Page 88 of Hacking the Holidays
“Kaiserhof Restaurant—they have security cameraspointed at the library. If Beverly broke in that morning to plant evidence, they’ll have footage of it. That will change everything.”
Chloe’s eyes widened. “Holy crap.”
“And the notepad they found? The ‘incriminating’ handwritten notes?” I was moving faster now, practically running. “Sam says he doesn’t use notepads. Never has. Which means?—”
“Beverly planted it.”
“And that means the writing on the notepad is not his, which would be easy to prove.” My breath came in sharp gasps, partly from the cold, partly from adrenaline. “We need that footage before it gets overwritten or mysteriously disappears. Before someone realizes what it shows. That is more than enough to get the judge to toss out the case.”
Chloe matched my pace, her expression shifting from shock to fierce determination. “Then what are we waiting for?”
We broke into a run, leaving the carolers and their Christmas magic behind. We had evidence to find and a case to solve.
And maybe—just maybe—a man to save.
Chapter Twenty-Two
SAM
Two Days Later …
“Samuel Monroe!” the correctional officer called out, the sound of my name echoing off concrete walls.
I’d been listening to that door all morning—the buzz of the lock, the shuffle of footsteps, other inmates being processed out or moved to different holding areas. Each time, I’d tensed, wondering if the U.S. Marshals had arrived to transport me to Seattle to face the judge.
It looked like this was the moment of truth.
When everything became real and irreversible.
Zara hadn’t been able to find anything. Or maybe she had, but it hadn’t been enough. Maybe Beverly’s web of corruption ran too deep, her connections too powerful. Maybe some battles couldn’t be won, no matter how noble you were or how hard you fought.
The correctional officer approached my cell, keys jangling.
“Your federal hold has been canceled,” he said, unlocking the cell with a metallic clang. “You’re free to go.”
I blinked. Processed. Recalculated.
The words didn’t register.
I stared at him, certain I’d misheard.
Federal holds didn’t just get canceled—not without lawyers, hearings, and mountains of paperwork.
“I’m sorry—what?” I said.
“You heard me,” he said. “You’re a free man. What are you waiting for?”
Relief flooded through me so fast it left me dizzy. I had to grab onto the bars to steady myself, my legs suddenly uncertain, my breath coming in quick gasps like I’d been holding it for two days straight.
You’re a free man.
Four words had never sounded sweeter.
I should have been running out of there like the place was on fire, and not looking back, but there was something my analytical mind wanted to know. “Not that I’m complaining or anything, but do you know why the federal hold was canceled?”
He just stared at me. “That information is way above my pay grade, pal. Let’s go.”
The officer led me to a small processing area where I stripped off the jail uniform and waited while someone retrieved my property—the plastic bag containing my streetclothes, wallet, keys, and phone. Everything that had been taken from me.
