I stare at the wall full of security monitors, praying I can spot Bree. Next to me, a team of security personnel look over the shoulder of the guy at the control panel. He flips through the camera angles, responding to commands to zoom in, turn, pan.

It’s hard to see a child walking among all the adults. Would the kidnapper have changed her clothes already? Maybe put a wig on her?

I vocalize my concerns to the chief of security.

“That’s a possibility,” he replies. “We’ve set up checkpoints at all the exits. He won’t get far.”

“What about the one leading to the subway? There’s one underground that steps directly onto the train.”

“You mean BART?” the man at the console replies.

Right. BART is short for Bay Area Rapid Transit. In New York, we simply say subway or train.

“Of course that’s what I mean,” I snap, irritable now. “He could have taken her anywhere by now.”

“True, but we’re capturing every exit on the video feed.” He points to a monitor showing the exit to the train station.

All I see are masses of people, some wheeling strollers and others holding children wearing winter coats.

“How can you see inside the strollers? Shouldn’t you have a guard inspect every child?”

There’s a loud thump as the heavy steel door opens. Two San Francisco police officers follow a security guard. They remove their caps and shake my hand, introducing themselves.

I’m questioned and repeat everything that happened starting with Bree’s visit to Santa, but they want me to go further back.

“Are you involved in a custody dispute?”

“Do you have any reason to suspect someone of taking an interest in your child?”

“Have you seen any suspicious people following you around before you visited the mall?”

“Do you have enemies?”

The first three questions are a definite ‘no.’ Not a chance, but that last one? Who can truly know? I can’t imagine my coworkers at the bank, even the interns I screwed out of a job, would waste their time trapping my child. I haven’t dated since college, so there’s no lurking ex-boyfriend, nor have I made any friends or enemies during my short prison stint. The girls in the cleaning crew have no idea of my past life as a banker, and no one at church envies the hard life I live.

The police tell me they’ve set up a press conference and ask me to rehearse what I’m going to say while I wait for the camera crew. They access my Facebook account to download pictures of Bree, and I call my mother, asking her to meet me at mall security. I’m thankful she’s the calm, collected type, well, except for musical performances, but she assures me she’s on her way to stand by me when I hold the press conference.

I have no clue what I’m going to say. It’ll be one of those tearful appeals, the kind I always turn away from when it was someone else. I wring my hands, worrying the tissue paper into shreds, willing myself to hold it together, to concentrate on the security screens.

My eyes flash from the train to the Santa Throne to the coffee shop to the center court. A broad-shouldered man walks around the giant Christmas tree holding hands with …

“There!” I point to the screen. “That’s Bree. She’s with that man.”

The people in the room spring into action. They speak on walkie-talkies, lock the camera onto the man and zoom in, while others rush for the door. I scramble after them, in the wake of the two police officers.

The chief of security tries to hold me back. “Let the police handle it. It could be dangerous.”

“No way am I going to let that man hurt my daughter.” I take off running after the officers who move quickly toward the tree.

The crowds of people part when they see the officers with their hands over their holsters. My heart jumps to my throat. What if Bree’s caught in the crossfire?

“Hands up,” the police shout. “Let go of the child.”

The man slowly raises his hands. I rush toward Bree, calling her name.

A guard grabs my arm. “Stay back until they get the situation under control.”

“Bree, Mama’s here. Come here. Everything’s going to be okay.” I entreat her, but she stands still.

What’s wrong with her? She has her arms locked around the man’s legs.

He’s a large fellow, scruffy with dirty blond hair, wearing carpenter pants and a black T-shirt under a worn khaki raincoat. Typical child molester profile.

The officers move in and cuff him as I pry Bree’s arms from his legs.

He says nothing, his dark blue eyes fixed on me, as if I’m his target in all of this. Could he be a disgruntled former employee? Maybe one of the analysts I backstabbed on my way up the corporate ladder?

“That’s my papa,” Bree yells. “We was looking for you.”

“He’s her father?” the head of security says. “I thought you said there’s no custody issue.”

I stand to my full height, picking up Bree. “He’s definitely not her father. Do your job and lock him up.”

I glare at the man, noting his unkempt appearance. “You better not have hurt my daughter, or you’ll have hell to pay.”

“But Mama,” Bree lisps, now sucking on a red and green candy cane. “Santa pwo-mised. Can we take Papa home?”

I hug and kiss Bree, shuddering at the thought of this animal hurting my precious baby. “Not right now, sweetie. Nana’s waiting for us at church.”

“Ma’am,” the police officer says. “Are you filing charges against this man? He says he found your daughter and they were looking for you.”

“Did it look like they were looking for me?” I turn Bree away from him. “He bought her a candy cane. He was obviously luring her away with him.”

“Is that true?” the officer asks the man.

“I bought her the candy, but I was helping her find her mother.” The man, who’s still handcuffed, points his chin at me.

“Why didn’t you turn her over to mall security?” the police officer asks.

“Bree wanted me to find her mother.” He has the audacity to wink at me. “And I wanted to meet the lovely lady and be her hero.”

“Papa!” Bree says. “Santa gave me a papa. Puhwease? Can we take him home?”

Her cuteness draws chuckles from the guards around us. A female spectator comments, “I’ll take him if you don’t want him.”

“Am I free to leave?” the man asks the officer.

The officer turns to his partner who has the man’s ID. “What do we have here?”

“Uh, name’s Tyler Manning,” the second officer reads from his tablet computer. “No arrest record. Army Rangers, medical discharge from service in Afghanistan.”

“Tyler Manning?” My mother’s voice reaches me as she grasps my arm. “Aren’t you the young man who gave up football to fight the war on terror?”

Tyler nods, and a grin splits his decidedly too rugged and much too handsome face. “Yes, ma’am, that would be me.”

The tide shifts among the officers and onlookers. Several bystanders snap pictures of Tyler with their camera phones.

“Are you pressing charges?” the officer says to me. “You got your daughter back.”

“Only because I happened to spot him on the security camera. Otherwise, he would have gotten away with her.”

“He was only trying to keep her from getting lost,” a female voice cuts in. “I saw them. The little girl asked him for a cookie.”

I get the distinct impression I’ve been outgunned by the dazzling, roguish charm of the former football player. The officers are looking at him slack-jawed and wide-eyed as if wishing they could ask for his autograph.

The tension breaks when Bree holds her arms to Mr. Manning and says, “Nana, that’s my papa. See? I told you I have a real papa, not a fake one like on TV.”

Everyone laughs, and the officer removes the handcuffs from Mr. Manning. The crowd of shoppers surge to the war hero, asking for his autograph or posing to take pictures with him.

One man who styles himself a reporter takes a video while saying, “A good Samaritan almost got arrested today when he helped a little girl find her mother. It turns out he’s none other than Tyler Manning, former Stanford quarterback who was drafted by the Raiders before joining the Army to fight for our country.”

“Let’s go.” I weave with Bree and my mother through the gathering crowd.

“Miss? Miss?” Another man trains his smartphone at me as if it were a microphone. “Any comments? Is Mr. Manning your daughter’s father?”

“I’ve never seen the guy before.” I sidestep the amateur reporters and head for the exit. “Mr. Manning is the last guy I want around my daughter.”

He might have gotten away with attempted kidnapping due to the stupidity of hero worshippers. Arrogant jerk. Who does he think he is to flirt with me and claim Bree wanted his help so he could meet me, the so-called lovely lady?

And the way his voice caressed me, and the slow wink, as if he knew exactly who I am? Creepy. Where could I have crossed paths with him? No way are my insides jiggling with jolts of electricity because of his charmed offensive. I’m not that kind of ditz to be affected by a mere hunk of a man.

Thanks to him, I almost lost my most precious daughter. That’s enough to unsettle even the iron maiden herself.

“Kelly,” my mother says, taking out her car keys. “Why were you so rude to Mr. Manning? We’ll never make it to church on time now.”

“Mama?” Bree asks. “Is Papa coming to church?”

“He’s not your father.” My breath seethes through my teeth. “You’re not supposed to talk to strangers.”

“Do I get a time out?” She sucks on the blasted red and green jumbo candy cane. “I’m sowrry.”

“Never, ever run off from me.” I hug her tight. “Remember the story of the big bad wolf pretending to be grandma? That man was tricking you. You don’t have a father. You have me and Nana.”

Teary blue eyes blink, large like saucers. “Santa pwo-mised. He did.”