Chapter 7 #2
“I made it really easy for you.” Emma pulled out a neatly printed list from her pocket and unfolded it with the seriousness of someone presenting a legal document.
“So, I would like a new iPad to replace the old one, some Squishmallows slippers—the unicorn ones are my favorite—a blanket hoodie with unicorns on it, a unicorn shower curtain for my bathroom, a karaoke machine, some Bluetooth unicorn headphones, and lots and lots of art supplies.” She pointed to the last thing on her list. “And you can’t forget a black puppy.
Mom says that one is negotiable, which means you need to talk her into it. ”
“That’s quite a comprehensive list,” I said, impressed by her organizational skills, then joked, “Why don’t you want a unicorn instead of a puppy?”
Emma sighed. “Because unicorns are not real, Santa.”
I nodded. “Yeah—I guess you’re right. Have you been good this year?”
“Very good,” Emma replied with conviction.
“I even helped my little brother with his homework, even though I didn’t want to.
He always smells, just like Daddy, but I think it’s because they are always playing baseball in the yard, and they sweat much more than girls do.
Plus, my brother still pees in his pants. ”
“You certainly don’t leave out information—Ho! Ho! Ho!” I said. “You know what they say about good little girls like Emma?” I turned to the crowd and gave a dramatic pause before calling out, “They sleigh me!”
I caught Rose’s reaction immediately—first came the eye roll, a perfectly executed expression of someone who’d just witnessed the world’s corniest joke.
But then something magical happened. The corners of her mouth twitched, fighting against her better judgment, and slowly transformed into the tiniest of smiles.
After Emma’s photo and enthusiastic hug, she skipped away clutching her candy cane like a victory trophy.
Coincidentally, the next few kids also had long lists of presents they were hoping for—although some sounded more like demands.
Then there were the special children, the ones who talked about their hopes and dreams, their family, their struggles.
There was Alina, whose parents struggled to pay for her asthma medication.
A shy four-year-old girl named Sophie whispered that her dad’s truck had been stolen, and that he didn’t have the money for a new one.
All she wanted for Christmas was a truck to give to her dad.
And Alex, whose family’s home caught fire and who was sleeping on a friend’s couch, separated from his parents until they could find a place to be together.
Those families had no idea I would help them all soon.
The last child bounced off my lap and raced toward his mortified parents like I had just tortured him with electrocution. I chuckled and stood from the red velvet chair, feeling every muscle in my back protest after hours of supporting an endless parade of excited children.
“Well,” I said, peeling off my Santa hat and running a hand through my hair, “that went better than expected. No more cookie incidents. No tears. One kid asked if reindeer taste like chicken, but overall, I’d call tonight a win.”
“The bar for success seems remarkably low in this establishment,” Rose smirked.
“You’d be surprised,” Eleanor said, appearing beside us with her coat already on. “Last year, we had three crying children, two parents who nearly came to blows over whose turn it was in line, and a kid who projectile vomited on Sam’s boots.”
“I have no recollection of that incident,” I said.
“Selective amnesia,” Eleanor replied.
“A perfectly valid survival mechanism,” Rose added, still adjusting her tunic—something she’d been doing all evening. “I use it regularly.”
I smiled. “Hey, seriously—thanks again for stepping in today. You really saved us.”
“You already thanked me,” Rose said. “Once is enough.”
“Multiple expressions of gratitude are never harmful,” I said.
“I agree, and it’s time to call it a night,” Eleanor said. “Ready to head out?”
“Actually, I need to get some work done,” I said. “Lock up, and I’ll see you both tomorrow.”
I expected Rose to be sprinting toward the front door, as if her life depended on it, but I couldn’t have been more wrong.
“I’ll stay and help,” she said.
My feet froze mid-step. “I’m sorry, what?”
“I’m ready for the next challenge.”
I stared at Rose, searching her face for signs of delirium. “Did you hit your head when you fell earlier?”
Her expression didn’t change. “I had a hundred percent of my faculties when I made the offer. I just want to help.”
And I just wanted to get rid of her, so I could get to work.
“That’s very kind,” I said carefully, “but it’s unnecessary. Really. You’ve done more than enough today.”
“But I—”
“Rose, sweetie,” Eleanor interjected, her voice taking on that gentle but firm tone she used when she was about to issue an order disguised as a suggestion.
“Sam’s right. You’ve done plenty of volunteering for one day.
” Rose opened her mouth to protest, but Eleanor continued.
“By the way, do you like bratwurst sandwiches?”
Rose blinked at the abrupt topic change. “I … yes. I love them, actually. In fact, the last time I had one, I was here in Leavenworth—over ten years ago—I had the best bratwurst sandwiches at München Haus during Oktoberfest.”
“What a coincidence—that’s where we’ll be going,” I said.
“Don’t make any plans tomorrow after the library closes, because I’m taking everyone out for bratwurst sandwiches.
And make sure you bundle up because we’ll be eating outside, and it will be cold if you don’t get a spot next to one of the outdoor heaters. ”
“That sounds tasty, but …” Rose glanced between us, clearly uncomfortable. “I don’t want to intrude. Besides, my friend is here in town with me—”
“Bring her,” I insisted.
“Yes!” Eleanor agreed. “The more the merrier, and I would love to meet her.”
Rose hesitated, and I could practically see her brain calculating social obligations versus escape routes.
I jumped in before she could plan another polite decline. “It’s settled then. Now go rest up, because tomorrow I’m going to give you something much more challenging to work on before we go out, and you’ll need your strength.”
Rose’s expression shifted into something resembling competitive interest. “We’ll see about that. Good night.” She reached for her coat and headed for the exit, and I watched her go.
“She’s an absolutely lovely woman, don’t you think?” Eleanor said beside me.
“Yeah …” I realized I was still staring at the door, even though she was gone. I glanced at Eleanor and cleared my throat. “I mean, yeah, Rose seems nice. Professional. Good with numbers.”
“Whatever you say …” Eleanor gave me a look that suggested she wasn’t buying my casual deflection for one second, but mercifully, she didn't press the issue. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t stay too late.”
“I’m not planning on it,” I said.
She gathered her things, locked the door behind her, and left me alone in the quiet library.
I quickly changed out of the Santa suit, then settled at my desk, powered up my computer, and logged into my secure network.
It was time to get to work—meaningful work that would change lives.
I reached for the photo participation forms and began flipping through them. Sophie’s family was my priority, the shy girl whose father’s truck had been stolen.
My fingers flew across the keyboard, pulling their info through every database I could access.
Public records, credit histories, and employment verification.
Sophie’s father worked at a warehouse in Wenatchee; her mother at the Leavenworth Nutcracker Museum.
Solid employment records, zero red flags.
Good people. Bad luck.
I accessed the Chevrolet dealership’s inventory system in Seattle, searching for the perfect truck. I always rotated brands to avoid patterns.
A brand new Chevy Silverado caught my eye, four doors, fully loaded, a truck that could handle Wenatchee winters and cover a family’s needs.
The purchase flowed through one of my shell nonprofits, anonymous and clean.
The dealership would receive payment from what appeared to be a legitimate nonprofit organization.
The car would be delivered to Sophie’s address the next day with a note saying they’d been selected as recipients of a community assistance program.
After the transaction was complete, I pulled up the next form from Alina, the girl with asthma whose parents struggled to afford her medication. I ran their information through the same background check and then—
A warning flashed across my screen.
Security Alert: Network Abnormalities Detected
I froze as more warnings popped up.
Unauthorized Port Access
Unexplained CPU Spikes
I had a breach.
An unwanted visitor.
A sniffer was trying to capture my network traffic.
Admittedly, I was more than surprised. My encryption was like a bank vault with a lock that re-engineered itself every time someone tried to pick it—constantly changing the core components and key generation algorithms so that by the time an intruder found a way inside, the entire entry point had already morphed into something completely different.
Someone had gotten through anyway.
I accessed my network monitoring tools, tracking the intrusion in real-time. The pattern was sophisticated. Professional. This wasn’t some amateur stumbling across my system. This was someone who knew exactly what they were doing.
I activated my digital exterminator protocol.
With a single keystroke, every footprint I’d left disappeared into oblivion. The intruder would stand in the middle of a digital desert with no trail, no data, and absolutely nothing to look at except their own failure.
Whoever it was, they were next-level good. Not government—the approach was too creative, too unconventional.
Tomorrow, I’d reassess and try to figure out who was sniffing around my network, possibly even run some counter-reconnaissance of my own. But tonight? I needed to be invisible.
I powered off my computer and the library Wi-Fi, then gathered the participation forms and locked them in my desk drawer.
Extra caution was now mandatory. A single slip-up, one detectable pattern, and my whole Robin Hood campaign would crumble like a sandcastle at high tide.