Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
ZARA
Sam was calm—too calm—considering he just found out I was an FBI agent. No anger, no fear, no betrayal—just that same thoughtful expression he wore when debugging code. Like this was just another day at the office instead of a threat to his freedom.
As for me, I was a complete and utter mess. Everything I’d worked so hard to keep hidden had imploded in sixty seconds. My future was now in the hands of the man walking beside me, his expression as unreadable as granite.
“Heading out?” Eleanor asked before we reached the front door, glancing at us with that motherly concern she reserved for Sam.
“We’re just going to stretch our legs and get some fresh air,” he said, his tone casual.
“And fresh air you will get—it’s thirty degrees outside right now,” Eleanor said with delight, pointing out the window at the temperature displayed on the sign in front of the bank.
“Practically balmy,” Sam said with a straight face.
“You have a disturbing definition of balmy,” Eleanor said with a laugh. “Since you’re going out, would you be a doll and stop by the bookstore on your way back? They have a box of donated books ready for pickup. I’d get them myself, but—”
“Of course,” Sam said. “No problem.”
“You’re a lifesaver. Thanks, dear.”
The cold hit us like a physical blow as we stepped outside—sharp and clean, the kind that made my lungs burn when I inhaled.
Where was he taking me? I wanted to ask, but the words were stuck in my throat, trapped behind the rising panic that threatened to overwhelm me if I opened my mouth.
Sam walked with no urgency whatsoever.
His hands were in his pockets.
Eyes forward.
I knew with absolute certainty that I wasn’t in physical danger. Whatever Sam was, whatever he’d done or hadn’t done, he wasn’t the kind of man who would do anything stupid or hurt anybody.
We’d barely made it half a block when a woman in a purple parka stopped us. “Sam!” Her entire face lit up like he was the best thing she’d seen all week. “Thanks again for fixing the vent on my wood-burning stove. It works like a charm now.”
“My pleasure, Mrs. Haggerty,” Sam said, the genuine warmth and care in his response making something twist in my chest.
“I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t come over,” she said. “I didn’t have the money to pay for repairs.”
“Glad I could help,” he said.
“Thank you, sweetie. Stay warm.” Mrs. Haggerty smiled warmly at me before hurrying on her way.
Another twenty feet, and two people across the street waved enthusiastically. One of them was on crutches.
“Sam!” they called in unison.
He waved back. “How’s the foot doing?”
“The cast comes off tomorrow!” The woman lifted one crutch triumphantly, her grin visible even from this distance.
“Finally! Be careful on that ice!” he said with a grin.
“You bet I will!”
I watched her go, my throat tight. How many people in this town had Sam helped? How many wood-burning stoves had he fixed, how many problems had he solved, how many lives had he quietly improved while I was busy trying to prove he was a criminal?
Sam’s smile disappeared the moment they were gone.
Back to pensive. Back to that blank, unreadable expression that told me nothing about what he was thinking or feeling or planning to do with the information he had.
Sam guided me toward the front door of Gustav’s, a beautiful three-story tavern with pine paneling and a distinctive onion dome that looked like it belonged in Germany rather than a small Washington town.
The moment we walked in, every employee looked up and waved, like Sam was a regular. Like he belonged here in a way I never would.
We ordered food to take back to the library, then sat at a cozy table by a massive river-rock fireplace, flames crackling and throwing dancing shadows across the worn wooden floor. The employee brought us two hot apple ciders to enjoy while we waited for our order.
Steam rose from my mug, fragrant with cinnamon and cloves, but I couldn’t bring myself to drink. My stomach was in knots.
Sam took a sip of his cider. Then another. His gaze drifted to the fireplace, and for a long moment, we both just sat there, staring at the flames like they might hold answers neither of us wanted to speak aloud.
Finally, Sam set down his mug.
“Tell me what you know about me,” he said.
I swallowed hard, trying to decide how much to tell.
“And who else knows?” The intensity in Sam’s eyes made it impossible to look away. “Is it just you? Or the entire FBI?”
My training told me to deflect. To lie. To protect the investigation and my position within it. But what was the point? He already knew who I was, and apparently already had copies of my files and contacts. He held all the cards.
“Many people know,” I said, the words coming out in a whisper. “One of them is Chloe.”
“Is she an FBI agent as well?”
“Yes. And my best friend.”
“What about Beverly?” Sam asked. “You told me she was trouble when we were at the bagel shop. You also said she was a pickpocket. Then you claimed to know her from Boston University. Are any of these true?”
I nodded. “Yes, she’s trouble for you. I lied about her being a pickpocket to put you on alert so you wouldn’t trust her. And yes, we went to Boston University together.”
“But why is she in Leavenworth? And why is there so much tension between you?”
“She’s also an agent, and the reason there is tension between us is that I have this thing against manipulative witches. We may be coworkers, but I don’t trust her. Never have. That’s the only reason I took the contact form.”
Sam nodded slowly, processing. “And what exactly do all of you know?”
“That there’s someone in Leavenworth known as Good Sam,” I said. “That this person is stealing from wealthy, corrupt scumbags in Seattle and redistributing the money to families in need.” I met his eyes. “You’re the prime suspect.” I shrugged. “The only suspect, actually.”
“But you have no proof,” Sam said confidently.
“No,” I admitted. “Nothing concrete. If we had it, you’d already be in handcuffs.”
Something flickered across his face—relief, maybe, or dark amusement. “Fair enough.”
He took another sip of his cider, and I did the same, just to have something to do with my hands. The liquid was sweet and warming, but it did nothing to ease the cold dread in my stomach.
“Okay, let’s play a little game,” he said.
“Sam …”
“Hear me out—it’s nothing complicated. I will ask you something, and then you answer. Then you ask me something, and I will answer. Back and forth. A fair trade.”
I stared at him. Was he seriously suggesting we play twenty questions with an FBI case and each other’s secrets?
“There’s a problem with that,” I said carefully.
“What kind of problem?” he asked.
“If you tell me something incriminating, and they put me on a witness stand …” I let the implication hang there.
“I won’t be able to lie under oath. Anything you tell me could be used against you.
And just between me and you, it would break my heart to use it against you.
You may not believe it, but I believe what you are doing is very admirable. ”
Sam considered this, his fingers drumming once against his mug. “And what if I’m completely innocent?”
I sighed. “I will say it again—be careful with what you say. Please. We can ask hypothetical questions.”
“Okay then …” He tilted his head. “Who goes first?”
“You,” I said.
Sam leaned back in his chair. “How did you get in as a volunteer at the library? Eleanor specifically told me a few weeks ago that we didn’t need anyone. Then you showed up out of nowhere.”
Right. Starting with the simple questions.
“You’ll have to ask Eleanor that question because I had nothing to do with how it came about,” I said. “My supervising agent assigned me to the case, told me I would be a volunteer, and then told me what I needed to do. I had no say in the matter. I didn’t even want to be here.”
Sam nodded. “Your turn.”
“Hypothetically speaking, do you think a man like Good Sam thinks it’s worth the risk of jail time to help these people?” I asked.
Sam was quiet for a moment, his gaze drifting back to the fireplace. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft but certain.
“I think a man like that probably doesn’t see it as a choice,” he said.
“He sees a single mother working three jobs who still can’t afford warm clothes or new shoes for her children.
He sees an elderly man having to choose between medication and food.
He sees kids going to bed hungry because both their parents lost their jobs. ”
Sam was deep in thought, then turned back to me, and the emotion in his eyes made my breath catch.
“And I think when you see suffering you have the power to stop—even if it’s risky—doing nothing becomes the harder choice,” he added.
“Not the safer one. The harder one.” His fingers tightened around his mug.
“Because that man has to live with himself. He has to look in the mirror every morning.” Sam shook his head slowly.
“I think a man like that would rather risk jail time than risk becoming someone who doesn’t have a heart, someone who could walk past that kind of pain and do nothing.
” He met my eyes again, unflinching. “So yeah. I think he’d say it’s totally worth it. Every single time.”
My throat tightened, eyes burning with tears I refused to let fall.
This wasn’t a carefully crafted defense or philosophical argument.
This was Sam’s truth, raw and unfiltered.
I could hear the conviction in every syllable, see it in the set of his jaw, in the way his hands gripped that mug like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.
He believed in Good Sam’s mission with every fiber of his being.
“Okay—it's your turn to ask a question,” I barely got out.
Sam leaned back, studying me with that look he got sometimes—like he was trying to figure out a particularly interesting puzzle.
“Was your clumsiness all just an act?” he surprisingly asked.