Page 77 of Hacking the Holidays
Back to pensive. Back to that blank, unreadable expression that told me nothing about what he was thinking or feeling or planning to do with the information he had.
Sam guided me toward the front door of Gustav’s, a beautiful three-story tavern with pine paneling and a distinctive onion dome that looked like it belonged in Germany rather than a small Washington town.
The moment we walked in, every employee looked upand waved, like Sam was a regular. Like he belonged here in a way I never would.
We ordered food to take back to the library, then sat at a cozy table by a massive river-rock fireplace, flames crackling and throwing dancing shadows across the worn wooden floor. The employee brought us two hot apple ciders to enjoy while we waited for our order.
Steam rose from my mug, fragrant with cinnamon and cloves, but I couldn’t bring myself to drink. My stomach was in knots.
Sam took a sip of his cider. Then another. His gaze drifted to the fireplace, and for a long moment, we both just sat there, staring at the flames like they might hold answers neither of us wanted to speak aloud.
Finally, Sam set down his mug.
“Tell me what you know about me,” he said.
I swallowed hard, trying to decide how much to tell.
“And who else knows?” The intensity in Sam’s eyes made it impossible to look away. “Is it just you? Or the entire FBI?”
My training told me to deflect. To lie. To protect the investigation and my position within it. But what was the point? He already knew who I was, and apparently already had copies of my files and contacts. He held all the cards.
“Many people know,” I said, the words coming out in a whisper. “One of them is Chloe.”
“Is she an FBI agent as well?”
“Yes. And my best friend.”
“What about Beverly?” Sam asked. “You told me shewas trouble when we were at the bagel shop. You also said she was a pickpocket. Then you claimed to know her from Boston University. Are any of these true?”
I nodded. “Yes, she’s trouble for you. I lied about her being a pickpocket to put you on alert so you wouldn’t trust her. And yes, we went to Boston University together.”
“But why is she in Leavenworth? And why is there so much tension between you?”
“She’s also an agent, and the reason there is tension between us is that I have this thing against manipulative witches. We may be coworkers, but I don’t trust her. Never have. That’s the only reason I took the contact form.”
Sam nodded slowly, processing. “And what exactly do all of you know?”
“That there’s someone in Leavenworth known as Good Sam,” I said. “That this person is stealing from wealthy, corrupt scumbags in Seattle and redistributing the money to families in need.” I met his eyes. “You’re the prime suspect.” I shrugged. “The only suspect, actually.”
“But you have no proof,” Sam said confidently.
“No,” I admitted. “Nothing concrete. If we had it, you’d already be in handcuffs.”
Something flickered across his face—relief, maybe, or dark amusement. “Fair enough.”
He took another sip of his cider, and I did the same, just to have something to do with my hands. The liquid was sweet and warming, but it did nothing to ease the cold dread in my stomach.
“Okay, let’s play a little game,” he said.
“Sam …”
“Hear me out—it’s nothing complicated. I will ask you something, and then you answer. Then you ask me something, and I will answer. Back and forth. A fair trade.”
I stared at him. Was he seriously suggesting we play twenty questions with an FBI case and each other’s secrets?
“There’s a problem with that,” I said carefully.
“What kind of problem?” he asked.
