Page 47 of Hacking the Holidays
“Interesting,” I said, then wrinkled my nose. “Actually, maybe you’re right, now that I think about it.”
She just stared at me.
“I usually like women much older than you,” I added with a smirk.
“In case you’re wondering, I’ve tuned you out completely,” Rose said, but her bottom lip was trembling just enough to let me know she was slightly amused.
“For the record, I have zero interest in people my age because most of the women I have met just don’t get me. You get me.” I shrugged, then added, “There’s an obvious solution for this. We just need to go on another real date.”
“I’m still not listening,” Rose said.
“Okay then, I’ll go use the restroom. That will give you some time to think about what you pretended not to hear.”
“I’ll be thinking about where to hide your body after I’ve finished with you,” Rose said.
I chuckled as I walked toward the restroom, then waited outside the door since it was occupied. That was when I heard two women talking nearby in a nook of the beer garden.
It was Greta Müller with another woman.
“I’m telling you, it was Zara Mazini,” Greta said. “Same face, same mannerisms. Our entire family danced with her at Oktoberfest for hours. You don’t forget someone like that, not even after ten years.”
“Why would she lie about who she was?” the other woman replied.
“I have no idea, but it has been bugging me all evening,” Greta said with genuine uncertainty. “She seemed uncomfortable when I brought it up. There’s no doubt about it.”
“Do you think she’s being held hostage and had to lie?” the woman asked.
Greta shook her head. “Of course not. She was laughing before I approached her, and Chloe was there with her. It has to be something else.” She waved it off. “It doesn’t matter. I need to let it go because the last thing I want is to be up all night thinking about it.”
Greta hadn’t been confused or hesitant when she had appeared at our table. She’d been adamant. The way she’d described Rose—or Zara—had been specific enough that it felt like actual memory to her, not fabrication or false recollection.
Rose had responded with a story about her cousin. Itwas plausible, of course. Families had similar-looking relatives all the time. Something about it bugged me, though, if I was being honest. Other things about Rose didn’t add up. The flash drive she carried everywhere. The way she tensed when I asked her what she did for a living. The nervous energy that practically followed her wherever she went.
I stood there for a moment, phone in hand, debating whether I should do a quick search online, just to confirm Greta was confused. Just to see if there actually was a cousin who looked like Rose. My thumb hovered over the search bar. Then I typed: Zara Mazini.
Nothing. No social media. No professional profiles.
I searched news archives, public records databases, and college directories. I even tried an image search, thinking maybe a photo would pull up something.
Absolutely nothing.
Zero digital footprint.
Zara Mazini doesn’t even exist.
I stared at my phone, coming to the most logical conclusion: Greta was confused, just as Rose had suggested. Maybe she’d had too much to drink at that Oktoberfest so many years ago, and the memories had blended. But Rose and Chloe had admitted that Zara was her cousin, so she had to exist somewhere. Did I get the spelling wrong? Or did Zara have a different last name?
Forget about it, let it go.
For a split second, I thought about searching Rose’s name as well, just to confirm that she was indeed real, andthat at least one version of this story made sense. I quickly squashed that idea.
I’d spent enough time second-guessing people to know where it led—nowhere good. Suspicion had killed every past relationship faster than any actual problem ever could, just because I refused to simply trust what was right in front of me.
Whatever secrets Rose Thompson was keeping, they didn’t matter more than this—the connection I felt with her, the fact that I genuinely wanted to see where this could go. I could search for answers anytime. But once I started down that path, once I let paranoia override what was actually happening between us, I would destroy something real before it ever had a chance to begin.
After using the restroom, I emerged and was already planning my next move as I headed back toward the table. Maybe I’d suggest an evening walk tomorrow after work—something casual, low pressure. I was genuinely smiling to myself, mentally rehearsing how to phrase the invitation without sounding too eager, then I stopped dead in my tracks before I had even gotten back to Rose.
I stood there, staring at our table.
