Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
ZARA
The line at the München Haus order window snaked around the corner, with countless people bundled in coats, scarves, and gloves, their breath visible in the cold air as they waited. The smell of grilling meat surrounded us—rich, smoky, impossible to ignore.
“I can’t believe how many people are here,” I said, even though my thoughts kept circling back to Sam’s direct question at the library.
You carry a flash drive with you on vacation?
Nine words that managed to contain an entire interrogation.
Eleanor smiled with the patience of someone who’d explained this a hundred times before. “It’s the best bratwurst outside of Germany. Word gets out.”
I inhaled deeply, letting the aroma settle into my memory. It triggered something—a flash of the past, Oktoberfest, dancing to accordion music, laughing with strangers who’d somehow felt like good friends for a night.
“Now that I think about it,” I said, “I devoured two of them the last time I was here. Plus, a pretzel. And way too many beers.”
“You should have mentioned that before I offered to treat,” Sam said.
He laughed—a genuine, unguarded sound followed with a wink.
For a moment, he looked completely relaxed, like a man making a joke with someone he enjoyed.
Then his eyes shifted, and I caught a flash of something analytical underneath.
Was he flirting with me, or was he testing to see how I’d respond?
The honest answer was probably both, and I had no idea how to navigate a situation where attraction and suspicion occupied the same space.
I pushed the thought away and waved at Chloe, who was approaching us. I needed to talk to her ASAP.
“The food smells absolutely divine,” she said, stopping in front of us. “I already know what I want since I saw the menu online.”
I pulled her arm before she could get in line with us. “Actually, I need to use the restroom. You want to come with me?” I widened my eyes, hoping she would sense the urgency.
She glanced at the line, then back at me. “Sure.”
“I can order for you both since the line moves pretty fast,” Sam offered. “What would you like?”
I glanced up at the board and shrugged. “Everything looks wonderful, so surprise me, and thank you.”
“Of course,” he said. “And you, Chloe?”
“The Big Bob Bratwurst,” she said. “And whatever beer they recommend is fine with me. Thanks so much, Sam.”
“My pleasure.”
“I’ll grab us a table,” Eleanor said. “The food comes out lightning-fast, and we need to be ready to eat, so it doesn’t get cold.”
Chloe and I made our way across the courtyard, past the tables and outdoor space heaters. We found the bathroom, and I locked the door behind us before turning to face her.
“Okay, what’s going on?” Chloe asked. “You look like you’re about to have a panic attack.”
“Sam saw the flash drive in my purse at the library,” I whispered.
Chloe’s eyes widened. “Did he ask about it?”
I nodded. “Yes, and I gave him a flimsy explanation. He almost looked like he didn’t believe me.”
Chloe moved to the sink and ran the water, keeping the noise going as cover. “Okay, so he’s suspicious. That doesn’t mean he knows anything or is going to dig deeper.”
“Not yet,” I said. “But his brain works the same way mine does—always analyzing, always questioning. He saw that flash drive, and now he’s going to wonder what I was doing with it or why I needed it so badly that I carried it to a volunteer shift—”
“Stop,” Chloe interrupted. “You’re losing your way. Here’s what’s actually true: millions of people own storage devices. That you have one proves nothing.”
“But combined with everything else—”
“What specifically has he caught you doing that’s actually suspicious?” Chloe leaned against the counter. “Being smart? Being clumsy? Owning hardware?”
I wanted to argue, but she had a point.
“Besides,” Chloe continued, “even if he gets curious, what’s he going to do? Investigate you? Hack your accounts? He’s a brainiac archivist with a Robin Hood complex, not some paranoid conspiracy theorist.”
“Still, he’s someone with a brain that never stops working. That makes him dangerous.”
“Or it makes him someone who gives people the benefit of the doubt because he actually understands how complicated we all are.” Chloe’s hands landed on my shoulders, firm and grounding.
“Listen to me—you need to stop looking like you’re about to confess to murder every time he so much as glances your way.
Your behavior is what’s going to give you away, not anything he’s figured out. ”
“I know, I know …”
Chloe studied my face. “Try to remember who you used to be. The Zara from before. Strong. Confident. The woman who didn’t second-guess every word that came out of her mouth.”
The Zara from before.
The words hung between us, heavy with everything we weren’t saying.
Five years might as well have been a lifetime ago.
That version of me—the one who walked into rooms like she owned them, who trusted her instincts, who let people close enough to matter—she’d died the same night everything else had.
“What happened back then doesn’t have to define—”
“Please don’t.” I pulled away from her grip. “We’re not doing this now.”
Chloe simply nodded, always knowing when to stop pushing the subject.
“Fine. Tonight’s goal is simple: get through dinner without falling apart.
Keep your story consistent. Don’t offer information he hasn’t asked for.
Just be the person he’s been getting to know when you are not up in your head—someone smart, funny, someone who gets the way his mind works. ”
She was right. I knew she was right. I’d been trained for exactly this kind of situation—maintaining cover, managing suspicion, keeping fear locked away where no one could see it. I’d done it a hundred times before, with people far more dangerous than Sam.
So why did every instinct I had scream that this time was different? That Sam, with his relentless curiosity and that brain that never stopped piecing things together, was already ten steps ahead of me? That he was about to figure out exactly who—and what—I really was.
I waited for her to touch up her makeup in the mirror, then we emerged from the bathroom. Eleanor immediately waved us over to a table she’d claimed near one of the larger space heaters. Sam was already there, juggling three plates of bratwurst with potato salad.
He had clearly taken “surprise me” as a personal challenge, because my plate held two huge bratwursts topped with caramelized onions, dill relish, sauerkraut, and six different mustards on the side.
“Hope you enjoy it,” Sam said, watching my reaction carefully.
“I thought you were a minimalist when it came to bratwurst,” I said, accepting the plate.
“I am,” he said. “But yours deserved to be spectacular.”
“Why exactly?” I asked, genuinely curious despite my anxiety.
“Why not?” he replied with a grin.
Eleanor reached for her beer mug and raised it. “To the holiday season, and to friends!”
“Cheers,” we said in unison, clinking our steins.
I took a long drink of the cold beer. It was exactly what I needed after the stress of the past few hours.
I genuinely laughed at Eleanor’s story about a patron who’d tried to return a cookbook because it didn’t help him “feel better.” The normalcy of it—friends gathered around food, sharing stories—was wonderful.
For a moment, I let myself relax into the warmth of the space heaters, the clink of glasses, and the hum of conversation around us as we ate.
Until Sam’s knee bumped mine under the table …
My heart rate sped up.
But I didn’t move away.
His knee stayed there as well.
We weren’t looking at each other—both of us engaged in the larger conversation—but I was very aware of that single point of contact. The warmth of it. The fact that neither of us was acknowledging it, but neither of us was ending it either.
Before I could obsess about it, someone called out from behind me.
“Zara! Oh, my goodness, I can’t believe it’s you!”
My entire body went rigid.
No, no, no, no.
I turned slowly and faced a woman in her fifties with bright eyes and a wide smile.
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 Oktoberfest so many 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.
“She is 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 for each 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 …
Sam ordered another round of beers.
Of course he did.
Because apparently, the universe had decided tonight was the night to test exactly how much control I actually maintained.