Chapter 3
Chapter Three
ZARA
My cybersecurity training had prepared me for many things: tracking cryptocurrency transactions, infiltrating dark web forums, and pulling all-nighters chasing ransomware gangs from the safety of my ergonomic desk chair.
What it had not prepared me for was standing in the hushed, book-scented bowels of the public library, pretending to be a “community-minded volunteer” named Rose Thompson, while my target looked at me like I was a virus that had learned to walk.
I was still trying to wrap my head around the exchange Sam and I had over the odds of wearing the same clothes.
In the span of sixty seconds, we had deconstructed a simple observation into a statistical debate, a rapid-fire volley of probabilities and data points.
It was like watching a mirror of my own mind in action.
“Thank you, but I don’t need a volunteer,” Sam said, his tone carrying the same polite but firm rejection I used when telemarketers called about extending my car warranty.
“Of course you do!” Eleanor said with conviction. “Your December calendar is absolutely packed with community events, archive projects, and holiday programs.”
The flash of alarm in Sam’s eyes was unmistakable. Someone was paying attention to his patterns, documenting his schedule, and he clearly didn’t appreciate the surveillance.
Welcome to my world, buddy.
“This will take a lot off your plate,” Eleanor continued with the relentless cheer of someone who’d already decided this conversation had only one outcome.
“My plate is perfectly organized,” Sam said. “I don’t need help with my plate. I like my plate exactly as it is.”
Oh, no ...
He was one of those people.
The kind who color-coded their sock drawers, alphabetized their spice rack, and had minor panic attacks when someone borrowed their stapler without asking. I recognized the type because I was the type.
This undercover operation was going to either be laughably easy or catastrophically difficult.
“Rose is so excited to help,” Eleanor chirped, giving me an encouraging nudge that nearly sent me stumbling into the newspaper rack. “Aren’t you, dear?”
I opened my mouth to deliver something appropriately positive about community service and the joy of helping others, but what came out was, “Yes. I’m experiencing elevated levels of enthusiasm.”
Sam stared at me like I was an error message he’d never seen before.
Elevated levels of enthusiasm?
What was wrong with me? Who talked like that? Nobody, that’s who! I sounded like a robot!
“Sam,” Eleanor said with the patience of someone who’d clearly prepared for this argument, “you’re working sixty-hour weeks, including your volunteer schedule. You barely take lunch breaks. And that’s before adding new time-sensitive projects to your workload.”
“I maintain very efficient time management protocols,” Sam replied, which was probably true but also completely missed the point about basic human limitations.
Eleanor had a determined glint in her eye that meant resistance was futile. “I know you’re efficient, but you can still burn out. And Rose has excellent research skills.”
This was my chance to sound professional and competent.
“Nobody probes like me,” I announced.
The words escaped before I could catch them.
This was exactly why I avoided social situations.
My brain was short-circuiting from the pressure.
Sam’s eyebrows shot toward his hairline like they were trying to evacuate his forehead. “Say what now?”
“For research,” I said, trying to recover.
“Research probing. Not physical probing. I don’t have a medical license.
” I could feel my face heating up like an overworked CPU.
“What I’m trying to say is, I excel at data analysis.
Research. Digital things. Uh, that is to say, computer digital things.
And I promise not to mess up your organizational system. ”
I saw the resignation in his face as he looked between us, recognizing the pointlessness of this battle. His logical mind was running the numbers; the cost of fighting is higher than the cost of compliance.
“Fine,” he finally said with a sigh. “There is one project I’ve been postponing. It will take several days to complete properly.”
Something in his careful tone made me suspect Sam Monroe wasn’t nearly as resigned as he was pretending to be. This was possibly a set-up, and I had no choice but to go along with it.
“What kind of project?” I asked.
“We need to audit the new entries to the digital archive to make sure they were properly categorized and tagged,” Sam explained, watching my reaction. “Approximately three thousand entries requiring verification. Extremely detail-oriented work.”
Uninspiring and monotonous was more accurate.
Obviously, it was designed to keep me busy and out of his way. That being said, I could still observe him and his behavior without him even realizing I was doing it.
“Mind-numbing work,” he added for good measure, like he was still trying to scare me off.
“Perfect,” I replied without hesitation. “Repetitive tasks are very soothing. Zen-like, really.”
We stared at each other for a long moment, two people clearly running diagnostics on whether the other was exactly what they appeared to be. The answer for both of us was definitely not.
“Okay then,” Sam said finally, his tone suggesting he was either accepting his fate or planning something I hadn’t anticipated. “I’ll show you to your work area.”
“Wonderful!” Eleanor said. “You kids have fun.”
Kids? I just turned forty-two last month.
According to his FBI file, Sam was thirty-five years old.
Kids, we were not.
“Follow me,” Sam said.
He led me past the romance and mystery sections and the gentle rustle of turning pages. We stopped in a research area behind a collection of historical periodicals.
“Here you go,” Sam said, gesturing to what appeared to be a computer terminal that had witnessed the rise and fall of several operating systems. “You said you knew how to use a computer?”
“Of course,” I said. “I would never joke about that.”
Sam studied me, as if trying to determine whether I was being sarcastic or had just made some kind of sacred vow. Apparently deciding I was serious, he launched into his explanation of the busywork to keep the annoying new volunteer out of his perfect hair.
The task was exactly what I’d expected. He logged me into the system, then outlined each step with the methodical precision of someone who’d clearly done this kind of tedious work before. It was something I could almost do blindfolded.
“Okay then,” Sam said, and I could practically see the relief washing over him. “I’ll leave you to it.”
“Where can I find you if I have questions?” I asked, trying to sound casually curious instead of like an FBI agent conducting surveillance reconnaissance.
Sam’s body language shifted instantly—shoulders tensing, eyes flickering with the alarm that screamed he just wanted to be left alone. He pointed to a desk that was strategically positioned in the far corner.
“Right over there,” he said.
Of course. Corner desk, maximum visibility of the room, quick access to restricted areas. I recognized the setup because I had the same configuration at the Bureau—an isolated command center with optimal sight lines.
Sam walked away, and I got to work. Every few minutes, I could feel his gaze burning into my back like a security camera.
I didn’t blame him—if someone had shown up at my workplace talking about “elevated enthusiasm” and “probing,” I’d be monitoring them too, and maybe even administering a drug test.
The cross-referencing that Sam wanted me to do was, as predicted, laughably simple.
Basic data validation with elementary error handling.
This was an assignment they gave high school interns to teach them the fundamentals of updating databases.
I wasn’t complaining since it got me into his world, just where I needed to be.
Just then, I heard Sam’s voice.
I glanced back toward his desk, but it was empty.
Standing up slowly, I peered over the cubicle partition like a prairie dog checking for predators.
Sam was with an older woman who seemed to be fighting with the printer, repeatedly shaking her head and pushing all the buttons like it was a slot machine.
Sam patiently explained a few things to her that I could not hear, then helped her print a stack of documents.
To my surprise, the woman smiled and hugged him.
Unfortunately, I did not realize I had my mouth open when he glanced in my direction. I quickly ducked back down.
Wait, why did I do that?
I could have been stretching for all he knew, nothing wrong with that!
I slowly stood back up to see if Sam was still looking in my direction, but he’d disappeared and was now over at one of the public computer stations much closer to me, where a teenager with aggressively unruly hair was staring at the monitor with the expression of someone who’d just been asked to decrypt the Rosetta Stone.
Sam, the man who had just sentenced me to data entry purgatory, was now patiently leaning in to help the kid. He pointed to something on the screen, gesturing with his hands to illustrate a concept.
“See? It’s right there!” he said with a laugh.
Not the polite, professional chuckle of someone faking it, but a warm, genuine laugh that transformed his entire face.
“Oh, I get it now!” the kid exclaimed, his face lighting up like someone had just handed him the cheat codes to life.
Sam grinned back, clearly pleased. “You had it right the first time. You just needed to trust your instincts.”
I watched, fascinated, as Sam had morphed from the guarded, defensive archivist I’d met into something completely different—a patient teacher, generous with his time and knowledge.
It was like watching Clark Kent step out of a phone booth, except instead of a superhero costume, he’d put on basic human kindness.