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“No presents were unwrapped,” I said. “I wasn’t even curious enough to peek. But what does Sherlock’s note have to do with Cane stealing toys?”

“Cane is part of the Misfit Mafia,” Dingleberry said. “He’s stealing toys for them. I know he is!”

“But why?” Rosebud said. “That’s what I don’t understand. There’s never been any proof that the Misfit Mafia existed, much less this organized. Why would Cane get Gumdrop out of the way and frame him for a murder just to steal toys? I can only think of one reason, but I hope I’m wrong. What do you think, Coal?”

I let Rosebud’s question chase an answer around in my noggin, but I didn’t like what I kept catching. The only thing I could figure was a lot worse than I could ever imagine. A lot worse. And it made me mad and sick to my stomach.

“Cane wants to be Santa Claus,” I said like it was a curse. Dingleberry started crying again and Rosebud shook her head no.

“That’s what I thought too, but Cane doesn’t have it in him, I tell ya,” she said. “Make your case.”

“He who has the most toys wins,” I said. “Cane wants to be liked, to be beloved. Who’s more loved than Santa? Cane wants the power to make children happy and for them to love him. The Misfit Mafia is a fake. Like Santa, Cane’s not going to unload a lot of junk on kids. They wouldn’t adore him and that’s what Cane wants. But the difference between Cane and Claus, or Santa and anybody really, is that Santa really and truly cares about the kids, not the adulation. In fact, caring so much about the kids’ happiness is what is killing Santa, wearing him out. The only thing standing in Santa’s way of doing more for years has been . . .”

“Gumdrop Coal,” Dingleberry said.

“Bingo,” I said. “As long as there was a Naughty List, Santa would not have to worry about giving something to every single kid in the world. But get me and my old-fashioned notions out of the way, and the Fat Man’s got a ton of toys to make.”

“And he wears himself out doing it,” Dingleberry said with a sniffle. “You should see him too. He looks like he could fade away any second!”

“There wouldn’t be a drop of blood on Cane’s lily-white hands.” Rosebud said the last part, and, for the first time since I’d known her, she looked scared. “And then Cane just slithers on in, tells Santa he’ll take care of everything while the old man naps or—” Rosebud stopped breathing.

“Or the Fat Man goes beard up,” I said, finishing her awful thought. All of us were quiet for a bit after that. We were trying not to imagine a world without Santa Claus. Santa was the only goodness some kids knew. Once a year, hope came in the form of a toy truck or teddy bear. Santa made it possible for kids to understand the true meaning of Christmas. To a kid, the gift the Child gave the world is a little too much to understand. Everlasting life doesn’t mean much when you’re six. But as kids get older, and they hear Christmas’s old, old story, they start connecting that toy that made them feel special to the Child in the manger—the gift that lets us know that we are all special. Like clutching that teddy bear, the Child gives us peace, a presence, a feeling to cling to in the dark. His gift is wonderful, made just for you and your happiness. Going from believing in Santa to believing in the Child is an easy step because Santa shows us that we can all reflect the light of the Child if we try. Even if we’re naughty, Santa finds a way to forgive and give. How could I forget that? Santa shows the joy that comes with giving. Take the bridge from Santa to the Child away and the road to believing in anything good is a dead end.

Now I was scared.

“We need to tell Santa,” Dingleberry said.

“I don’t think he’d believe me,” I said. “Cane’s done a pretty good job of framing me. No, Candy Cane’s going to have to confess.”

“How are you going to get him to spill?” Rosebud asked.

“We’re going to frolic and play, the Eskimo way,” I said.

“What does that mean?” Dingleberry asked.

“I think