Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. Don't own references to: the song "She'll Be Coming 'Round The Mountain"; the movie Killer Klowns From Outer Space or the Ice Age movies; the band Relient K; Rick Astley; Rambo; BMX bikes; 7-11; I do not own the content (in italics and quotes) about Vancouver, which comes from "Go Northwest! Travel Guide" and from this website: http:/www[dot]gonorthwest[dot]com/BC/Vancouver_Area/Vancouver-Area[dot]htm

Main Characters: Shawn, Juliet

Romantic pairing: Shules

Timeline: Season Five, post "Extradition II: The Actual Extradition" and "In Plain Fright" and "Dual Spires". Minor references to Season Five's "Extradition II: The Actual Extradition", and "In Plain Fright", as well as to Season Four and Season Five in general.

Summary: After extensive convincing, Shawn persuades Juliet to go with him to British Columbia to spend their first Christmas together. When Juliet is delayed by paperwork, Shawn takes their scheduled flight, intending to set up a perfectly romantic surprise for his new girlfriend. In the wrong place at the wrong time, Shawn witnesses a crime in progress and before he can get away, the criminals get him. Will Juliet find him or will she think he flaked on her? How long can Shawn survive sharply drastically low temperatures of the Celsius kind?

(Various) Whumped!- and Disoriented!- and Hypothermic!Shawn

Author's Note: This was a one-shot but I made it a two-shot since it's pretty long. :) Reviews, feedback and constructive criticism are welcome and highly appreciated. Enjoy!

Secret Santa request: "If I get a fic I'm pretty easy to please. Whump makes me happy like most people here, so long as it's not too extreme."

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Close Encounters Of The Celsius Kind

A Psych Secret Santa Story for Lozzaacakes

by silverluna

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Chapter One: So Far Away From Safe And Sound

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In her arms, he'd been in her arms, and she'd burned his throat with her kisses. This was ages ago, before the frost built on his eyelids, before his lips blued, before his hands bent into white claws. He was lying on his back, having fallen here. The odor of blood had frozen with him, in his nostrils, reminding him dizzily of the nasty wound which had started this whole thing. He was supposed to still be in her arms, not outside a few days before Christmas Eve, slowly losing his mind to the chill.

If only they'd still been at home, there was little chance he would have gotten into this much trouble, or so he told himself. But it was entirely too possible he could have gone to the 7-11 for snacks and ended up smashed in the side of the head with a six-pack or jabbed in the ribs with a shotgun as some thief took off or took over—and he'd need the SBPD to come charging in to help. His father, in a moment of rare concern, leaning over him to check his vitals.

He was a long way from them.

Kiss me on my neck, twice. Let me know my net worth. Let your warm, peach-scented tresses trail along my arm as I . . . fall asleep, assured that I am dreaming . . . waking, in real time, with you nestled in my arms.

Instead of this stupid clump of snow, branches, spotted with my own blood.

C c C c C

"Shawn, I'm sorry," Juliet spoke into the phone, her voice soft and careful, as if she weren't alone. "I have a mountain of paperwork to finish before I can get there."

For the first time since he arrived at the airport, Shawn allowed his disappointment to show—and was oddly grateful his girlfriend was not standing across from him to see him acting so childish. "But Jules—" Shawn tried to bite back the whine in his tone; this was not the way to get her to get done with her work faster—instead, it might garner an opposite result. He tipped the mouthpiece of the phone away to let loose an audible huff. "You're just saying that because you don't really want to go to—"

Juliet sighed with frustration. "You know that isn't true," she whispered, but there was a hint of hesitation as she spoke.

"Then why did you let me talk you into it?" Shawn returned, glaring uselessly at his watch. "I know you really wanted to go to Miami—us to go."

"You're very persuasive, Shawn." She deadpanned it, but Shawn took in a note of affection—hope sparked. When he didn't speak, she said, "Please don't take this as some kind of sign I wasn't supposed to go with you—or," she added, "that I'm not excited. But I just can't leave right now—and I can't bribe Carlton to take over my share because I just did that last week so we could go to The Chocolate Festival. He's going to get suspicious—he's paranoid for a living as it is."

Shawn sighed, knowing this was true but not liking one bit of it. But if this was the price they paid for delicious gourmet chocolate body paint, then there was hardly a complaint Shawn could file other than how unfair it was. And he could hardly repeat the whining "Buuuuuuuut I want to spend Christmas with yooooooooooooooooooooooou, Juuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuulllllles—where we first kissed—for the second time—" because he didn't want Juliet to slam the phone down like she had slammed the door in his face the first time he'd tried it. When she'd opened the door, he'd tried it again and she'd shut his mouth with a kiss. Then she'd pushed him back outside and slammed the door in his face again.

But he had been prepared and had rang the doorbell constantly until she opened it, and stuck his foot in the door, risking injury should she decide to slam it again.

"Just hear me out," he coaxed, following her to the dining room. She didn't say anything and didn't turn around until she could anchor her hands on the table. Juliet waited, not looking amused.

Shawn pulled a brochure he'd snagged somewhere in his travels from of his back pocket, reading from it in spite of the whole thing being committed to memory. The pictures inside dated the brochure, as did the dull sheen of the yellowing pages, to a heyday of the late nineties, but the services offered had still been mostly valid when Shawn had first called the numbers. When he'd first called, his intent had been to execute the most romantic long weekend for his first steady adult relationship; so many times, the bottom had dropped out. Shawn sighed to himself, feeling the sting of what was past even as he fixed his lips into a smile.

"Listen to this, Jules!" Shawn said, feeling his mood shift in an upswing as he pretended to be reading the words aloud for the first time.

"The Vancouver Coast and Mountains region, like the rest of British Columbia, comprises a vast and varied topography. Fertile farms, succulent river deltas, arid, rugged canyons, and of course, a teeming metropolis of some of the largest cities in Western Canada make up this expansive region."

He skipped a rather long description about the merits of journeying up and down on Highway 99, picking up again with the finely detailed words of others expressing the allure of Fraser Canyon.

"It is this canyon that gives the region its sense of diversity with its cavernous overlooks, 19th-century gold rush landmarks and seemingly untouched pockets of pristine beauty. Well known for river-rafting opportunities and gondola rides across Hells Canyon, the Fraser Canyon offers an alternative route for experiencing the eclectic beauty of the Coast and Mountains region."

"Shawn," Jules sighed, rolling her eyes deliberately to get his attention. "I've been there. Twice. You really don't have to sell it to me."

Shawn smiled. "Oh, but I think I do. You're hesitating, Jules. How would you like to see Canyon Lights at the Capilano Suspension Bridge? Or take a sleigh ride through an alpine forest on Grouse Mountain? What about a romantic night at the Festival of Lights at the VanDusen Botanical Garden?" His smile was growing wider, his voice pitching a little into a whine he was just now becoming aware of. "We could do all of that, more, whatever you want—just as long as we're there together." Grinning this long was starting to hurt because it wasn't an easy moment where Juliet was taking the delight in with him. She still looked skeptical. He tried another tactic. "We don't have to any of that," he said, dropping his voice. "We could just . . . stay in. Order room service, watch movies on TV."

"We could do that here," Juliet said, as if the romance of their first kiss outside of the United States—unfettered, seemingly unending—was entirely lost on her. "Or . . . we could do that in Miami."

Shawn dropped his smile. "No, we couldn't," he scoffed. "I mean, for the second one. Your family—"

"What about them?" Juliet asked too quickly, making a face akin to the one when Shawn had accused Ewan of wrongdoing—behind her back.

Shawn chewed his lip, not knowing what to say. He had a joke on the tip of his tongue, her family, he pictured, like starving vultures, eager to prey on Juliet's latest fodder. He wondered suddenly if that the bones of that quarterback she briefly dated in Miami weren't somewhere in the kitchen, like a trophy. He swallowed his bad taste. "I'm sure they are sweet," he began, faltering for the rest as he pictured twenty relatives like Ewan, or Henry, or even like Uncle Jack—worse because he wouldn't know anything about them. And what if he "psyched" something about them that might be the start of World War II? Shawn shook his head, guessing he might be off by a number or two. Or three? Five?

"My family is wonderful," Juliet defended. "Lassiter met some of them a few years back. He could—" Juliet closed her eyes as if just realizing the weakness of her argument. She made a face in mild surrender, but still asked, "I don't know why you're afraid of meeting the people who love me, Shawn. Who have supported me through everything."

And everyone? Shawn thought. He knew the real reasons of his fear and hesitation—or at least he thought he did. He decided he wouldn't tell her, and instead made one last plea for what he wanted. "I want to meet your family, I really do, but for our first Christmas, I just want it to be us. I want to celebrate you, how much you mean to me." He saw her eyes twinkling, but he didn't want to be disappointed in front of her if she was only about to laugh. "That's all I wanted to say," Shawn told her. He nodded, and then made himself turn around and leave.

There was a stretch of silence—long enough for him to reach the door before she called out, "You can't just run away from this."

Shawn turned back. He held out his palms. "I sensed you need space to think it over."

Juliet sighed, emotions clashing in her eyes. "You . . . really want to meet my family . . . at some point?"

His face softened. "I do."

Juliet chewed her lip. She waved him to go. "I just want to think," she said.

C c C

A toss of hair, blond so light it was almost white, then gone, hidden back into the hood of cloak of snow. He couldn't be sure he actually saw it. His breath came out in harsh wisps, and he reached for the back of his head where it ached. He wasn't actually surprised to put his fingers on a lump, but he couldn't quite remember how hard he'd hit his head. If he was walking, which he was, Shawn realized slowly, then it couldn't have been that hard, that bad.

His shivering went up a notch, and there was nothing he could do to turn it back down. He walked.

C c C

The light was saturated with low blues by the next time he opened his eyes—no more stark, startling whites—land almost so devoid of color it made his eyes sting. He wasn't used to this, not any of it, in spite of early on having traveled the world like a drifter, learning to adapt quickly when he had too. He had the distant impression that he'd already struggled to his feet, that he'd been walking as the temperature dropped.

Shawn had managed to book them a room at a modest hotel in Vancouver, though he was mildly disappointed he couldn't find anything available in Whistler. On the website, the hotel looked plain, and the accommodations, he guessed, were likely simple and basic. But all that mattered was that she had said yes, and that they had worked out six days—two for travel and four for spending time together—to make the trip. They were scheduled to fly out on the twenty-second and return on the twenty-seventh; Shawn, by himself, had made all of the plans. He "sensed" that Juliet, having given in to his requests, would expect him to do all the work—and for her and her happiness, Shawn really didn't mind doing the work. But the last minute-ness of the plans had forced him to cut corners; there were little romantic ventures that he could reserve; should they choose to take a sleigh ride or go to for a special dinner, they might have to take their chances or just wait.

Shawn tried not to let these details make him nervous, but his underlying worries of Juliet's initial hesitation still bothered him.

She had been the one to make the first real move—kissing him to shut him up while he was wishing her well with Declan, in spite of being clearly upset that he had missed his chance with her. And before that, she had been the first to confess her feelings for him—and invite him to dinner while he was already on a date with Abigail. He'd kept hesitating, as if he was petrified inside to make the first real move—as if he might only screw up something as good as time with Juliet; the instant attraction he'd felt for her had lasted, strong, for five years. As if . . . she had always belonged to him . . . and perhaps, she'd felt it too.

He remembered choosing Vancouver for his romantic getaway with Abigail because of its boast of mild winter climates, for Canada's standards, anyway. Snow fell, and the temperature did drop below freezing, but these were limited occurrences. Instead, rain was more likely. Gus had explained to him the differences between Celsius and Fahrenheit, but no matter how much he thought about, both two degrees and thirty-five degrees sounded torturous. It had been difficult for him to imagine, especially since Santa Barbara claimed over 300 days of sunshine per year, and with it, for him at least, a temperate climate that had been easy to get reacquainted to, once he was back for good.

Shawn stared up at the sky, having also the distant impression that he'd attempted to familiarize himself with his surroundings only to fail miserably. Everything was white, plain, with hills and a few trees; it looked like the middle of nowhere. There was no picture flickering in his head, no plan at all. If he had walked here from . . . somewhere, what had made him stop? Shawn knew he should be more bothered by the lapse of memory. His body hurt, especially his exposed skin. At first, he didn't remember where the scratches across his hands had come from and wondered if he hadn't done battle with a bush covered with thorns.

Why did he have to be the only witness—why had he had to witness anything at all? He'd made himself get involved after his curiosity had been piqued—go in, look around, access the damage—if Gus had been here, he would have talked Shawn out of it; actually, Shawn seemed to do less well with danger when Gus was not around. Stock still, his mind had worked to make a choice: ignore what he'd seen, at least until he was in a less dangerous place, try to do something now to stop them, or just run away. Then, before, when he had been unseen—his body intact, his bones not mangled, his skin not torn open, his limbs not yet wrecked by low temperatures. He had not yet been tossed in the snow like an unwanted tree the day after Christmas.

C c C

"What should I do, Gus?" Shawn asked through the phone, his tone hinting on nervous. The hotel room he'd rented and arrived in just a few minutes before was bare—devoid of rose petals on the bed spread, on the windowsill, on the toilet seat, in the bathtub; no candles; no CD player for romantic music—no CDs, since he'd forgotten to pack the player or CDs.

"Shawn, are you all right?" Gus asked. "You don't have to panic—she's not coming there for the atmosphere."

Shawn sighed, staring at the blank room. He had shared a more romantic room with Gus the first time they'd visited British Columbia—only because Gus was supposed to be Abigail. But this time, his compromising with Juliet had put a cramp in any extended planning—if he wanted romance, he was going to have to build the scene himself. "What should I get? What kinds of scented candles—"

"Shawn."

"This is fine, buddy, I'll just step out and get a few things. Jules might not be able to get a flight out tonight anyway." He sighed.

"Shawn," Gus tried to reassure, "she'll be there."

It had taken quite a bit more comforting and even some bribes on Gus's part for Shawn to get off the phone. Even so, he wasn't sold on his new girlfriend being happy with just the bare bones room. Plus, he had seen too many classic John Hughes 80s films to not at least make an attempt. Shoving the hotel key into his pocket, Shawn headed for the door—only remembering, as his hand was twisting the doorknob that he was not, in fact, in California anymore—and that this climate came with clothing restraints. He was well prepared—as this was the third time he'd entered the country—actually, well prepared because Gus had helped him pack.

As he pulled on the bulky winter coat, the zipper to the jacket's lining caught on the outer jacket, pushing Shawn into having two uncooperative zippers. He fought with both, agonizing that he couldn't work a simple mechanism like a zipper and that it was making him waste precious time getting ready for Juliet's arrival. Frustrated, he pulled both jackets off and fought to unzip the lining from the jacket. It had felt too bulky anyway, when he'd slipped it on at the airport after landing. He thought about leaving it, thinking his trip to get a few candles and roses might be short, but remembered how numb with chill he had felt just walking from the plane to the terminal in only jeans and his long sleeved flannel. He flashed back to some wise information Gus had imparted upon on their very first trip here—layering. Shawn took off his flannel, got the zipper of the liner to connect and zipped it all the way to his neck. He retrieved a sweater he'd brought on his first trip to Vancouver and put it on over the liner, then replaced the flannel, feeling instantly hot as he buttoned all the buttons. He had to check his hair in the mirror, just to make sure it wasn't melting also. Shawn put on the second coat quickly, then made himself slip into the rest of the gear, though he felt as if he were readying himself for a mission to Mars rather than just stepping outside. He checked his watch; it was a quarter to three in the afternoon, and the sky was sprinkled with charming tiny flakes of snow.

He asked at the hotel gift shop for what was within walking distance—and was directed to a block of high end shops he could reach in ten minutes or less. Shawn debated hopping in the rental car, especially when he stepped outside into the chilly air. He tossed a glance over his shoulder at the hotel's doors, remembering the heat he'd felt just before stepping outside. Maybe, he thought, maybe a walk could take longer than a drive, and maybe that meant less time waiting in the room for her to be here already. With resolve, Shawn started to walk, wishing that he'd brought his ski pants and squeezed himself inside them.

C c C

His ears had burned with cold, he remembered. And his nose—his cheeks had been hit by wind on the walk down the street, around the corner and down a few more streets. Shawn had shoved his hands in his pockets, keeping his eye out for a shop selling what he wanted. His left big toe throbbed, somehow icier than the rest of his toes, and he silently begged for it to warm up—hoping it would as soon as he got inside. He could already imagine Juliet, upon arrival, gushing about his choices, the happy glow upon her cheeks, her eyes sparkling like stars. She was coming . . . Gus had said. He hoped they could go out and get a taste of Christmas in Vancouver, even if they were limited to free or family based events. He couldn't wait to see her in her heavy duty winter coat with the furry collar, her hair combed back and a rosiness on her cheeks that he had only seen up here—maybe it was something to do with higher elevation. He wasn't sure; sometimes, he had a hard time finding "East".

But trouble . . . he knew exactly where that was, even out of town.

Why hadn't he let her talk him into going to Miami for Christmas to meet her loving family clan?

Because it would have been awkward, and he would have been put on the spot by not just Juliet's nuclear family but by scads of cousins, aunts and uncles, nephews and possibly friends of the family. He'd already met Ewan on his home turf and that had been interesting—a roller coaster of jealously, admiration and suspicion that Shawn had rather not repeat with the rest of Juliet's family—no matter how innocent the rest of them might be. He couldn't help but notice things. What if . . . he got the hint there was cheating, or embezzlement, or worse, a special aunt's homemade sauce was really store bought? Shawn had chewed his nails ever since the excitement had played on Juliet's face, as if he was really ready to go through with such a huge commitment. After all, it had taken nearly five years for the time to be right for the two of them to get together.

No way. Just the thoughts alone of small talk with doting and overzealous family gave Shawn chills.

He had much less family to introduce Juliet to. She had already met his father and mother; most of his mother's family he'd been estranged from since his childhood, and on his father's side there was only Uncle Jack, and it might be best if they not meet for some time. He could imagine Juliet giving Jack the benefit of the doubt despite the trouble he'd left Shawn in last time he'd been in town, but you never knew.

Instead of that, he'd insisted—pleading and wheedling like a five year old demanding the latest of the holiday season toy craze in a wrapped box with a big red bow on top for Christmas morning—that they spend an ultra-romantic few days in Vancouver, finding all the places they'd christened with their kisses, taking pictures like tourists, going to dinner and generally enjoying the other's company unfettered by work or well-meaning friends or family members.

Shawn groaned. Why didn't they just go to Switzerland? It was just as cold there, just as . . . foreign. Not that the chance was less there that he still wouldn't have witnessed criminal activity, have ended up . . . in this much hot water—how he wished he was in hot water right now!—and pain, hardly able to execute even the bare minimum of his father's long ago survival tactics—mostly because he couldn't move without thinking he was about to die. But maybe if he'd opted for Switzerland, he wouldn't be in so much secret trouble because . . . he might have waited to fly out with his girlfriend instead of going on ahead alone. And then he might have had no urge to leave the safety of their hotel room to go in search of all the pain money could buy. And he hadn't even had the chance to spend a dime.

Shawn looked at the sky, forcing his eyes to stay open. Slowly, he flexed his muscles, doing a mental check of what hurt the most under the layer of ice that had surely grown across his skin, as if he were lying just under the surface of a hole in a lake or pond that had iced over.

So . . . so . . . cold, he thought for the hundredth time, chattering teeth becoming a familiar rhythm. He guessed, from the change in the sky, that at least three or four hours had passed. The stars had come out and were blinking their hellos as he shivered in the snow. He had taken to balling his hands up inside the sleeves, wrenching his arms together to hold against his body, anything to not be so cold.

C c C

Breath on his cheek, a chilly wind. Breath was supposed to be warm, he thought, surprised he could still put his brain in gear. A toss of hair. He couldn't see a face, but the gesture was clear. Follow. Get up. Follow.

Shawn squeezed his eyes shut, hoping again this was just a nightmare that he would awake from, shaking in his bed, his hotel room having no heat or adequate blankets. Something easily explainable—and complain-able.

Cold, like individual icy digits, pressed on the hollows of his knees. Shawn whimpered.

A swirl of snow. A toss of white.

C c C

Shawn exhaled, then inhaled shallowly. His eyes opened again and he stared at the sky; just a few minutes—seconds? hours?—before, the sky had turned black, hard and shiny, dotted with the haloed jewels of millions of stars, constellations, planets. Jewels . . . Jules. Huh. Shawn's eyes moved. Wasn't she, like a rare stone, a precious and pricey—his vision blurred. Jewel—Jules. She was his irreplaceable star.

He wanted to go to sleep, but he was just too cold to let his body relax; the amount of clothing he wore didn't matter because he'd been lying in the snow for an undeterminable time; they'd stripped him of his coat, leaving him only with the separate durable lining of the coat, his sweater and his flannel, his jeans, his socks and sneakers. It was a small grace—not that they were trying to do him favors: his hat and gloves were also in their possession; his scarf he had because they'd used it to tie his hands together. He'd managed to get it wrapped around his head Rambo-style before the need to lie down on his back had overwhelmed him.

It was only then, while he was down not wanting to get back up, that he considered using the scarf to tie off the gash on his leg, the injury sustained as he'd tried to run away. The injury that had got him caught, in a way. Or was it an injury he'd received as an "I told you so"—as he was caught doing something he shouldn't? He sighed, watching his breath stream out. Why was it murderers and other various inhabitants of the underbelly refused to observe the holidays? Take a day, maybe two, stay home with their gangs, have brandy and eggnog, eat cookies—have dreams of sugar plums and BMX bikes and fancy electronics and bootleg Rick Astley albums they were going to fence the next day? Yeah. If he ruled the world.

Jewel—ry. That's what he'd seen them stealing. He had been minding his own business—had opened the door to an inviting if not overpriced-seeming boutique with a display of white candles in the window. The heat in the store pushed on his face, and he'd been grateful to be out of the cold weather. The door had not announced his arrival with bells; it swung closed quietly. With a few quick swivels of his head, he took in the set up and contents of the boutique, more deep than it was wide—ultra feminine with various gifts and knickknacks mixed into an array of more useful products, like candles and soap, silk flowers, mirrors, and combs. The shop smelled of just baked bread and cinnamon and vanilla, and made Shawn heady with the possibilities of what he could create in the hotel room to perfectly excite and entice Juliet.

Shawn wandered around, not daring to reach for anything until he was sure what he wanted. There was no clerk at the counter, he noticed, and no other shoppers, but he held his tongue from calling out a hello. Further in, Shawn's eye caught on a gleaming object—a large triangle of glass, he saw, that looked folded backwards in its case—a jewelry case, he realized. It was a separate room, dimly lit, and set back from the other merchandise. He went closer, a lump inexplicably forming in his throat. He could see a door beyond the few cases of the room, standing open a quarter of the way.

The clerk must be within, he decided, though his palms were starting to sweat, and he felt unnerved for reasons he couldn't immediately place. Shawn stood in the small room and looked, not daring to breathe. A scenario was quickly forming in his head, as was the dangerous allure to catch a criminal in the act—to piece the reasons why together in a flash and then monologue and make himself a citizen's arrest—pausing this train of thought only to wonder if this might be illegal in Canada or not. He could be wrong—making mountains out of molehills—but he wanted to take the risk.

Bright lights illuminated the jewelry cases—most of which were smashed. Not all of the jewelry was missing; as he cast his glances around in the dimness, he gathered that the thief had been looking for something specific. After all, the rest of the store looked untouched. He heard a noise coming from the door, and followed a sliver of light towards an open office door, pausing and holding his breath once he had a good enough vantage point. He saw it all quickly: a body of a woman on the floor, ash blond hair tossed over her face. She was wearing white, was face down, arms outstretched by her head—could have been sleeping; Shawn hadn't seen any blood. And three men, suited up in well-worn winter clothing, unloading the contents of a wall safe into a sack.

They'd had no guard or watchman; but must have meant serious business if they'd already killed someone over the contents. They had their backs to him, which was a good thing, except that if he saw their faces, he'd be able to identify them to proper authorities. Or at least the RCMP, that might have to do. He waffled as his heart fluttered, trying to gauge what he should do.

They could have guns, he considered. Or knives. Or tasers. And there were three of them; with their backs turned to him, it was hard to tell their shapes and sizes. Three against one . . . might be bad odds. He reached for his phone, suddenly wishing he'd added the RCMP's direct line to his contacts list. He scrolled through them anyway, thinking maybe Gus had been one step ahead.

Shawn began to back away, moving as silently as possible around the jewelry cases. His heart accelerated as his sneaker crunched a piece of broken glass.

There was still a good amount of rustling and searching in the office for them not to notice—so he thought, until one gray head jerked in his direction, catching him like a deer in headlights at the right angle through the yellow light. Shawn exhaled with apprehension; they had locked eyes, and the gaunt man staring back at him did not look forgiving.

"Hey! Hey, you!"

Shawn pivoted 180 degrees, but his sneakers skated on some of the broken glass at his feet. He pitched forward into one of the broken display cases, only managing to save his whole body from falling in by breaking his fall with his arms. Shawn winced, seeing the bloody streaks on both hands as he forced himself to straighten quickly, realizing as he did that he had been cut elsewhere—a searing, unreal pain that for a second stopped his breath—and there was already blood staining his jeans. Runrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrun, his mind demanded while his eyes grew bleary.

He lost precious seconds of thought and movement as his adrenaline faltered—his brain was telling his body that it ached everywhere and his mind was negotiating for the briefest period of unconsciousness. Runrunrunrunrunrun. Shawn forced himself to stumble forward, using the frame of the display case to help him. He heard angry voices, glass crunching like well-packed snow underfoot. Shawn breathed hard, scrambling to make up for lost time as he sprinted for the door. The wound on his leg throbbed with each step, but he told himself the best thing he could right now was get himself far away. Later, he might discover it had pierced his jeans and cut him half an inch deep, but that was what later was for.

Shawn busted through the outside door, intent on putting distance between himself and the unknown criminal element he'd managed to get tangled up with. His thoughts bled and blurred. RUN. Why was this always happening? RUN. Had Gus tagged his back with a sign that said, "Show me your murder" or "I never met a murder I couldn't solve"? RUNRUNRUNRUN.

Shawn's shoes skidded on the pavement as if it were icy, too icy for him to remain upright. He panted hard from a squat, able to see his breath, and scanned the area so he could pick the best direction in which to head—zig zag—then lurched ahead without much planning, hearing them catching up too fast.

He was limping, the searing pain in his leg slowing him down, but Shawn continued to race in pace with his heartbeat, trying to determine the direction of the hotel. He could make it in less than ten minutes, he knew he could. Unless he fell.

He had to get back to her. If she got here and he wasn't . . . what would she think? Shawn ran faster, even though each step felt like he was running in bare feet across broken glass. He gritted his teeth. They were gaining; they either knew what he had seen or thought he may have witnessed even the smallest sight and that could not go unpunished. Shawn's sneakers slid on a patch of ice, his breath coming out in huffs, his tongue going dry. He couldn't swallow. He flailed, struggling for balance, but their arms were on his, wrenching his torso backwards while his feet were still sliding out from underneath him.

Shawn yelped, his breath still panting between his words. His muscles were screaming; he was just realizing how fast, how far he had run, and his injured leg burned as if he'd stepped too close to a burning building, as if his skin was about to melt off, his perfect hair singeing before too crisping up like dry logs.

Three sets of hands, three voices—like three ghosts of Christmas—why had they all followed him? Hunted him down? This was his first real thrill of fear—now that he was caught.

"How much did you see?" a gruff voice accosted him, straight into his left ear, yanking him upright by his elbows; pain cracked down to his fingertips. "Answer me!"

"Don't . . . don't know what you're . . ." Shawn panted, staring straight ahead of him because they were keeping him from turning around. Fear hit him with a shiver; they had his arms pinned to his sides; he had a terrible feeling if he tried to scramble with his feet he might just get tossed over one of these dudes' shoulders, or so was the feeling that his shoes were no longer on the ground—though they were.

"You're lying! You were watching us!" Another voice, another male—maybe the thin one in the gray cap, with the worn fingerless gloves. Maybe it was his cold fingerprints which had Shawn's right arm by the wrist.

"This is a misunderstanding," Shawn fibbed, forcing a smile into his voice. Sometimes, he knew enough to play dumb, unless his mouth got him into too much trouble anyway. "I thought . . . someone told me . . . I wanted to get a necklace for my girlfriend . . . I thought . . ." The lies were easy, on his tongue, but he had no idea if they would help or hurt his cause at this point.

"Who?" the gruff voice yelled. "Who told you?"

"I don't know who," Shawn lamented, unable to help sounding annoyed. "Look, all I wanted was . . . the jewelry. I wanted to pay—" He made himself swallow the rest, because he could hear the buzz of rage behind him; he had just confessed to them that he had seen them steal the jewelry and whatever it was that was so important from the safe and that he was trying to get a piece of the action, as if he were some kind of thrill-seeker, some kind of blackmailer, some kind of moron. "Something special," he mumbled. "She's special and I wanted . . . special for her." He made himself not add that they must not be killers, thieves weren't often killers, but often enough they were. Or could be, if forced into a corner. "I'm sorry," Shawn whispered, trying to sound as pathetic as possible. "I didn't want . . . trouble. Please . . . let me walk away?" The inflection was important; he was still holding out hope they might turn him loose.

The slanted, clipped voice, masculine and mean, echoing in his brain long after it had spoken, long after its person, and the other men, had gone. "I know where we can dump him. Yeah, it's remote. He won't be found."

There must be bruises on his face; he'd been spun around long enough to take in the angry, distorted faces of the three thieves who had chased him, caught up to him, questioned him—and then smacked him in the face—they each took at least one turn, knocking him in the nose, the lip, the eye. Their stocky or lanky bodies swathed in layers of clothing, hands gloved, heads in hats—their features were twisted with greed and fear, their eyes were beady and angry and as cold as the temperature outside, measured by Celsius, making it seem even colder than it should be. Shawn's head jerked from side to side; he tasted blood and spit it once before his feet slid forward, out from under him, his back and shoulders barely breaking the fall for his head, which cracked the ice on the pavement beneath it. Daylight stars that blurred, white, that twinkled too much, and blood, streaking across the sky like a comet. Shawn went to sleep.

Labored walking to match his labored breathing. Shawn's nose was frozen solid, his cheek bones and eyebrows and the part in his hair reminded him constantly of the cold this cold ached, and he guessed, despite the lapse of time where he was unconscious, that he must not have been out there long enough to warrant this kind of hurt—where his breathing was shallow, where his inhales were painful, his nostrils burned. Even his eyeballs felt pierced by the cold, a truly unsettling thought. He flinched, and his skin rustled—a prickling inside—which let him know his body was still hanging on. He kept walking, hoping to send the hurt packing, even though, with each step, his leg throbbed from where he'd injured it, and his toes slammed against the insides of his boots hard enough to break into bits.