Secret Agent Santa. Carol Ericson

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      “Makes sense, but he’s a little young.”

      “I know. That was years ago—when I was obsessed.”

      He searched her face for any sign of irony, but he saw only concentration as she shoved the first thumb drive into the USB port on the side of the laptop.

      She double-clicked on the device and then dragged the lone file to the desktop. “I can bring up the videos side by side. The similarities are more apparent that way.”

      She pulled out the drive and inserted the second one. She repeated the drag-and-drop action.

      As she opened the first video, he held his breath. Before she clicked Play, she double-clicked on the other video.

      “Are you ready?”

      His heart pounded in his chest and he didn’t know why. He’d seen the Shane Chadwick video before, and he’d seen a lot worse. But if he saw nothing in the videos, no likeness between the terrorist who murdered Shane and the man meeting with Correll, he’d have to leave. He’d have to leave Claire Chadwick to her delusions and fantasies.

      He didn’t want to leave her.

      “Mike? Are you ready?”

      He scooted his chair closer to the table. “I’m ready. Let’s see what you’ve got here.”

      She played the first video for a few minutes, stopped it and then played the second. Back and forth she went, freezing the action, pointing out the tilt of the man’s head, a hand gesture, the slope of his shoulders, the shape of his face.

      She brought up several frames where she’d zoomed in on his eyes, where it looked like the pupil was bleeding into the iris.

      It was as if she’d prepared and delivered this presentation many times before. She probably had—in her head.

      At the end of the show, she placed her hands on either side of the laptop and drew back her shoulders. “What do you think?”

      Had she cast a spell on him with her violet eyes? Had his desire to stay with her, to protect her, colored his perception?

      He drew in a deep breath. “I think you’re onto something.”

      She closed her eyes and slumped in her seat. “Thank God. You do see it, don’t you?”

      “I do. Both men definitely have the same condition with their right eye.”

      She grabbed his arm. “I’m not crazy, am I? I’m not imagining this?”

      He took her slender hand between both of his. “You’re not crazy, Claire. He may not be the same man. I mean, it would be quite a coincidence, but there’s enough of a similarity between them, especially that coloboma in his eye, to warrant further investigation.”

      She disentangled her hand from his and, leaning forward, threw her arms around his neck. “You don’t know how much that means to me to hear you say that.”

      Her soft hair brushed the side of his face, a few strands clinging to his lips, and the smell of her musky perfume engulfed him. He dropped one hand to her waist to steady her so she wouldn’t topple out of her chair.

      A tremble rolled through her body and she pulled away, wiping a tear from her cheek.

      “I’m sorry.” She sniffled. “I usually don’t get emotional like this, but it’s been a long time since I could confide in someone.”

      “I understand, but—” he clicked the mouse twice and closed both videos “—I’m just looking into it at this point. It may lead to nothing.”

      She dabbed her nose with a tissue and squared her shoulders. “Of course. I didn’t mean to put any pressure on you.”

      He bit the inside of his cheek, drawing blood for his punishment. He should’ve comforted her, held her, wiped her tears instead of bringing her back to cold, hard reality.

      “What’s the first step?” She snapped the laptop closed and swept it from the desk.

      “I’m going to send those stills and close-ups I copied to your thumb drive to our team at Prospero. I need to get to my secure computer, which I left in the hotel safe.”

      “We should go back to your hotel anyway, so you can bring the rest of your stuff over to the house.” She stuffed the laptop back into her bag.

      “Exactly, but I’m keeping the hotel room and I’m leaving a few of my things there.”

      “Like your secure laptop?”

      “Yeah. Speaking of security, I think you should put both thumb drives back in the bank once I complete my transmission.”

      “Don’t worry. I’ve been guarding those little storage devices with my life.” She waved the other thumb drive and zipped it into an inner pocket of the coat she’d flung across the table.

      “So,” he said as he held up one hand and ticked off his index finger, “we head to my hotel back in DC, I send the images and then we return here to stash everything back in your safe deposit box.”

      She glanced at her expensive-looking watch. “If we can get back here in time. It’s already late.”

      “Then we’ll put both thumb drives in my hotel safe this afternoon, and come back here tomorrow after you drop off Ethan and Lori at the airport.” He stood up and stretched, glancing out the window at the rows of stacks. They’d had the laptop with its gruesome images facing away from the window—just another couple of coworkers poring over a project together.

      “Sounds like a plan.” She shoved out her hand and then laughed when he took it lightly in his own. “Don’t worry, Mike. I’m not going to fall apart again.”

      He squeezed her hand and pulled her in until they were almost nose to nose. He was close enough to see the flecks in her deep blue eyes that gave them their purple hue. “You have every right and reason to fall apart.”

      She lifted her shoulders. “Doesn’t mean I should.”

      She broke away from his grasp and spun around to sweep her coat from the table and sling her bag over her shoulder. “Let’s get down to business.”

      He stuffed his arms into his jacket and opened the door for her. The giggling teens had finished whatever it was they were doing, a homeless guy slouched in a chair in the corner and the stacks were empty.

      Mike stepped outside behind Claire, and an insistent car alarm assaulted his ears, an unwelcome jolt after the peace and quiet of the library. He stuck his fingers in his ears. “That’s so annoying.”

      “Mike.” Claire quickened her pace down the library steps, clamping her bag against her side.

      “What? Is that your car?”

      “I think it is.” She plunged her hand into her coat pocket and aimed the key fob in front of her, pointing it at her car at the curb.

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