Version 1.17.0

  SCOTT

  I almost told her everything at Thanksgiving.

  Sitting in my apartment, Chinese food containers spread across the coffee table, watching her laugh at my terrible fortune cookie jokes. I almost just said it. "Sam, I'm not who you think I am. I'm a federal agent investigating you for financial crimes that I'm increasingly convinced you didn't commit, or at least not in any way I can understand."

  But I didn't. Because she looked happy, really happy, for the first time since I'd known her. Because she was talking about her mother's cruel voicemail and her estranged best friend and somehow still finding things to laugh about. Because telling her the truth would destroy this fragile, precious thing we were building, and I wasn't ready to watch it shatter.

  So I kept my mouth shut. I made jokes about fantasy novels. I held her hand when she got quiet. And I hated myself a little more with every passing hour.

  * * *

  You're a federal agent. She's a suspect. This is exactly the kind of thing that ends careers. But she didn't feel like a suspect. She felt like a woman who'd been wronged by her company, who'd lost her best friend, who was trying to rebuild her life from the rubble. She felt like someone I wanted to protect, not prosecute.

  That's what con artists do. They make you feel things.

  Except nothing about Sam felt like a con. The embarrassment when she talked about her fantasy books. The genuine joy when she beat me at air hockey. The way her whole face changed when she laughed, like she was surprised by her own happiness.

  I let myself into my apartment and stood in the darkness for a long moment before flipping on the lights. The case file was where I'd left it, spread across the small desk by the window. Photos, bank statements, interview transcripts, timeline charts. The collected evidence of Operation Glitch, which was the deeply uninspired name my boss Christopher had given this investigation.

  I threw my hoodie on the chair in the corner, poured myself two fingers of whiskey from the bottle I'd been nursing all month, and sat down to look at it all again. Maybe if I stared at it long enough, something would finally make sense.

  * * *

  The facts of the case were simple. The implications were anything but: Two months ago, a routine audit at First National Bank flagged an anomaly in a customer's account. The account belonged to one Samantha Marion, thirty years old, graphic designer, recently terminated from Holloway Design Group. On a Saturday afternoon in early October, her checking account balance had increased by five dollars.

  Not transferred. Not deposited. Just... increased.

  The bank's fraud detection systems had caught it almost immediately. They'd reviewed their logs, checked for signs of intrusion, run every diagnostic they had. Nothing. No unauthorized access. No evidence of tampering. According to every system they had, the money had simply appeared.

  They'd flagged it as a glitch, corrected the balance, and moved on. But ten minutes later it happened again. This time it increased by $2,565. And five minutes after that, $25,650. That was when the FBI got involved.

  I picked up the photo we had of Sam, a corporate headshot from her Holloway employee file, and studied it for the hundredth time. Professional smile. Hair neatly styled. The kind of photo that told you absolutely nothing about the person behind it.

  The bank had provided us with everything. Every login, every transaction, every piece of data they could extract. I'd gone over it all with a fine-toothed comb, looking for the signature of a hack, the fingerprint of malware, any indication of how she was doing it.

  I'd found nothing.

  And I was good at this. Really good. I pulled up the technical analysis on my laptop, scrolling through the report I'd written myself. I'd spent eight years in the Bureau's cyber division, specializing in financial crimes. I'd caught hackers who'd stolen millions from major institutions. I'd unraveled schemes so complex they'd required flowcharts to explain to the prosecution team.

  Three years ago, I'd cracked a case involving a Romanian hacking collective that had siphoned $40 million from regional banks across the Midwest. They'd used a sophisticated combination of phishing attacks, zero-day exploits, and social engineering that had taken me four months to untangle. When I finally presented my findings to the prosecution team, the lead attorney had said it was the most comprehensive technical analysis she'd ever seen.

  This should have been simpler than that. A single person, a single bank, a relatively small amount of money. Find the exploit, trace the intrusion, build the case. A month of work, tops.

  Instead, two months in, I had a woman with no technical background, no hacking history, and no apparent knowledge of how computer systems worked, somehow manipulating bank databases in ways that left no trace.

  I'd checked everything. Her internet history, mostly online shopping and streaming services. Her email accounts, work correspondence and personal messages, nothing suspicious. In fact the only suspicious part was how little was there. Her social media included sporadic posts about design trends and, lately, a lot of job searching. Her computer, a standard Mac with no unusual software, no VPNs, no encryption tools. She'd recently replaced her Mac with an upgraded one but even that was pretty barebones. From what I could tell, the only thing she'd downloaded were Dropbox and design software, which made sense considering she was searching for a job.

  Nothing that suggested she knew how to hack a bank. Nothing that suggested she knew how to hack anything.

  I'd tested her, during our dates. Casual mentions of cybersecurity, questions about whether she'd ever been interested in coding, jokes about "those hacker types you see in movies." She'd responded with the polite confusion of someone who genuinely had no idea what I was talking about. Either she was the greatest actress I'd ever encountered, or she really didn't know anything about hacking. The only coding she did was Wordpress, which in my opinion wasn't coding at all.

  Which left me with the question that had been keeping me up at night: if she wasn't hacking the bank, how did the money appear and where did it come from?

  * * *

  Friday, December 2nd

  The first email from Christopher came on a Friday.

  I was sitting in my apartment, laptop open, trying to write a progress report that said nothing because there was nothing to say. Three months of surveillance. Three months of data collection. And I still couldn't explain how Samantha Marion was generating money from thin air.

  From:

  To:

  Subject: Marion Case - Status Update Required

  Scott,

  Haven't received a formal update in two weeks. Director is asking questions. Need something concrete by Monday.

  What's your current assessment?

  C.

  I stared at the email for a long time before responding.

  From:

  To:

  Subject: RE: Marion Case - Status Update Required

  Chris,

  Apologies for the delay. Honestly, I'm not sure what to report.

  Subject shows no signs of technical sophistication. No hacking tools. No suspicious software. No communication with known financial criminals. Her daily routine is mundane: job searching, apartment decorating, occasional social outings.

  The money appeared in her account. I can confirm that much. But I cannot identify a mechanism. No intrusion vectors. No compromised credentials. No insider access.

  I'm starting to think we're looking at this wrong.

  Scott

  His response came twenty minutes later.

  From:

  To:

  Subject: RE: RE: Marion Case - Status Update Required

  Looking at it wrong how? The money didn't materialize from nothing. There's always a mechanism.

  Keep digging.

  C.

  I closed my laptop and went for a walk. The city was getting cold, the kind of December cold that made your bones ache. I walked for an hour, trying to clear my head, trying to figure out what I was missing.

  But the truth was, I wasn't missing anything. I'd looked at every angle. Run every trace. Checked every possible explanation. And the only conclusion that made sense was the one that made no sense at all.

  * * *

  I took a long sip of whiskey and turned to the other file. The Holloway file.

  Greg Harrison's interview transcript was a masterpiece of outraged denial. I'd conducted it myself, three weeks into the investigation, when the Holloway scandal had first broken and we'd started wondering if there was a connection to our case. Greg had been apoplectic, red-faced, sweating, practically vibrating with fury.

  "I did NOT release those files," he'd insisted, for the fifth time in as many minutes. "Someone hacked into my email. Someone is trying to destroy me."

  "Mr. Harrison, the email was sent from your Holloway account, using your credentials, from an IP address that traces back to your office."

  "Then someone was in my office! Or they spoofed the IP! I don't know how these things work, but I know I didn't do this!"

  I'd pressed him for hours. Showed him the evidence. Walked him through the technical details. His denials never wavered, and more importantly, his confusion seemed genuine. This wasn't a man trying to cover up a guilty conscience. This was a man who genuinely could not understand how his own email and LinkedIn had been used to expose his decades of misconduct.

  The kicker? His wife had left him the week after the story broke. Moved in with her sister in Connecticut. The prenup meant she'd get nothing in a divorce, so she was holding on until the litigation settled, hoping there'd be something left to claim. I'd interviewed her too, Helen Harrison, who'd had no idea her husband was a predator until she saw his own emails splashed across the evening news.

  "If he'd wanted to confess, he would have told me first," she'd said, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue that probably cost more than my tie. "Twenty-three years of marriage. Whatever he was, he wasn't stupid. He wouldn't have destroyed himself like this. Someone did this to him."

  I'd thought she was making excuses. Protecting her meal ticket. But now, sitting alone in my apartment with a half-empty glass of whiskey, her words took on a different meaning.

  Someone had done this to Greg Harrison. Someone who had a reason to expose Greg. Someone like Sam. Greg claimed that prior to the leak his entire home electronics system went haywire. Fried half of the house, anything connected to the internet.

  The power company couldn't explain it. The increase of voltage through the line shouldn't have been possible. The internet company didn't know how this could happen. How could a glitch large enough to render electronics unusable not ping their systems or happen at any other locations? Just like the bank didn't know how Sam's account kept glitching.

  Just like I didn't know how any of this made sense.

  * * *

  My phone buzzed while I was making dinner. Not Sam. Not Christopher. Not Bureau.

  Marc: saw your login on the OSINT portal. you running something off-book or just bored?

  I stared at the message, then typed back.

  Me: Just research. Background stuff for the case.

  Marc: "background stuff." sure. that's what they all say before the OIG investigation.

  Marc: seriously though. you good? haven't heard from you since october. that's a long silence even for you.

  I leaned against the counter. The pasta water was starting to boil. Through the wall, I could hear Sam's TV, some reality show she watched ironically, or at least that's what she claimed.

  Me: I'm good. Case is just eating my life. You know how it gets.

  Marc: I know how YOU get. different thing. you want to grab a beer this weekend? I'm in town for the Mandiant thing.

  I should have said yes. Marc was the kind of friend who noticed when you went quiet and called it out, but gently, wrapped in insults and casual invitations, so you could accept the concern without admitting you needed it. Six years of that. DEF CON hallways and late-night phone calls about zero-days and the particular loneliness of people who understand systems better than they understand other people.

  Me: Rain check. Stuck on something.

  Marc: you're always stuck on something. that's your whole personality.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  Marc: offer stands. I've got a new challenge lock that'll make you cry.

  I almost smiled. Set the phone down. Went back to the pasta.

  The offer would stand. That was the thing about Marc. The offer always stood.

  * * *

  Sunday, December 4th

  I texted Sam about the snow.

  I was already awake, already watching it fall, thinking about how much I wanted to see her. That was the problem. I wanted to see her all the time now. Not for the case. Just for her.

  We got breakfast at Dot's. She ate pancakes and made fun of my ambition, and I sat across from her thinking about all the ways I was lying to her.

  "What do you want?" I asked. "Big picture. Life goals."

  She thought about it. Really thought about it. "I don't know anymore. The old goals don't fit."

  I understood that more than she knew. My old goals had been simple: excel at work, close cases, climb the ladder. But somewhere in the last three months, those goals had gotten tangled up with something else entirely.

  "It's okay not to know," I told her. "The figuring out part is important."

  I meant it. I just wished I could take my own advice.

  * * *

  Thursday, December 8th

  From:

  To:

  Subject: Marion Case - Preliminary Assessment

  Chris,

  I've completed a comprehensive review of all available evidence. Attached is my preliminary assessment.

  Summary: While the financial anomaly is undeniable, I cannot establish criminal intent or identify a viable mechanism for the alleged fraud. Subject appears to be an ordinary citizen with no technical background or criminal connections.

  Recommend we consider alternative explanations, including the possibility of a banking system error that has been misattributed.

  Scott

  The phone rang thirty seconds after I hit send.

  "Alternative explanations?" Christopher's voice was sharp. "Scott, we have video of the numbers changing in real time. This wasn't a glitch."

  "I know what the screen recording shows. I'm just saying I can't explain it."

  "Then keep investigating until you can."

  "Chris." I pinched the bridge of my nose. "I've been on this case for three months. I've surveilled her daily routine. I've analyzed her digital footprint. I've reviewed her financial history going back a decade. There's nothing there."

  "The money is there. That's something."

  "The money appeared. I'm not disputing that. I'm saying I can't find how."

  There was a long pause. "Are you telling me you want off the case?"

  I should have said yes. Right then, right there, I should have told him the truth. That I'd gotten too close. That my judgment was compromised. That every time I looked at Sam, I saw a person, not a subject.

  Instead, I said, "I'm telling you I don't know where else to look."

  "Then look harder. I'll expect your next report by the fifteenth."

  He hung up.

  * * *

  Christopher was convinced Sam was our hacker. "She's the common thread," he'd said in our last briefing. "Every anomaly leads back to her. The bank glitches happened when she was logged in. Literally hours after she spent an uncharacteristically large amount of money. The Holloway leak came shortly after she was fired and days after her reputation and department were hung out to dry for yet another mysterious hack. The hack in question? Conveniently the coworker who had gotten Sam fired. Personal, private and illegal paystubs which presumably had never been on Holloway premises along with private HR emails concerning Sam's firing were leaked straight into a slideshow presentation that was given to executives at a very high profile client. She's either incredibly lucky or incredibly skilled."

  "Or she's not involved at all," I'd said.

  "Then explain the pattern."

  I couldn't. That was the problem. The pattern was there, undeniable, inexplicable, pointing straight at Samantha Marion. But patterns could be coincidences. Patterns could be misread. There was no one in her life who would do this for her. Who could do this for her.

  And sometimes patterns pointed to things that didn't fit any known category.

  * * *

  Instead of sleeping that night, I reached for the other file. The one I'd started compiling on my own, without telling Christopher. The anomaly file.

  It had started as a hunch. A feeling that I was missing something obvious. So I'd started looking at everything that had happened around Samantha Marion since her termination from Holloway, not just the financial irregularities. The list was unsettling.

  First, there was Daniel Park, the junior designer who'd allegedly stolen her work and sold it to Vertex Communications. He'd been promoted after Sam's firing, then spectacularly fired that same week when evidence of his theft was somehow included in a company presentation. Career destroyed. Currently living in the basement of his aunt's house in New Jersey.

  Then the bank glitches. Money appearing from nowhere. No explanation. No trace. Then Greg Harrison, with his mysteriously self-exposing email. CEO to pariah in the span of a news cycle.

  I'd even tracked down her ISP records, looking for evidence of unusual network activity. Nothing. Her internet usage was completely normal, streaming, browsing, the occasional video call. If she was hacking bank systems, she wasn't doing it through any network connection I could find.

  The bank's IT security team had been equally baffled. They'd brought in outside consultants, run penetration tests, checked every line of code in their systems. No vulnerabilities. No backdoors. No explanation.

  "It's like the money just materialized," their head of security had told me during our interview. "I've been doing this for twenty years, and I've never seen anything like it."

  Neither had I.

  Christopher saw a hacker. A sophisticated criminal using some new technique we hadn't encountered before. "She's good," he'd said, almost admiringly. "Really good. Whatever she's using, we haven't figured it out yet. But we will."

  I saw something else. Something that made no sense. Something that felt less like cybercrime and more like… I didn't know what. That was the problem. I didn't have a word for what I was seeing.

  But I knew, with the bone-deep certainty that had made me good at this job, great at this job. Samantha Marion was not a hacker. She was something else entirely. She was honest, and driven, top of her class. Excelled through the ranks and received impeccable reviews and promotions at every job she'd ever held. She was a loner, a string of casual boyfriends throughout the years. None had one bad thing to say about her other than she was a workaholic and that they couldn't hold her attention. She was brilliant, and funny.

  And I was falling in love with her.

  * * *

  Saturday, December 10th

  We went Christmas shopping together.

  Sam helped me find gifts for my family. She remembered details I'd mentioned weeks ago, tiny things, like my niece and nephew’s hobbies. She noticed. She paid attention. She made me feel seen in a way I hadn't felt in years.

  And then, in a parking garage surrounded by concrete and exhaust fumes, I kissed her.

  It wasn’t supposed to happen. It crossed every boundary I’d set in place. But something happened when our lips met. The air around us got warm. Not metaphorically warm. Actually warm. The December chill vanished, replaced by something almost tropical.

  "Is it just me, or did it get really warm in here?" I asked when we broke apart.

  "Must be all the cars," Sam said quickly. "Engine heat."

  There were four cars on this level. None of them running.

  "I guess," I said, but I filed the observation away. Another data point that didn't fit. Another thing I couldn't explain. And even weirder was that by the time we reached my car, the temperature had returned to normal.

  * * *

  Wednesday, December 14th

  From:

  To:

  Subject: Marion Case - Concerns

  Scott,

  Your recent reports have been increasingly vague. I'm starting to wonder if there's something you're not telling me.

  Is there a problem I should know about?

  C.

  I read the email three times. He knew. Maybe not the specifics, but he could sense something was off. Christopher hadn't made it to Senior Agent by missing the obvious.

  From:

  To:

  Subject: RE: Marion Case - Concerns

  No problem. Just frustration. This case doesn't follow normal patterns.

  I'll have a complete update for you by Friday.

  Scott

  The lie tasted bitter even in text form.

  * * *

  Thursday, December 15th

  Sam got the job.

  She called me, voice bright with excitement, and I felt genuinely happy for her. Not performed happiness. Not the kind of enthusiasm you fake for an assignment. Real happiness, the kind that made my chest tight.

  "We need to celebrate properly," I said. "Dinner tonight. I'll cook."

  "You cook?"

  "I have hidden depths."

  I made pasta. We ate by candlelight. And at some point during the evening, she looked at me across the table and said something that made my heart stop.

  "There's something I should tell you. About why things fell apart with Kate. About what I actually did."

  "You don't have to..."

  "I want to. After Christmas. I want to tell you everything."

  Everything. She wanted to tell me everything. I didn’t want her to. What if everything meant I had to do my job. And that’s when I knew I had to tell her everything too.

  * * *

  Friday, December 16th

  I called Christopher directly.

  "I need to talk to you about the Marion case."

  "Progress?"

  "Not exactly." I took a breath. "I think you should reassign it."

  Silence. Then: "Why?"

  "Because I've lost objectivity."

  There it was. The truth, or at least part of it. I waited for the explosion.

  "Explain," Christopher said, his voice carefully neutral.

  "I've spent six weeks with this woman. Observing her. Interacting with her. And I don't think she's a criminal, Chris. I think something happened that we don't understand, but I don't think she did anything wrong."

  "That's not your determination to make."

  "I know. That's why I'm asking to be reassigned."

  Another long pause. "Is there something else you're not telling me?"

  I thought about Sam's smile. About the way she laughed at my jokes. About the kiss in the parking garage and the impossible warmth that followed.

  "I've developed feelings for her."

  The silence stretched so long I thought the call had dropped.

  "Jesus Christ, Scott."

  "I know."

  "She's a suspect. Not only that, but our only real lead to find the most sophisticated financial hacker we've ever encountered, and you've fallen for her?"

  "She's not a hacker." The words came out harder than I intended. "I've been over every piece of evidence. I've tested her knowledge. I've analyzed the technical side of this thing six ways from Sunday. There is no hack. There is no exploit. She doesn't have the skills, the knowledge, or the tools to do what we're accusing her of."

  "Then how did the money appear in her account?"

  “It was an anomaly.”

  "That's not an answer."

  "It's the only answer I have." I started pacing, phone pressed to my ear. "Christopher, I've been doing this for eight years. I know what hackers look like. I know how they think, how they operate, how they cover their tracks. Sam Marion is not a hacker. She's a graphic designer who lost her job and her best friend and is trying to put her life back together. The bank thing is a glitch. The Holloway thing is a coincidence, probably from one of the many women on that list. There's nothing here."

  "The bank thing is not a glitch. Banks don't just spontaneously generate money."

  "Maybe they do. Maybe there's a bug in their system that no one's found. Maybe it's a rounding error that compounded. Maybe..."

  "Maybe you're too close to see clearly."

  That stopped me. I stood at the window, looking out at nothing.

  "Oh, I definitely am," I admitted. "Which is why I'm asking to be removed."

  "Request denied."

  "Christopher..."

  "We're too deep into this to switch agents now. You've built a relationship with her. You have access. You're the only one who can finish this."

  "I just told you there's nothing to finish. She didn't do anything."

  "Then prove it. Keep investigating. If you're right, you'll find something that exonerates her. If you're wrong..." He let the sentence hang.

  "And if I refuse?"

  "Then you can explain to the Deputy Director why you tanked an eight year career because you caught feelings for a suspect."

  I closed my eyes. He had me, and we both knew it. Walking away now wouldn't save Sam, it would just mean someone else took over the case. Someone who didn't know her. Someone who would look at the evidence and see exactly what Christopher saw: a criminal who needed to be caught.

  "Fine," I said. "But I'm doing this my way."

  "Your way?"

  "I'm going to tell her. About the investigation. About who I really am."

  "Absolutely not."

  "If she's innocent, which she is, then she might be able to help us figure out what's actually happening. Maybe she's noticed things we haven't. Maybe she has information that could explain the bank anomalies."

  "Or maybe she'll lawyer up and we'll lose everything we've built."

  "She won't. She's not..." I stopped, reorganized my thoughts. "She's not what you think she is. I've spent weeks with her. I know her. If I come clean and tell her I'm trying to help, she'll trust me."

  "You're betting the whole case on your gut feeling about a woman you've known for a couple of weeks"

  "Yes. I am."

  The silence on the line stretched long enough that I thought he might have hung up. Then Christopher sighed, the deep, exhausted sigh of a man who'd long ago learned to pick his battles.

  "If this goes sideways, it's on you."

  "I know."

  "And I want daily reports. Every conversation, every observation, everything."

  "Fine."

  "Tell her after the holiday. No need to ruin her Christmas."

  I almost laughed at that. Christopher, showing concern for a suspect's holiday meal. Wonders never ceased.

  "I'll tell her Christmas night," I said. "After her family dinner."

  "Fine. And Scott?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Try not to do anything else stupid between now and then."

  He hung up before I could respond.

  * * *

  Saturday, December 17th

  From:

  To:

  Subject: Marion Case - Formal Notice

  Scott,

  Per our conversation, this email serves as formal documentation of your disclosed conflict of interest in the Marion investigation.

  Effective immediately, you are to maintain professional distance from the subject. No personal contact outside of documented surveillance activities. No social engagements. No communication beyond what is strictly necessary for case purposes.

  Failure to comply will result in immediate removal from the case and potential disciplinary review.

  I'm not trying to be harsh. I'm trying to protect your career. You're a good agent, Scott. Don't throw that away over a woman you barely know.

  Christopher Dyer Senior Agent, Financial Crimes Division

  I read the email and then closed my laptop.Professional distance. No personal contact. Sam had just gotten a job she was excited about. She was planning to tell me her secrets after Christmas. She trusted me. And I was supposed to just disappear? I picked up my phone. Put it down. Picked it up again.

  Sam: Thinking about you. Can't wait for Christmas Eve.

  I stared at the message for a long time.

  Me: Me too.

  * * *

  I pushed back from the desk and walked to the window. The city sprawled out below me, all lights and shadows and lives I'd never know. Somewhere out there, Sam was probably getting ready for bed. Probably replaying our conversations and trying to figure out what she was going to tell me after Christmas.

  The thought made me want to punch something. Preferably myself. I pulled my wallet from my jacket and extracted the strip of photos from the arcade. Four frames, four moments, captured in that cheesy photobooth while Gerald the narwhal looked on in judgment.

  In the first frame, we were both trying to look serious. Sam had her arms crossed, chin lifted, attempting a model pose. I was doing my best Blue Steel. Neither of us could quite keep a straight face.

  In the second frame, we'd gone full silly. Tongues out, eyes crossed, the whole ridiculous routine. Sam had bunny ears behind my head that I hadn't noticed until I saw the photo.

  In the third frame, I was pretending to be terrified of Gerald while Sam held the stuffed narwhal up like a weapon. My expression of mock horror was genuinely embarrassing.

  In the fourth frame, we were just laughing. Looking at each other, not the camera, caught mid-giggle at something one of us had said. Sam's eyes were crinkled at the corners. My hand was on her shoulder. We looked happy. We looked like a couple. We looked like something I wanted to be real.

  I set the photos down on the desk and picked up the book instead. Throne of Light, with its ridiculous cover featuring a brooding winged man and a woman in an impractical dress. I'd bought it as part of my cover, something to talk about with Sam, a way to show interest in her life. I'd expected to hate it.

  I hadn't expected to finish it in three days.

  The thing was genuinely good. Ridiculous, sure. The fae politics were absurdly convoluted, and Allister the love interest had the emotional communication skills of a particularly stunted brick. But the story had pulled me in despite myself. Aurora's journey from ordinary human to something powerful and strange. The way the book didn't shy away from the costs of that transformation. The enemies-to-lovers arc that somehow managed to be both predictable and satisfying.

  I'd found myself thinking about the parallels more than once. Aurora, thrust into a world she didn't understand, gaining abilities she couldn't explain. Sam, losing her job and her friend, somehow becoming connected to inexplicable events.

  Except Aurora was fiction. Sam was real. And the inexplicable events in Sam's life weren't magic; they were crimes I was supposed to be investigating.

  I flipped to the dog-eared page where I'd stopped reading. A scene where Aurora finally confronts Allister about his secrets, demands to know what he's been hiding from her. The dialogue had hit a little too close to home:

  "You could have told me," Aurora said. "From the beginning, you could have told me the truth."

  "And you would have believed me?" Allister's laugh was bitter. "You would have looked at me, at what I am, at who I am, and trusted me?"

  "I would have had the choice. That's what you took from me. Not the truth. The choice."

  I closed the book and set it down. Christmas night, I would give Sam the choice. I would tell her everything, and she could decide whether I was worthy of trust or just another person who'd lied to her.

  The second book was already loaded on my phone. I'd already started it, I’d been hoping to finish it before Christmas and discuss it with her. Assuming I still had a relationship to discuss it with. Could I even call it that? A relationship? I knew now that I wanted to. I wanted to find out what happened between Aurora and Allister. I wanted to live the life I had been pretending to have.

  * * *

  Friday, December 23rd

  From:

  To:

  Subject: RE: Marion Case - Formal Notice

  Chris,

  I understand your concerns. But I need you to understand mine.

  I've spent three months investigating this woman for a crime I'm not convinced she committed. I've watched her lose her job, struggle with her family, rebuild her life from scratch. I've seen her be kind to strangers and harsh on herself. I've watched her try to do the right thing even when it costs her.

  Whatever happened with that bank account, she's not a threat. She's not running a criminal enterprise. She's just a woman trying to figure out her life.

  I'm going to spend Christmas with her. I'm going to be there for her when she faces her family. And after the holidays, I'm going to tell her the truth about who I am and why I'm here.

  If that ends my career, so be it. But I'm done lying to someone who trusts me.

  Scott

  His response came within minutes.

  From:

  To:

  Subject: RE: RE: Marion Case - Formal Notice

  You're making a mistake.

  Call me after Christmas. We need to talk about damage control.

  C.

  main page and hit follow and favorite, or leave a rating. Reviews keep small authors alive (emotionally, if not financially. Your support means more than my emotionally repressed self will ever properly articulate.)

  Want to read ahead? My has the rest of book one and a bonus prequel chapter. Patience is overrated anyway.