Page 83 of Hacking the Holidays
She stood off to the side with Leo, both of them huddled together, their faces etched with worry and confusion.
Her gaze swept across the scene and landed on me. For a moment, our eyes met, and I couldn’t get a good read on her expression. She surely knew who I really worked for now, and that I’d been pretending to be her helpful volunteer while investigating the man she clearly cared about like a son.
The library doors opened again.
Two FBI Special Agents emerged—between them was Sam.
His hands were cuffed behind his back.
He walked steadily, his head up.
“No,” I breathed, already moving in that direction, pushing through the crowd, ignoring the protests, the elbows, the startled looks.
A deputy stepped in front of me, one hand raised. “Ma’am, you need to stay back?—”
I yanked my badge from my pocket and shoved it in his face. “FBI. Let me through.”
“Of course.” He stepped aside.
I ducked under the yellow tape and reached Sam just as they were positioning him toward one of the SUVs. Up close, I could see the careful control he was exerting to keep his expression neutral.
“Sam …”
He looked at me, and despite everything—the handcuffs, the agents, the crowd watching—the slightest grin formed on his face.
“I guess I can start calling you Zara now.” His voice was tender. “I love the name, by the way.”
My throat closed up.
I wanted to tell him I had nothing to do with this, but that wasn’t possible with two other agents with him.
His eyes held mine, and there was no accusation there. No blame. No anger. Just what appeared to be understanding. Almost as if he knew this might happen one day.
They guided him toward the SUV, opening the back door.
Sam gestured to the top of my jacket, a concerned look on his face. “Button up, Buttercup. You don’t want to catch a cold.”
I could not believe this man. He was in handcuffs, being stuffed into the back of an FBI vehicle, facing years in prison, and he was worried about me.
My melting heart would keep me warm.
Sam ducked his head, settling into the back seat. The door slammed shut. Through the tinted window, I could just barely make out his silhouette.
He was looking back at me.
The engine roared to life, and the SUV pulled away from the curb, its tires crunching over scattered snow. Then I watched it disappear around the corner.
Sam was gone.
And there was nothing I could do about it.
Chapter Twenty
SAM
I leaned back against the seat, the handcuffs digging into my wrists. The two agents in the front of the SUV were quiet. “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” by Bing Crosby drifted from the speakers. The irony of that song, given my current trajectory toward a jail cell, wasn’t lost on me.
My thoughts returned to Zara.
