The ransom note was made of Christmas cutouts—wrapping foils and letters taken from festive cards, seasonal packaging from takeout coffees, cookies, cranberry jam, and toffees labels. It was a fucking mess to read.

Not to mention, part of it had torn when he unfolded it earlier, the bits glued together where they weren’t meant to be. Lynx drew up his restoration magic—the physical states of the letter lit up in a stack of blueprints, each one going back in time by a second. He shuffled through them, going days back in time to the moment before it was ever folded up.

The rip in the paper mended itself, only now it was also sticky. Lynx scanned it with his wristband, transferred the image to his monitor. To think, once upon a time, paper letters were the primary form of communication. He shuddered at the thought. “Chan,” he said to the AI assistant on his computer, “read.”

Lynx frowned. A ransom note? There was nothing specific in the note except his own name, and no evidence that his brother was in any sort of danger.

The ransom of £5000 seemed completely random. They weren’t a rich family.

Paranoia gnawed at him. No, something was off with the note. Could this be revenge, some colourful, twisted stunt for the crime of being brothers with an officer? Because Lynx had crossed his share of deranged criminals, and such people had networks.

Sometimes Lynx wanted to disappear, never again worry about how his job endangered everyone else.

Lynx rubbed his eyes, his throat constricting just at the possibility of it happening—again. Why would anyone have a reason for kidnapping Fox this time? Only four months ago he’d recovered his brother from a lunatic.

Breathe. Hearing his brother Fox’s voice would tell him all he needed to know.

With a tap on his wristband, he dialed his brother.

His breath hitched when the call picked up. “Fox-”

“Ah Detective Lynx,” an electronically modified voice said. “I knew you’d call.”

Lynx gritted his teeth. His brother had to be fine. Those who got ransom notes were often families of high-profile victims, political targets, billionaires. Fox was none of these things. Something else was up—Lynx hoped to God that was the case.

He connected his device to his computer and started a trace. “Who’s this?”

“Santa’s elf, lots of elves. We needed presents and we don’t have enough.”

The map of London swivelled, zooming in with each second as the computer tried to locate where the signal was coming from. Where’s Fox? Keeping the caller online long enough for the trace was a priority. “So you hired my brother to be an elf,” Lynx replied, keeping his voice cool.

“Oh no, Lynx. He’s the present. Unless you would really rather have toast instead.”

“How do I know you have him?”

“I also have toast.”

Lynx growled, “What’s that got to do with my brother?”

“It’s a clue, Lynx. A man like you should be able to connect the dots. Now think, what sort of deranged idiot would be obsessed with toast?”

Lynx really had no goddamn idea. Could this be a prank? “Fox, if this is you, it isn’t funny.”

“So he’s the one who likes toast, huh.”

It didn’t even sound like Fox—his brother didn’t talk like this. Nobody talked like this. Was the caller reading from a script?

He ran a hand through his hair. “You don’t have him. This is a prank.”

“Would a prankster know enough about tracing technology to mess with your signal right now?”

Lynx’s attention snapped back to the monitor. Red dots indicating locations were flashing all over London—ten in total. Moments later, the dots multiplied to twenty. His lips thinned.

“So, are you going to behave?” asked the voice on the call.

“One of those locations will be yours, I guarantee it.”

The voice chuckled. Through the electronic modifications, it sounded like strings being twanged. “So find me. You have twenty-four hours. Good luck. Santa’s watching.”

The caller hung up.

Lynx blinked, his mind in shambles. He studied the map on the screen, the location markers a quieter blue dot now that the call was no longer ongoing. 320 addresses compiled below the map with a timestamp next to each. The caller probably used a secure server on their end that cloned the signal and replicated it across London. Lynx could just demand the I.P. location from the server provider as an officer, but that seemed too easy.

He put in a request for the IT department to trace the provider. It would take time before anyone handled it—and studied the map again. Disappearing clues. With a swipe, he transferred the map on the screen to his desk and enlarged it, watching each of the blue dots spread.

A man like you should be able to connect the dots.

Lynx picked up a stylus and began to draw lines between the locations.

He stepped back to examine the lines and shapes he’d drawn over the map—arguably resembling a piece of bitten-off toast, or a lopsided house. He dropped his head into his hands with a growl. Toasts. Was he really thinking about toasts?

A knock came at the door. He looked up to the receptionist, Susanna, coming in with a cup of coffee in her hands. She was a refreshing change from the dreary walls of his office. Her hair was tied back into a single braid, dyed blue and pink, her signature big glasses sitting on top of her head.

“It’s not your turn for the evening shift,” he said.

“I’m just about to go,” she said. “But I thought I’d bring you this first.”

He blinked at the coffee. “That’s for me?”

“Yeah. It’s just how you like it, plain with a splash of cream. Bit boring, if you ask me.”

“That’s perfect. Thank you so much,” he said, taking it from her. When had she paid attention to how he liked his coffee? “Susie, do you know where I can get a good piece of toast in London?”

“Toast? For dinner?”

“Humour me.”

Susanna flicked her gaze at the map in front of him. “Right. If it’s actual toast you want, Crispy Sausages is probably the best. They have loads of stands all over London.”

Lynx smiled, nodding for her to continue. The best information was often unprompted.

“They do the best doggo toast. It’s just sliced up sausages on toast, but I like to add maple syrup to the cheese sauce and fried onions.” She laughed at the grimace on his face. “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it! There’s one near the station. Here, Waterlow Park.”

Not five minutes from them—and where one of the blue dots was. “Thanks, Susie. I’ll check it out.”

“Do you need me to grab you something? I can pop over.”

His smile warmed. “No, thanks. You should head on home. I need to see the place for a case.”

Her face fell ever so slightly, but then the twinkling smile was back. “Did the toast commit a crime?”

A quiet laugh broke out of him. “Yes, maybe.”

“Don’t stay too late.”

Lynx turned his attention back to the map as she left and shut the door. He did a search for Crispy Sausages to see if any more locations overlapped with the Caller’s scattered GPS locations—and found more than half of them did.

He drew a circle connecting them all and looked at the heart of it: Oxford Street, where the London Christmas Lights were. The display would stay up till the end of the first week of January to herald the coming of the New Year.

He dialed Fox again, hoping his brother would pick up—and confirm the Caller was also just Fox fucking around. He couldn’t remember the last time he talked to Fox, come to think of it.

The person you’re calling is unavaila-

Lynx put his head in his hands, unease twisting his stomach. Fox was fine, right?