Page 43 of Hacking the Holidays
Recognition hit immediately.
Greta Müller.
From Oktoberfest ten years ago.
The memory came flooding back—we’d accidentally crashed a local family’s anniversary party at the festival and instead of being asked to leave, they’d welcomed us like long-lost relatives. We’d spent hours with the Müller family, learning their family traditions, sharing stories over endless plates of schnitzel, and dancing to the oompah band until our feet hurt. It was the spontaneous human connection that made you believe the world was full of genuinely wonderful people. Of course, that was back when I had a life.
My brain scrambled for damage control.
“Sorry, but I’m Rose,” I said carefully, trying to remain calm while my heart attempted to escape from my chest.
Greta’s smile turned into a laugh. “Are you playing with me? Come on, it’s me, Greta Müller! From the Oktoberfestsomany years ago! There’s no way you don’t remember me. And Chloe! It’s so good to see you, too!”
Chloe managed a smile and went with the truth, since her first name was the same undercover. “Hi, Greta.”
“Who is Zara?” Eleanor asked right on cue.
Every eye at our table was now fixed on me.
Particularly Sam’s.
“How do you not know her name? Did you all just meet or something?” Greta pointed to me. “Sheis Zara, of course! Zara Mazini. I always remembered your last name because you said it rhymed with weenie, and you were actually eating one at the time! Then Chloe said you are what you eat.” She laughed again.
This wasn’t funny.
Not one bit.
Think of something. Anything! Now!
“Actually, Zara is my cousin,” I said as adrenaline continued to course through my veins. “We look almost identical. I was there that night with you all at the Oktoberfest. I’m surprised you don’t remember me, but then again, I left early because I wasn’t feeling well. Zara told me how much fun you all had.”
The logic was thin—paper-thin, really—but it was the only explanation I had that didn’t involve admitting I was currently working undercover for the FBI.
Chloe jumped in seamlessly. “Well, it’s not a surprise she doesn’t remember because that was a very long time ago, and there was also a lot of beer flowing. But it’s true—Rose and Zara are like the closest thing to twins without actually being twins. It’s wild, honestly. People mix them up all the time.”
I lay it on thicker, pulling out my phone as insurance. “I actually have photos of me and Zara together. There are actually three of us in the family who could easily pass foreach other. Let me see if I can find one.” I scrolled for a few seconds, then waved it off with casualness. “Never mind, it’s going to take forever to dig through my camera roll, and everybody’s food is going to get cold.”
Greta studied me for a long moment, her uncertainty written across her face. I could see her brain working through the timeline, trying to reconcile what she thought she remembered with what I was telling her.
“The resemblance really is uncanny,” she finally said, though doubt lingered in her eyes. “Well, please tell Zara that Greta Müller said hello. Tell her the Müllers would love to reconnect.”
“I will,” I promised. “You take care.”
Greta gave me one last suspicious once-over before heading back to her table without another word.
I slowly turned to face our group, not sure how they would react.
Sam said nothing. He simply watched me with those sharp, analytical eyes that seemed to catalog every micro-expression, every hesitation, every carefully constructed word. His silence was worse than an accusation. Accusations I could defend against. Silence meant he was thinking. Processing. Building a case against me piece by piece, like he was the agent instead of me.
Fortunately, Eleanor jumped into the conversation, setting down her beer with a chuckle. “I know exactly how that feels, Rose. Someone at the grocery store last week was absolutely convinced I was Meryl Streep. I have no idea where they got that impression—we look nothing alike—but they were so earnest about it, I just let them take a selfie with me.”
The conversation shifted, and I was grateful for the reprieve, but the damage was done. Greta had just given Sam another data point against me, another suspicious inconsistency to add to his growing collection. This time, he had a name. My real name.
The FBI had sanitized every trace of Zara Mazini from the digital world when I had joined the Bureau—wiped databases, scrubbed archives and social media, eliminated every footprint as though I’d never existed. But Sam’s skills weren’t ordinary. If anyone could find fragments in places that weren’t supposed to have fragments, it was him.
The worst part was that I’d gotten absolutely nothing done and found no evidence since I’d arrived in Leavenworth. My window of opportunity was closing fast. I needed to complete the mission and get out of town before he put all the pieces together.
That would have to wait, though …
