Page 82 of Hacking the Holidays
I blinked a few times rapidly. “What kind of breakthrough?”
“She found incriminating evidence at the suspect’s workspace, a notepad with bank account numbers.”
Sam with a notepad? I found that very hard to believe. He’d bragged about being an all-digital man after spottingthe flash drive in my purse. He even told me he owned exactly one pen, a purple one, and that he never used it.
This so-called incriminating evidence smelled like rotten fish.
“That gave us the smoking gun and enough probable cause to execute an arrest warrant,” Thorne added. “Local police are cooperating, and we should be taking Monroe into custody at this very moment.”
The hotel room was getting smaller.
Suddenly, it was hard to breathe.
This could not be happening.
Beverly had waited. She’d known we’d had this scheduled meeting with Thorne. She’d waited until I was away from the library, away from Sam, unable to warn him or interfere.
“I don’t understand—why wasn’t I notified about this?” I asked desperately. “This was my case.”
“I’m sorry, but I had to take matters into my own hands. Orders from above. I’ll see you both in the office bright and early tomorrow morning.” Thorne ended the call before I could say another word.
The screen went black.
My vision narrowed to a single point of fury.
“This doesn’t make any sense—how could she find something so easily?” Chloe asked. “Are you okay?”
I stood so abruptly that the chair fell backward. “I need to get to the library.” My voice didn’t sound like my own—it was too desperate. “Now.”
I got my jacket and keys, my hands shaking withadrenaline and rage. Beverly had outmaneuvered me, and now Sam was?—
No, I couldn’t think about that. I couldn’t process what it meant if they’d already arrested him, if he was in handcuffs, if I was already too late.
“Zara, wait—” Chloe grabbed her own jacket, following me to the door.
But I was already gone, racing down the hallway, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Beverly’s smug face burned into my mind. She’d played me and waited until the exact moment I couldn’t interfere. And now the only man I’d let myself care about in five years was paying the price for my failure, probably thinking that I betrayed him.
The cold air sliced through my lungs as I sprinted down Front Street, my breath coming in sharp gasps that burned my throat. My feet pounded against the pavement, but I wasn’t moving fast enough.
I rounded the corner and stopped dead.
The library was a crime scene.
Yellow police tape with bold black letters cordoned off the library’s main entrance, the surrounding sidewalks, even a section of the street and parking lot.
“POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS”
Sheriff’s deputies stood at strategic points along the perimeter, their expressions stoic as they kept back the growing crowd of curious onlookers and news reporters jockeying for position.
Three marked sheriff patrol SUVs sat at angles near theentrance, their light bars dark but their presence unmistakable. Beside them, three unmarked black Chevy Suburbans with government plates—FBI vehicles.
People were gathering. So many people. I recognized faces from the Santa events, from the bookstore, from München Haus, from Gustav’s. Mrs. Haggerty stood near the back of the crowd, her hand pressed to her mouth. The two women who’d gawked at Sam yesterday clutched each other’s arms, their faces pale with shock.
Two agents in navy tactical vests with “FBI” emblazoned across their chests in yellow letters stood guard at the library entrance. Behind them, members of the FBI Evidence Response Team streamed in and out. My stomach turned as I watched them carry out equipment. Servers. Computer towers. Hard drives sealed in anti-static bags, each one bearing a numbered tamper-proof seal. They were taking everything. Every piece of evidence, every file, every trace of Sam’s work.
Then I saw Eleanor.
