A Case of Christmas (3 page)

hauling groceries from the market, he probably
had
overdone it. If he thought his family

was nagging him now, it would be nothing to the symphony of shame he’d be subjected

to if he landed back in the hospital.

“Uh, no,” the guy in the black and blue flannel shirt said. “No thanks.” He wasn’t

looking at Shane, and his voice sounded muffled, strange…

Strange but familiar.

Shane went down the little walk to his cottage door, fumbled the door open, and

dropped his groceries on the sofa. His hands were shaking.

“You’re crazy,” he muttered to himself.

After two years he couldn’t possibly remember what Norton’s voice had sounded

like.

His heart was pounding so hard he felt sick.

“He doesn’t even look the same,” he protested, but he went over to the window,

twitched the blinds wide open, and stared out.

From across the road, the man on the ladder was staring at Shane’s cottage.

He didn’t look like Norton. The hair was wrong. Norton’s hair had been a wild

yellow bush. The build was… Norton had always worn baggy, loose clothing…clogs,

earrings, beads…but he had been tall and well-built. Like the guy across the street. His

face…

It bothered Shane that he had difficulty remembering Norton’s face. Especially since

he was trained to remember facial types. But whenever he tried to recall Norton’s

features, his memories were troublingly vague. Norton had looked like a lot of people. He

had been attractive, but nothing in his attractiveness had really stuck out. He’d had a nice

grin, and he’d made a lot of faces when he was joking around. Expressive. That was it.

His eyes had been alert, his demeanor lively. His features had an almost malleable quality

to them.

The guy staring at Shane’s cottage—in fact, he was probably watching Shane watch

him—was still and unsmiling. Secretive? Or was Shane projecting? But yeah, had Norton

ever had an alarmed or disbelieving moment, that was likely the expression—or lack of

expression—he’d have worn.

Shane left the window and went outside. The man on the ladder observed him cross

the road. There was no traffic. No golf carts. No pedestrians. Nobody out this misty, gray

morning but Shane and…whoever this guy was.

Shane came to a stop on the narrow sidewalk outside the white picket fence

surrounding Norton’s cottage. “Well,” he said. “This is a surprise.”

“Yeah?” the man on the ladder said defensively. “Is it?”

Yep, the voice was definitely Norton’s.

“You looked pretty surprised to me a minute ago. What are you doing here?”

“I live here.”

“No, you don’t.”

The blue eyes—how had he forgotten Norton’s eyes were a cold, clear blue?—

hardened. “Not all year, I don’t. In the spring and summer I rent the cottage out.”

Shane heard it, but it didn’t really register. He was busy with his own thoughts,

struggling to contain the volcano of feelings threatening to erupt out of him. He

felt…peculiar. Emotional. He was confused and angry, and he wasn’t exactly sure why.

Normally he was controlled and rational. He liked that about himself. He believed it was

what made him a good agent. A civilized man. A grown-up. But he did not feel

controlled right now. He felt…like his head was about to explode. Like red-hot rocks

were going to crack the roof of his skull and go flying, shattering nearby windows

perhaps.

He said, “It is you, right? Norton?”

If it wasn’t Norton, it was his twin. Or his doppelgänger.

The man in front of him didn’t answer, seemed to be considering what he should say,

and for some reason that made Shane all the angrier.

“I mean, I already know Norton isn’t your actual name. That much, I figured out a

long time ago. It would be nice to know the rest of it.”

Nice
wasn’t exactly the word.

Norton’s—no, not-Norton’s eyes narrowed. “What is it you think you figured out?”

“You’re some kind of investigator. You were hired by the family or by the Bureau.

I’m guessing the family. The Fallons. To investigate me.”

“That’s right,” not-Norton said. “I worked for Metropolitan Mutual. The Fallons’

insurance company. And, as you know, I cleared you of all suspicion of wrongdoing, and

you got your job back. So…you’re welcome.”

“W-w-welcome!” stuttered Shane. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say to me?”

Not-Norton frowned. “What would you like me to say to you?”

Un. Fucking. Believable.

“For starters, what are you doing here? You didn’t own this place two years ago.”

“No, I didn’t. I bought it last year.”

“Why would you do that?”

Not-Norton looked bewildered. “Why wouldn’t I? I was looking around for a

vacation place on the coast, and I like Catalina. I had a great time here that spring.”

“A great time!”

Not-Norton was getting more grim and guarded-looking by the second. It was

surreal. No, it was whatever was more surreal than surreal. Fantastical? Hallucinatory?

There had to be a word. It was confusing how much he looked like Norton and how

utterly and absolutely different he was.

“Look,” not-Norton pressed on, “I’m not sure what the problem is. We had a nice

thing a couple of years ago. Right? Did I miss something? You got your job back. I

helped
you get your job back.”

It was like they were from distant planets and the homeworld hand gestures were just

not the same. Not-Norton seemed to feel he was making a peace sign, and Shane felt like

he was getting an
Up Yours
. Repeatedly. With greater and greater emphasis.

It had to be due to recently getting out of the hospital or something like that because

Shane could feel himself growing more and more emotional and upset, which served to

make him
more
emotional and upset. This wasn’t like him. None of this was like him. He

was behaving like…well, for sure not like not-Norton, who had enjoyed “the nice thing a

couple of years ago” and never given him another thought.

Which Shane
already
knew. Was obvious from the way things had ended. So why

the drama? He had accepted for years that the timing of not-Norton’s leaving had not

been a coincidence. Shane had worked it out a long time ago. Not-Norton had to have

been some kind of an investigator working for the Fallons.

Or
he actually
was
an international art thief, and he’d figured out what Shane did for

a living.

God. Yes. As ridiculous as that second scenario had been, it had actually crossed

Shane’s mind a few times. In fact, in an unacknowledged corner of his heart he’d

preferred that scenario because it meant not-Norton hadn’t had a choice. It meant Shane

hadn’t just been…a job.

But Shane
had
been just another job. That was clear from the way not-Norton was

eyeing him. Like Shane was behaving in an unexpected and worrying way.

Which made Shane feel foolish on top of…whatever else he was feeling. Certainly

embarrassed. Because here he was, yelling in the street about, well, getting dumped. Two

years ago. And since he was actually not that great at gracefully severing connections

himself, this was probably poetic justice. Or something equally awful.

He pulled himself together and said coldly, “You’re right. No problem on my side.

Happy Holidays.”

He turned, crossed the street, and went into his cottage.

He closed the door very quietly, stared without recognition or interest at the

groceries tumbled on the sofa, and turned to the window facing the street in time to see

not-Norton drop his string of lights, swear, and climb down the ladder.

Shane sat down and rested his head in his hands. He was still shaking—which, even

if it was only adrenaline, was infuriating—and he took some deep, practice breaths.

And see, it was all total bullshit because he remembered that moment when not-

Norton had spotted him, recognized him, and nearly tumbled off his ladder. He had

reacted to the unexpected sight of Shane with… Unfortunately it was hard to tell what

that reaction had been.

Surprise, for sure, also probably alarm. At least that was Shane’s suspicion.
Guilt
.

Yes. For sure there had to have been guilt in that reaction, right?

Because whatever not-Norton—
what the fuck was his real name?
—said now, Shane

was experienced enough to know there had been something more than sex between them.

Or at least the potential for more than sex. He had believed so at the time, anyway. And

even if there hadn’t been, that was a really shitty way to treat someone. And on top of

everything else, how the hell unprofessional to sleep with someone you were

investigating? Who
did
that?

Well, okay, sometimes federal agents did that. People in the CIA did that.

Undercover cops did that. But whoever and whatever that guy-who-wasn’t-really-named-

Norton was, he should
not
have done that.

Shane raised his head, turned back to the window, and watched his neighbor regain

his perch on the ladder and begin stringing lights again. Red to match the cottage door.

Cute. Festive.

“Asshole,” he growled.

Now, instead of having a nice, quiet, peaceful week to rest and recuperate, Shane

was going to have to put up with this constant reminder of one of the most painful

periods of his life.

Silver ticked and splattered against the window pane. It was starting to rain again.

The man across the street continued to thread the red string of lights through the little

hooks along the edge of the cottage roof. Shane glowered. What kind of fool mixed rain

and Christmas lights? Hey, great! Maybe the idiot could get his old Norton hairstyle

back.

Out of all the towns and villages on the coast, not-Norton had to pick Catalina to buy

his vacation home? And like that wasn’t enough, had to pick the cottage right across the

street from Shane? Come on. It was ridiculous. It was bullshit.

And then have the gall to act like
Shane
was the one behaving strangely?

Who did Norton think he was kidding?

Shane jumped up and headed back outside. He stood on his doorstep, stared at

Norton still busily, industriously stringing his lights—although he threw a quick, guarded

glance Shane’s way—and then Shane marched down the stairs and crossed the little street

yet again—although really the houses were close enough together he could have just

shouted. Since he already was…shouting.

Or close to shouting as he picked up right about where they had left off four minutes

earlier.

“You didn’t think you owed me any kind of explanation? I mean, you could have left

a note.”

Norton put down the lasso of lights and let out a long breath—like someone hanging

on to his patience in the face of much provocation. “You’re still talking about two years

ago?”

“Yes, I am. You don’t think that was maybe a kind of lousy thing to do to someone?

I had no idea what happened to you.”

Norton said, “You’re in the FBI. If you’d wanted to find out, I bet you could have

without too much trouble.”

Yes, he could have. And yes, he had considered it. More than once. But it had been

pretty clear that Norton had not been kidnapped, and Shane was not about to go chasing

after someone who clearly didn’t want to stay in touch.

“It seems pretty gutless to me.”

“Gutless?” Norton—
God, stop calling him that
—straightened sharply, and the ladder

wobbled. “That’s what you think?”

“That’s what I think.” Shane felt a vicious and entirely uncharacteristic wish for

Norton to come charging down that ladder so he could have the satisfaction of smacking

him in his arrogant kisser. That would be Shane smacking Norton, although it was

probably going to be a two-way smackfest.

In any case, after a dangerous moment while Norton clearly considered the same

scenario, he said, “I guess if I cared what you think, I would have taken the time to say

good-bye.”

Well. That hurt. Unlike Shane—when Shane was his normal, reasonable self—

Norton was not a guy who pulled his punches. But you know what? That was okay

because Shane did not need anyone pulling punches on his behalf. In fact, he was glad

they’d had this little chat because now it was all quite clear in his mind. He had grieved—

no, not grieved, but always held up those thirteen days with the-lover-formerly-known-

as-Norton as some kind of gold standard for the relationships that followed, and now he

realized his emotional economics system had been based, at best, on counterfeit money.

Nice to get things resolved. However, despite his pleasure, he couldn’t think of a

damned thing to say that wouldn’t sound like he had been gut-punched.

He settled for a terse, “Whatever,” turned, and walked straight into a golf cart.