldn’t be surprised if she was one of those off to the side ogling Sam.
“You’re a mean elf,” the girl added with a little more volume.
“And you’re a rude child, Veruca,” I said, so only she could hear me.
A tall woman with the kind of aggressive stride that suggested she ate conflict for dinner marched over to us, her face flushed with indignation. “Is there a problem here?”
“There certainly is. Your daughter stole three cookies,” I said.
“These cookies are free, so it is impossible to steal something that is free,” she blurted.
“Fine—if you want to go with that reasoning, I will add that I was simply enforcing the one-cookie-per-child rule, which is clearly stated on this sign,” I said, pointing to it. “Also, a parent needed to be present to receive a cookie, and you were not here.”
She placed her hands on her hips. “I’m here now.”
“Which would have been fine if she hadn’t already had a cookie.”
“How would you even know that?” she asked, tilting her head to the side. “You weren’t here earlier.”
“And how would you know I wasn’t here earlier unless you’d already been here to get a cookie?” I asked.
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Are you calling me a liar?”
I bit my tongue hard, knowing that replying, “Yes, and I know exactly where your daughter learned the skill,” would probably end with me being banned from the library for life.
This was exactly why I preferred the solitude of my she shed. People are inherently unhappy, untrustworthy, and unpredictable, but especially people with offspring who’d apparently been trained in the art of interpersonal manipulation.
“I’m pretty sure you know where I stand on the topic,” I said. “Eleanor will be back in a moment, so I’ll let you take it up with her.”
“She’s got better things to do with her time,” she said, looking around nervously before holding out her hand. “Come on—just give me the cookie, so we can get back to the reading.”
I despised people like her, but the last thing I wanted was to create a disturbance. I sighed and shoved a cookie in her direction, hoping she would just leave.
“Fine. Take it,” I said. “Now, please go sit back down.”
It was the worst possible decision I could have made.
The little girl’s face lit up when her mother gave her the cookie, like she’d just handed her the keys to Disney World. She clutched the cookie to her chest and skipped away while singing, “I’ve got another cookie! I’ve got another cookie!”
The effect was immediate and catastrophic.
The Santa reading came to a screeching halt.
Every head in the library—including Sam’s—swiveled toward my table like sunflowers following the sun.
Within seconds, the cookie table became ground zero for what could only be described as a holiday-themed stampede.
Small hands snatched bags while I tried desperately to maintain some semblance of order, but it was like trying to stop a room full of crocodiles with a fly swatter.
“Please, everyone, go back and sit down. Santa hasn’t finished his story,” I said, but the screaming kids drowned out my words.
The chaos seemed to be just getting started, though.
A young boy, apparently the linebacker of his elementary school class, made his move, charging toward the table with the determination of someone storming the beaches at Normandy.
His momentum carried him directly into the table, knocking it over and sending the bagged cookies flying in all directions.
To make matters worse, I crashed to the floor as well, my elf bells jingling gleefully on the way down.
I lay there on my back, my legs flailing upward like a beetle that had been flipped over, surrounded by crumbs and plastic bags, while children dove around me for cookies like they were hundred-dollar bills that had been dropped out of the airplane.
This was it. This was how my FBI career would end—not in a blaze of glory fighting federal criminals, but as roadkill in a Christmas cookie riot while dressed like a reject from Santa’s workshop.