Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
SAM
Two Days Later …
“Samuel Monroe!” the correctional officer called out, the sound of my name echoing off concrete walls.
I’d been listening to that door all morning—the buzz of the lock, the shuffle of footsteps, other inmates being processed out or moved to different holding areas. Each time, I’d tensed, wondering if the U.S. Marshals had arrived to transport me to Seattle to face the judge.
It looked like this was the moment of truth.
When everything became real and irreversible.
Zara hadn’t been able to find anything. Or maybe she had, but it hadn’t been enough. Maybe Beverly’s web of corruption ran too deep, her connections too powerful. Maybe some battles couldn’t be won, no matter how noble you were or how hard you fought.
The correctional officer approached my cell, keys jangling.
“Your federal hold has been canceled,” he said, unlocking the cell with a metallic clang. “You’re free to go.”
I blinked. Processed. Recalculated.
The words didn’t register.
I stared at him, certain I’d misheard.
Federal holds didn’t just get canceled—not without lawyers, hearings, and mountains of paperwork.
“I’m sorry—what?” I said.
“You heard me,” he said. “You’re a free man. What are you waiting for?”
Relief flooded through me so fast it left me dizzy. I had to grab onto the bars to steady myself, my legs suddenly uncertain, my breath coming in quick gasps like I’d been holding it for two days straight.
You’re a free man.
Four words had never sounded sweeter.
I should have been running out of there like the place was on fire, and not looking back, but there was something my analytical mind wanted to know. “Not that I’m complaining or anything, but do you know why the federal hold was canceled?”
He just stared at me. “That information is way above my pay grade, pal. Let’s go.”
The officer led me to a small processing area where I stripped off the jail uniform and waited while someone retrieved my property—the plastic bag containing my street clothes, wallet, keys, and phone. Everything that had been taken from me.
I changed back into my civilian clothes in a semi-private corner. The jeans and sweater felt strange after two days in scratchy jail scrubs.
My identity and my real life had returned.
At the final desk, I waited for the release paperwork while another officer processed the forms.
“Do you know what happened with my pending charges?” I couldn’t help asking the other officer, hoping he had some information. “Were they dropped?”
He glanced up from his computer. “Yeah—it says here the case was dismissed. Federal prosecutors declined to proceed.” He shrugged. “It sometimes happens when the evidence falls apart or things weren’t done by the book. Sign here.” He gestured to the document.
So, the evidence fell apart. Was it my self-destruct protocol that left them with absolutely nothing to find? Or had Zara actually found something that proved Beverly had planted something at my desk?
“You’re all set.” The officer handed me my release papers, then gestured to his left. “Exit through those doors over there.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas,” he said with a smile.
I walked toward the exit, my heart pounding harder with each step. The heavy doors buzzed open, and I stepped through them, then through another set of doors. That was when I was immediately hit by an onslaught of light, noise, and shouting.
Reporters. Dozens of them.
Camera crews from multiple TV stations. Photographers. Journalists with recording devices and cameras thrust forward like weapons. They surged toward me, a wall of questions crashing over me all at once:
“Are you Good Sam?”
“Did the FBI have the wrong person?”
“What will you do now?”
“Are you planning to sue for wrongful arrest?”
I blinked against the camera flashes, trying to orient myself. This was the last thing I’d expected.
“Please answer the question!” A reporter pushed closer. “Are you Good Sam? People would like to know.”
I almost laughed at his tone, like I owed him something.
“If I were Good Sam—I’d probably still be inside there, wouldn’t I?” I simply said, gesturing back at the Justice Center with my thumb.
A ripple of laughter moved through the crowd.
“But I believe in Good Sam’s mission,” I added.
“Even if it means breaking the law?” one of them asked.
“No,” I immediately answered. “I would never encourage that kind of behavior to anyone.”
And for some reason, with all those cameras pointed at me, all those microphones recording every word, it felt like the only chance I’d ever get to say what actually mattered.
“The United States has the largest number of millionaires of any country in the entire world—almost twenty-five million of them,” I added.
“Can you imagine the impact if each of those people gave just a little more each year to help others? Not millions. Just ... a little more. Enough to make a difference. A little goes a long way.”
The reporters had gone quiet, actually listening.
“And if Good Sam—whoever he or she might be—has reminded even a few people that sharing is caring, then I’d say he’s making the world a better place.
I’d love to see the compassion and kindness of the holiday season last all year round, not just in December.
Imagine what kind of world we could build if we actually tried a little more. We can do better.”
The questions exploded again, but I was no longer listening, because I’d just spotted Zara. She stood at the edge of the crowd, partially hidden behind a news van. Her hand was pressed to her heart, and even from here, I could see the smile on her face as she wiped her eyes.
I started moving in her direction, weaving through the reporters, ignoring their shouted questions. She was moving toward me, pushing through the crowd with urgency.
Then, when we were just a few steps apart, Zara launched herself at me. The hug practically knocked the air from my lungs—fierce, desperate, and almost bone-crushing.
I wrapped my arms around her and held on, my eyes closing, breathing in the scent of her shampoo, feeling the solid reality of her in my arms.
She was here. I was free. This was real.
We didn’t speak—we didn’t need to. We just held each other like we were the safest place in the world, like nothing could touch us as long as we stayed right here.
Zara wouldn’t let go of the tight hug, and I would have stayed there forever, but we’d have time for that in a more private setting.
“I missed you so much, Sam. I was scared.” She tightened the hug a little more.
“I missed you too,” I said.
Finally—reluctantly—we pulled apart when the reporters were surrounding us, invading our space, ruining our moment.
“How was the jail bratwurst?” Zara asked with a smirk.
“Very dry,” I said. “The potato salad was decent, though.”
And despite everything, I smiled.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said.
“We have a lot to talk about.” Zara grabbed my hand and pulled me toward her car.
“We certainly do,” I said. “I’m curious to know how you pulled off the miracle of the century in forty-eight hours.”
“It wasn’t really a miracle—more like controlled chaos.” She cranked the engine and blasted the heater. “Buckle up. You’re in for a wild ride, and I’m not talking about the highway.”
I strapped in. “I’m listening.”
“Okay, first, Kaiserhof’s security footage. I got it within an hour of your call.” Zara’s eyes gleamed. “It showed Beverly breaking into the library at 7:47 AM. Crystal clear.”
“That’s what I hoped for,” I said.
“But that wasn’t enough to get you out because it didn’t show her planting the evidence.” She pulled onto the highway. “So I started digging. Beverly’s financials—bank records, phone logs, everything. I found payments from a shell company. Apax Security Consulting. Fifty grand over two months.”
“And who’s behind Apax?” I asked.
“J.C. Whitmore.”
“Wow … Whitmore Development.”
He was one of the “Bad Boys” I took money from.
“Bingo,” Zara said. “Obviously, Whitmore wasn’t happy with you taking his money, but he couldn’t report your theft without exposing his own fraud. So, here’s where it gets interesting because Whitmore is connected to Deputy Assistant Director Badges, who has investments in his company.”
I could see where this was going. “Badges ordered Beverly—”
“To plant evidence, create probable cause, and get you arrested. Clean, convenient, politically motivated.”
“How did you prove all this in two days?” I asked.
Zara hesitated. “With Eleanor’s help.”
Wow, I didn’t see that coming.
I froze. “So you know …”
“That Eleanor’s your partner, and the other half of Good Sam? Yes.” Zara shook her head in amazement. “She completely fooled me. Sweet, motherly Eleanor with her reading glasses and her cookies. That’s why she was making copies of your Santa contact forms.”
“She’s good at what she does.”
“No kidding. I had no sense of her involvement until she walked into my hotel room with a laptop full of evidence and said, ‘I believe you’re trying to help Sam. Let me show you how.’”
“Please tell me Eleanor wasn’t arrested,” I said, holding my breath.
Zara shook her head. “No, but she didn’t want to take a chance, so she crossed over into Canada before someone could stop her. Someone is already filling in for her at the library.”
I was sure Canada was just a pit stop. Eleanor was probably sipping something tropical in Costa Rica by now. She had always talked about retiring there, especially since she owned a beachfront property on the Caribbean side, near Punta Uva.
“She said to tell you the work continues,” Zara added. “And that you’d know what to do.”
Eleanor was one of the kindest and most selfless people I knew. She had exposed herself to save me, and then just disappeared.
“What happened to Beverly?” I asked.