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Everything is going to plan. I move a piece of hair from my eye and smack my lips after donning on some bright red lipstick. I adjust my black, shoulder-length wig and stare into the mirror. Botox has helped prevent the fine lines and wrinkles whereas Patrice looks every bit her age. My reflection stares back and I realize I’m finally acting myself again. After years of divorce, losing my job, the drug abuse and losing my two children, I knew it was time to act. My life has been destroyed by that night and it’s time for Patrice Summers to pay. My mind flies back to 1984. Emily had her whole life ahead of her (yes, it sounds cliché) but it’s true. She had been accepted to Harvard for pre-law and had told me she was going to be an attorney, so she could ensure justice was served, which hadn’t happened with her younger brother, Darren, who had been kidnapped when he was five and murdered a week later. The monster was acquitted because our family attorney screwed up the case and did unethical shit to coerce a confession which was then overturned. That night, me and my boyfriend, Chad, and four more couples decide to hike up a popular trail in the Spanish Fork canyon before prom. We would be gone for the day and then we girls would go back to Emily’s and get ready. Emily was a quiet person, very shy, and not very popular. I took her under my wing and changed her look, got her contacts, and showed her how to be popular. It worked. After I taught her how to do her makeup and hair, she finally got a date. That date turned into a boyfriend. I was so proud of myself. After, we hung out all the time, and double-dated often. She was my project, and I made sure she was popular, but not too popular. I ruled Grantsville High, and no one crossed me – no one. When Emily died, a piece of my heart died too, and I vowed I would get revenge – not for me, mind you, but for her and her family. Patrice pushed her to get on the bridge when she didn’t want to and she could have gone around and met us on the other side, but no, Patrice Summers guilted her into it. Then after, she moved on with her life, got married, had kids, a successful marketing consultant business, and even a YouTube gardening channel. Her home is beautiful, and she has a gorgeous husband. It’s not fair. Of course, over the last year, she’s had it rough. Her neighbor was found murdered, his lover’s husband tried to poison her and Brock, and our first-grade teacher was also murdered, oh, and a police officer was a drug dealer. Patrice was nearly killed at least a few times. Too bad, the plots never worked. I won’t make that mistake. My phone buzzes and I pull my phone out and push accept. “What?” I know it’s Mark and I hope he has good news. “They got Bob.” “You mean Chad?” My old boyfriend who I’ve kept in contact with and also wanted to get revenge agreed to work with me if I paid him a handsome sum - $100,000. It’s a drop in the bucket since my husband died and I got a $5 million life insurance policy. Plus, my organization, The Shadows, has been raking in funds from gullible millionaires. It’s amazing what people will pay when you put on your best sorrowful face and tell them the money is to help fund cold cases that families can’t pay to continue. I guess marrying a man 20 years your senior and him dying of a stroke was, what would you call it, a stroke of good luck. “Yeah, Chad.” “Well, I can’t say I’m not surprised. He knew the risks. I’ll be there soon.” I end the call and head to the bathroom where I fix my hair and dab on some lipstick. Why is that I must do things myself when stupid men should have completed the mission swiftly without problems. I push the car fob that unlocks my Tesla and climb in. I punch the address into my GPS and open the sunroof to allow the heat to penetrate. Finally, after forty years, I will get my revenge, and oh, yes, it will be sweet. Too bad Patrice’s husband, Brock, must die. A life for a life. *** I arrive at the compound, punch in the code, and drive inside the iron gates. The guards usher me in and I wave them off. Being in control is such a freeing thing. For many years, I was controlled by drugs, men, and my anger. Not anymore. “Well, since Chad has been captured, we need a new plan,” I say to the 20 or so of my “team.” I use that word loosely, as I have used these men and a few women from all walks of life and from several countries. They didn’t know each other and were thrown together – all to make a measly twenty grand. Pitiful if you ask me, but I didn’t ask questions. They had a job and, well, they haven’t performed. Time to bring some incentive to the game. I summon The Doctor. He arrives promptly with his briefcase in hand, saying nothing. He knows his orders. He unclicks the case and pulls out a branding iron with the seal of The Shadows imbedded into it. I summon the rest of the team, and they look scared. Good. “Now, since you seem to not care about your mission, I would like to make it crystal clear, well, shall we say, iron clad.” I nod and walk away as I hear the first screams echo off the walls of the compound. That should do it.

From The Illustrated Police News, Saturday, 25th February, 1882. Copyright, The British Library Board.   The Trial Date Was Set The judge concluded by stating that this was a general overview of the case, and he believed that based on the facts presented to them, the jury would have no trouble reaching a guilty verdict. Later that afternoon, the grand jury indicted Esther Pay for the willful murder of Georgina Moore. Mr. Byrom, who would lead the prosecution along with Mr. Poland and Mr. Eyre Lloyd, requested a trial date from the court. Baron Pollock stated that it was important to finish other matters before this trial began, and he suggested starting the trial on Wednesday morning.       Esther Pay’s Trial The trial itself began at the County Hall, Lewes, on Wednesday, April 26th, 1882. On Saturday, April 29th, The Thanet Advertiser published a report on the proceedings: "The trial of Esther Pay for the murder of Georgina Ann Moore, at Yalding, Kent, commenced at the County Hall, Lewes,before Mr. Baron Pollock, on Wednesday morning. There was little to no public excitement surrounding the trial. The prisoner was transported in a cab from the jail shortly before ten o'clock, accompanied by two policemen. A number of policemen formed a pathway for her to enter the court. However, very few people, beyond those necessary to fill the court, showed up. Due to the court's small size, only a few ticket holders were admitted, filling it to capacity. The gallery was reserved entirely for women. The witnesses, reportedly numbering 69, were kept together in a waiting room adjacent to the court.       The Trial Begins Mr. Baron Pollock took his seat on the bench at ten o'clock. The prisoner was then brought to the defendant's stand. She wore a gray coat and a black bonnet with a veil, and a white lace-trimmed scarf around her neck. She immediately raised her veil, and while the jury was being sworn in, she put on a pair of black kid gloves, occasionally glancing at the jurors. She also leaned over the bar and spoke to her solicitor. After the jury was sworn in, she was allowed to sit down, with a female guard seated nearby in the dock. She listened intently to Mr. Poland's opening statement for the prosecution and closely observed the proceedings. Mr. Poland, Mr. Biron, and Mr. Eyre Lloyd, instructed by the Solicitors to the Treasury, represented the prosecution. Mr.E. Clarke, Q.C., M.P., Mr. Deane, and Mr. Safford, instructed by Mr. Dutton, solicitor, represented the prisoner. The Case for the Prosecution The prisoner pleaded not guilty in a firm voice. Mr. Poland, in his opening statement, reminded the jury that although the evidence was entirely circumstantial, there were connections that he believed would undeniably prove the prisoner's guilt in this serious crime. Among the witnesses examined that day were the child's father and mother. The father was questioned extensively by the defense counsel about his relationship with the prisoner, particularly in the time leading up to his daughter's disappearance and death. The trial resumed on Thursday. The session was spent examining witnesses for the prosecution, most of whom were called to testify about the prisoner being seen with the little girl after she left London on December 20th and traveled to Yalding. However, with one exception, the witnesses were very uncertain in their identification. THE YALDING MURDER CASE The Witney Express and Oxfordshire and Midland Counties Herald reported on the final day of the trial in its May 4th, 1882 edition: "The trial of Esther Pay for the murder of Georgina Moore resumed at Lewes before Mr. Baron Pollock. Mr. Edward Clarke, Q.C., representing the defense, argued that in this unusual case, there wasn't a single shred of the kind of circumstantial evidence typically relied upon in such trials. Nothing belonging to the child was found on the prisoner, and nothing belonging to the prisoner was found on the child. While a black lace shawl was retrieved from the River Medway, which one witness claimed to have seen in Mrs. Pay's possession before the murder, her confidence in identifying this particular shawl was completely shaken when presented with similar items and cross-examined about them. Flawed Evidence Certain evidence had been presented by the prosecution with an intention that he had to protest against. The prosecution aimed to prove that Esther Pay was the one who committed the crime, and if he could show that their case against her was flawed, he wasn't obligated to suggest any other specific person as the guilty party. The jury had to rely on the evidence presented to them, and based on that evidence, he demanded an acquittal. The prosecution's decision to call these women could only be described as an attempt to distract the jury from the real issue: had the prosecution proven their case against Esther Pay? Despite having all resources at their disposal and assistance from the most skilled detectives, the prosecution had proven absolutely nothing against the prisoner. Meanwhile, the woman's poverty prevented her from conducting investigations that might have significantly helped her case. In fact, it was only through the kind assistance of friends who sympathized with her elderly parents that she was able to secure legal representation for her trial. Unable to Account for Her Movements Much was made of the fact that Pay hadn't accounted for her whereabouts on the day of the murder. One of the absurdities of the law was that her husband couldn't be called as a witness. But as barbaric as the law had sometimes been, surely it never contained such a barbarity that a person's life could be taken away simply because she couldn't account for where she had been at certain times on a particular day in the past. Out of eleven witnesses called to identify Pay, nine failed to do so, and two of them even picked out another person as the woman supposedly seen with the child at Yalding. The Murder Committed in London He reiterated that the medical evidence clearly indicated that the murder must have been committed in London, within two or three hours after the child had eaten her dinner at half-past twelve o'clock, and the body was then somehow transported to Yalding. Pay's conversations and behavior after her arrest were those of an innocent woman. They had heard how she was taken into custody, how her elderly father asked, "Are you guilty or innocent?" How she embraced him and tearfully replied that she was innocent, and how her father then told her that, knowing her innocence, she could stand up and face either God or the devil. He was sure it would be one of the happiest days in the lives of the jury if they found themselves not only entitled but obligated by the evidence to return her to the home and hearts of her parents who loved her – to restore her as a woman who, between a husband's cruelty and a seducer's persuasion, had unfortunately sinned, but who, in their opinion, was innocent of the terrible crime charged against her. A Ridiculous Suggestion Mr. Poland, for the prosecution, dismissed the suggestion that the child had been murdered in London by a man and then transported to Yalding as absurd. He pointed out that while each piece of evidence might not be conclusive on its own, when considered together, they pointed to Pay as the one who lured the child away from Pimlico and then committed the murder in Yalding. They would argue that Pay was seen talking to the child in Westmoreland-street, the last time she was seen alive. Witnesses testified to seeing her in the Yalding area with a child that same night, and others saw her at the Yalding train station with her mother the following morning. It was true that the defense questioned the reliability of these witnesses' memories, but it was up to the jury to decide whether to believe them. Pay also had given an inaccurate account of her movements that day, and surely if she had been in London, she could have found someone to confirm where she had been or someone who had seen her. The Judge’s Summing Up Mr. Baron Pollock, in summing up, said that this was a case in which the jury could not take a middle ground. It was clear to all that the trial relied solely on circumstantial evidence, and it was for the jury to decide which parts they could accept and which they could reject. He didn't think they would have much difficulty in this case. If they felt there were any facts they couldn't entirely rely on, they should, of course, give the benefit of the doubt to the prisoner. The judge then proceeded to carefully weigh the evidence, tracing the alleged movements of Pay to Yalding, and commenting on the suggestion that the murder was committed in London. Regarding Moore, he said that this man's conduct wasn't such that most people would readily believe he was likely to be the murderer of his own child. As wicked as Moore might be – immoral, sensual, utterly dishonest, and cruel to the women who trusted him to some extent – even though he might be a man whom anyone, even of the humblest social standing, might be ashamed to call a friend, it didn't necessarily follow that he was someone who would take the life of his own child without a specific motive. A Verdict of Not Guilty In conclusion, the judge said that in his many years of experience, he couldn't recall any case in which, as far as human effort could go, greater pains had been taken to present every possible piece of evidence to the jury. The jury retired at a quarter past five o'clock, and after an absence of twenty minutes, returned with a verdict of not guilty. The verdict was met with loud applause from many of the women in court. Pay's father, mother, brother, and sister, who were seated in the first row behind the dock, were deeply moved. The old woman, clasping her hands, cried out, "Thank the Lord, and all of you gentlemen." Mrs. Pay herself also seemed pleased with her acquittal and, with a smile, thanked the jury. Leaning over the rail of the dock, she expressed her desire to thank her solicitor (Mr. Dutton) and her counsel (Mr. Clarke, Q.C., and Mr. Safford) for their tremendous efforts on her behalf, but she had barely begun the sentence when the jailer took her downstairs, away from the crowd of relatives who were trying to embrace her. To this day, the murder of Georgina Moore has never been solved.

On Wednesday, February 1st. Esther Pay, a 35-year-old married woman was brought before Mr. Partridge at Westminster Police Court. She was charged with suspicion of causing the death of Georgina Moore. HER MOTIVE WAS JEALOUSY The Inspector's testimony revealed a curious fact – during the train journey to London, and even before, the prisoner repeatedly asked him to invite Mr. Moore to ride in the same carriage with them. She also dropped hints intended to implicate the father in the murder of his own little girl. For instance, Esther said to Inspector Marshall, "Well, don't be surprised if he runs away, and then you'll find that the most guilty party is gone." Mr. Partridge: "You're sure she said 'the most guilty'?" The Witness: "Oh, yes. We were never alone during any part of the journey. Later on, she said, 'This child was killed out of spite towards Moore, because he has treated women very badly, and one that I know worse than me, and has treated me badly enough. Why don't you find them? Then you might be on the right track. One can only die once, and I won't die a coward. That's all.'" THE FUNERAL AND PUBLIC OUTRAGE A large demonstration occurred in Pimlico at the funeral of Georgina Moore that Saturday afternoon. The coffin was placed in an open car, and a crowd of over two thousand people gathered near the parents' residence on Winchester-street. When the father was seen entering one of the mourning coaches, he was met with boos and hisses. A large police force struggled to protect him from the mob's anger. A strong line of officers had to be formed around the vehicle, accompanying the procession to the burial site at Brompton Cemetery. The crowd grew larger along the route, and the demonstrations continued. The scene at the cemetery was shocking and disturbing. The crowd's behavior was so threatening that the police decided to lock Mr. Moore in the chapel, preventing him from attending the graveside service or returning with the other mourners. He wasn't released to go home until after dark, when the crowd had dispersed. MR. MOORE'S STATEMENT Georgina’s father stated that although he had suffered greatly from the public's anger towards him since the court proceedings, he was certain that nothing the suspect could say would affect him. He admitted to having been to Yalding, but not for two years, and neither he nor the accused tried to talk to each other at the train station after the arrest. Moore stated that he accompanied the suspect (Pay) to London Bridge on the night of Saturday, the 28th of the previous month. He didn't believe she was going to Yalding until he saw her buy a ticket for that station at Charing Cross. He wanted to know if she was really leaving London, so he accompanied her on the train as far as his destination. Almost the entire journey, she talked about Georgina, and she begged him to write and let her know if any information was found about her. In fact, ever since the girl went missing, she had expressed the greatest concern about the child's fate – whom she claimed to be very fond of – and she had often visited or sent someone twice a day to inquire about her. Georgina had often gone for walks with Esther, and if she had met her and asked her, his daughter would have undoubtedly gone anywhere with her. Georgina had an older brother, but Esther had never shown the same interest in him. MRS. PAY AND GEORGINA MOORE: THE INVESTIGATION The diligent reporters had made it clear days before that there would be significant evidence presented at the Westminster Police Court on Wednesday. But it might be most impactful to present this information in a narrative form. There's strong evidence suggesting that Georgina Moore was murdered in Yalding on the evening of the day she left her home. The date of the murder is determined in an unusual way – by the partially digested food found in her stomach. The mother remembers that the little girl ate a lot of bread and milk for breakfast and had a good portion of currant pudding for dinner. Food of the same kind was found by the doctors who performed the autopsy. The mother can also confirm that the child hadn't changed her clothes because she had dressed her on the morning of December 20th, and the fastenings and the way the clothes were arranged hadn't been altered. WITNESS ACCOUNTS Early in the afternoon in question, Georgina was allegedly seen by some of her playmates and acquaintances in the company of the suspect on the street in Pimlico. A constable named Hill also saw the little girl with a woman whose face he didn't see but who matched the accused in height and other details. However, other theories were presented. Mr. Poland, the prosecutor, dismissed the idea that the child had been murdered in London by a man and then transported to Yalding as absurd. He emphasized that while each piece of evidence might not be conclusive on its own, when considered together, they pointed to the prisoner as the one who lured the child away from Pimlico and then committed the murder in Yalding. The prisoner was seen talking to the child in Westmoreland-street, the last time she was seen alive. Witnesses testified to seeing her in the Yalding area with a child that same night, and others saw her at the Yalding train station with her mother the following morning. The defense questioned the reliability of these witnesses' memories, but it was up to the jury to decide whether to believe them. MRS. PAY’S MOVEMENTS In the interviews Inspector Marshall had with her before her arrest, she only accounted for her time on the afternoon and night of December 20th by stating that she was with her sister-in-law, Mrs. Rutter, walking around Fulham, Hammersmith, and King's Road, Chelsea, window-shopping. She couldn't name any specific place they had been to or where she had eaten dinner. Mrs. Rutter only provided a vague confirmation of the suspect's story. The suspect didn't get home until almost midnight on the night of December 20th, and she then said that she was soaked through from the rain and was very tired. Stay tuned for the shocking conclusion ….

My heart races as I read Hestia's message. "They're not alone." Dread fills me, a cold, heavy weight settling in my stomach. Who could be with them? Are they in danger? I try to contact Hestia and Brock, but there's no response. A million scenarios flash through my mind, each more terrifying than the last. Are they captured? Injured? Worse? I pace the small apartment, my nerves frayed. I feel helpless, trapped here while my friends are out there, facing unknown dangers. The uncertainty is unbearable. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, my phone buzzes with an incoming call. It's Brock. I answer frantically, "Brock! Are you okay? Where are you?" His voice is strained, barely above a whisper. "We're at a safe house," he says, "a few blocks from the nightclub. We found Athena and Hermes, but they're..." He pauses, his voice thick with emotion. "They're not in good shape." My heart drops. "What happened?" "They were captured by the Shadows," Brock replies. "They're injured, but alive. We managed to get them out, but we had to leave in a hurry. We're being followed." A wave of relief washes over me, followed by a surge of anger. The Shadows won't stop until they've silenced us all. "We're coming to you," I say, my voice determined. "Just stay where you are." I grab my bag, stuffing it with essentials: a first aid kit, a few changes of clothes, the encrypted drive containing the stolen data. I have to get to Brock and the others. We need to regroup, assess the situation, and figure out our next move. I hail a taxi and give the driver the address of the safe house. As we speed through the city, I can't help but think about Athena and Hermes. What did they endure at the hands of the Shadows? How badly are they hurt? The taxi pulls up to a nondescript building on a quiet street. I pay the driver and hurry inside, my heart pounding. Brock's embrace feels like a lifeline as I step into the safe house, the weight of the past hours threatening to crush me. The sight of Athena and Hermes, battered but defiant, brings a mixture of relief and guilt. Athena's forehead is marred by a deep gash, a stark reminder of their struggle, and Hermes' arm hangs limp in a makeshift sling. "Thank God you're alive," I choke out, my voice thick with emotion. "Barely," Athena manages, a weak smile playing on her lips. "But we didn't give them anything." Hermes winces as he shifts, his voice raspy. "They tried everything. Sleep deprivation, threats, even..." He trails off, his eyes clouding with the memory. "Even what?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. "They brought in someone," Athena continues, her voice hardening. "Someone we knew." My heart skips a beat. "Who?" "Lisa," Hermes says, the name hanging heavy in the air. A wave of nausea washes over me. Lisa, my once friend, now a pawn in the Shadows' game, or was she? Maybe she was the leader.  "She tried to break us," Athena says, her voice shaking with anger. "She used our past against us, twisted our memories, our fears." "But we didn't crack," Hermes adds, his voice filled with pride. "We stayed strong. We protected the information." Their courage humbles me. They had faced unimaginable horrors, yet their spirits remained unbroken. They were true heroes. As they recount their ordeal, I can't help but feel a sense of responsibility. If it weren't for me, they wouldn't have been in that warehouse in the first place. If it weren't for me, they wouldn't have been captured and tortured. But Athena shakes her head, her eyes meeting mine. "Don't blame yourself, Patrice," she says softly. "We knew the risks. We chose this fight." Her words bring a measure of comfort, but the guilt still lingers. I vow to myself that I will do everything in my power to help them, to bring down the Shadows, and to ensure that their sacrifice was not in vain. .A wave of admiration washes over me. These are strong, resilient people. They've been through hell, but they're still fighting. "We have to get them out of here," Brock says, his voice urgent. "They need medical attention." "But where can we go?" I ask. "The Shadows are everywhere." Hestia steps forward, her eyes shining with determination. "I know a place," she says. "It's an old monastery, hidden in the mountains. It's a sanctuary, a place where no one will find us." We leave Athens under cover of darkness, traveling in a nondescript van that Hestia procured from a trusted contact. The journey is long and arduous, the winding mountain roads treacherous in the darkness. But Hestia navigates them with the skill of a seasoned rally driver, her determination a beacon in the night. We arrive at the monastery just as dawn breaks, the sky a canvas of pinks and oranges. The ancient stone building, nestled amongst the olive groves, exudes an aura of tranquility and solitude. We are greeted by a wizened monk, Father Nikolas, whose kind eyes and gentle smile offer a much-needed respite from the chaos of our recent experiences. He leads us to a hidden wing of the monastery, a sanctuary reserved for those seeking refuge from the world's turmoil. Athena and Hermes are immediately taken to a makeshift infirmary, where their wounds are tended to by Father Nikolas and a young novice named Sister Sophia. Brock and I offer what assistance we can, our hearts heavy with worry for our friends. In the quiet solitude of the monastery, we have a chance to reflect on the events of the past few days. We've been through so much, faced so many dangers. Yet, we're still here, still fighting. Hestia, ever the pragmatist, reminds us of the task at hand. "We can't rest on our laurels," she says. "The Shadows are still out there, and they won't stop until they've silenced us all." We gather around a weathered wooden table, the list of names spread out before us. It's a daunting task, but we have to start somewhere. We begin by cross-referencing the names with our own research, looking for any connections, any patterns that might lead us closer to the heart of the conspiracy. As we delve deeper into the data, we discover a web of interconnected relationships that stretch across Greece and beyond. We find links to politicians, businessmen, journalists, even members of law enforcement. The Shadows' influence is far-reaching, their tentacles entwined in every aspect of society. But with each new discovery, our resolve strengthens. We won't let them win. We will expose their corruption, their greed, their crimes against humanity. And we'll do it together. In this remote mountain sanctuary, a new bond is forged. We are no longer just individuals fighting a common enemy; we are a family, united by a shared purpose. We are the resistance. *** Days have turned into a week at the monastery. The peaceful rhythm of daily life—morning prayers, communal meals, and quiet contemplation—provides a much-needed balm for our weary souls. Athena and Hermes slowly recover from their injuries, their resilience inspiring us all. They share stories of their past, of the events that led them to join the Oracle Collective, of their unwavering commitment to justice. Brock and I grow closer, our bond deepening amidst the shared trauma and the constant threat that hangs over us. We find solace in each other's company, our love a beacon of light in the darkness. But even in this tranquil sanctuary, we never forget our mission. We continue our investigations, using the monastery's limited resources to gather information and build our case against the Shadows. We work tirelessly, driven by a burning desire to expose their crimes and bring them to justice. One day, as we're poring over a stack of old documents in the monastery's library, Hestia makes a startling discovery. "Look at this," she says, her voice hushed with excitement. "It's a letter, dated 1984. It's addressed to a man named Dimitri Stavros." Dimitri Stavros. The name sends a chill down my spine. It's a name I remember from the list we stole from the Shadows' compound. He's a powerful businessman, with connections to politicians and organized crime. We eagerly read the letter, our hearts pounding with anticipation. It's a cryptic message, filled with veiled threats and ominous warnings. But one line stands out, a line that sends a shiver down our spines: "The bridge will fall." The bridge. The words echo in my mind, conjuring up the painful memories of Emily's death. Could it be? Could this letter be connected to the tragedy that shattered my life all those years ago? We know we have to find out – to uncover the truth, no matter where it leads us. And we have to do it before the Shadows strike again. It’s time to face the music.

The message, a stark white text against a black background, hangs heavy in the air. The room falls silent, the only sound the hum of the computers and the ragged breaths of the Oracle Collective. "What does it mean?" I whisper, my voice barely audible. Athena's eyes narrow, her fingers flying across the keyboard. "It's a warning," she says, her voice grim. "They know we infiltrated their compound." "But how?" Brock asks, his brow furrowed in confusion. "It doesn't matter how," Athena replies. "What matters is that they're onto us. Luckily, we’re in this safe house so they can’t find us, but we need to let the Embassy know.” We quickly pack up equipment, erasing any trace. The three leave, the list of names tucked safely away in a secure digital vault. We stay behind with Hermes saying they will keep in touch. Brock and I try to make sense of the situation. We've struck a blow against the Shadows, but we've also made ourselves targets - again. We're no longer just investigating a conspiracy; we're fighting for our lives. The weight of this realization is crushing. I feel a wave of despair wash over me, threatening to drown me in its depths. But then I remember Brock's words, his unwavering belief in our mission. I look at my watch and realize it’s nearly midnight and I’m exhausted. "We can't give up, Patrice," he says, his voice firm. "We've come too far." His words ignite a spark of defiance within me. He's right. We won't back down. We won't let fear control us. We will fight back. “You’re right, but I’m so tired of everything. I just want to enjoy life without constantly looking over my shoulder and worrying whether the next time, we won’t be so lucky.” I rub my shoulder and yawn. “Come on, let’s get you to bed. I’m going to stay up a bit and review the stolen data, searching for any clues that might lead us to Lisa and her partner. The information is vast and complex, a labyrinth of codes and aliases, and in the morning, I’m going to call a couple of my connections and see what I can find in the States. “I won’t argue with you,” I say heading to the room. “Good night, Trice. I love you,” Brock kisses me and gives me a gentle hug, knowing it’s still hurts with any pressure applied on my chest. He then closes the door. After my nightly routine, I lay down on the soft bed. But sleep is elusive. Every creak of the floorboards, every whisper of the wind, sends a shiver down my spine. Just as I’m about to give up on sleep, a faint knock on the door jolts me. I rush to the bedroom door and open it. Who could be here at this hour? Brock glances and shrugs his shoulders. We cautiously approach the door, Brock motioning for me to stand back. He peers through the peephole, his brow furrowing. "Who is it?" I whisper, my heart pounding in my chest. "It's Hestia," he replies, his voice barely audible. I'm surprised but relieved. Hestia, the quietest member of the Oracle Collective, is the last person we expected to see at our door. Brock opens the door, and Hestia slips inside, her face pale and drawn. She looks around the room nervously, as if expecting someone to jump out at her. "What's wrong?" I ask, my voice filled with concern. Hestia takes a deep breath, her hands trembling slightly. "We've been compromised," she says, her voice barely a whisper. "They found us." A cold dread washes over me. "Who found you?" "The Shadows," she replies. "They tracked us down. We barely escaped." "What about Athena and Hermes?" Brock asks, his voice urgent. Hestia shakes her head, her eyes filling with tears. "I don't know. We got separated during the escape. I haven't heard from them since." My heart sinks. The Shadows have struck back, and they've hit us hard. We're no longer just dealing with a faceless organization; we're facing a real, tangible threat. We quickly gather our belongings, knowing we can't stay here any longer. We leave the safe house, Hestia leading the way through the darkened streets of Athens. We find refuge in a small, unassuming apartment in a quiet neighborhood. It's another safe house, one of many that the Oracle Collective maintains throughout the city. As we settle in, the reality of our situation sinks in. We're on the run, fugitives in a foreign land. Our lives are in danger, and the people we care about are missing. But we can't give up. We have to find Athena and Hermes, and we have to expose the Shadows' crimes to the world. Hestia tells us everything she knows about the attack, the escape, and the last known whereabouts of Athena and Hermes. It's not much, but it's a starting point. Hestia, barely whispering, struggles with each word as she recounts the memory of flashing lights, shouting voices, and the metallic clang of gunshots echoing in the warehouse. Her eyes dart around the room as if expecting the Shadows to burst through the door at any moment. "It happened so fast," she says, her voice seeming far away, her hands trembling slightly as she recounts the events. "We were just finishing the download when the alarms went off. At first, we thought it was a glitch in our system, but then..." She pauses, swallowing hard. "Then we heard the gunshots." The tension in the room thickens. Brock and I lean forward; our faces etched with concern. "We knew we had to get out," Hestia continues, her voice barely audible. "Athena grabbed the drive, and we bolted for the emergency exit. But they were waiting for us." Her eyes glaze over as she recalls the scene: the blinding light of a flashlight, the snarling faces of masked men, the sharp crack of gunfire as bullets whizzed past their heads. "We split up," she says, her voice cracking. "Athena and Hermes went one way, I went another. I managed to lose them in the maze of shipping containers, but..." Her voice trails off, the unspoken fear hanging heavy in the air. "But you don't know what happened to them," I finish the sentence. She nods and rubs her forehead. “Come, sit down. We’ll find out what happened,” I say. We spend the rest of the night formulating a plan. We have to find our friends, and we have to do it fast. But we also have to be careful. The Shadows are out there, lurking, waiting for us. *** The first rays of dawn peek through the curtains, casting a pale glow over the sparsely furnished apartment, vastly different than the safe house we just left. We sit around a small table, huddled over a map of Athens, our faces etched with worry and determination. Hestia points to a location on the map, her voice barely above a whisper. "This is where we were attacked. A warehouse district near the port." Brock leans in, tracing a route with his finger. "If Athena and Hermes were trying to escape, they would have likely headed towards the city center. There are more people, more places to hide." I nod in agreement. "But we need to be careful. The Shadows could be anywhere." Hestia produces a burner phone from her pocket. "I'll try to contact my sources. Maybe they've heard something." We wait anxiously as she makes a series of encrypted calls. Minutes feel like hours as the silence stretches on. Finally, Hestia lowers the phone, a glimmer of hope in her eyes. "One of my contacts heard a rumor," she says. "There was a disturbance at a nightclub near Syntagma Square last night. It could be connected." We exchange a look of understanding. Syntagma Square is a central hub, a place where locals and tourists mingle. It's also a place where information flows freely. "We have to go there," I say, my voice firm. "It's our best chance of finding Athena and Hermes." We quickly formulate a plan. Brock will scout the area around the nightclub, looking for any signs of our friends or suspicious activity. Hestia will use her hacking skills to monitor the club's security cameras and communication channels. And I, still recovering from my injury, will stay at the safe house and act as our communications hub. As we prepare to leave, Hestia hands me a small earpiece. "Stay in touch," she says. "And be careful." I nod, my heart heavy with worry. I know this is a dangerous mission, but it's one we have to undertake. We have to find our friends, and we have to stop the Shadows. Brock and Hestia slip out of the apartment, disappearing into the early morning streets of Athens. I'm left alone, the silence broken only by the hum of the computer and the steady beat of my own heart. The waiting is agonizing. I try to distract myself by monitoring the news, searching for any mention of the disturbance at the nightclub. But there's nothing. It's as if the incident never happened. Hours pass, and still no word from Brock or Hestia. My anxiety grows with each passing minute. Have they found something? Are they safe? Just as I'm about to lose hope, a message flashes across my screen. It's from Hestia: "We found them." My heart leaps with joy. But the next line brings a chill down my spine: "They're not alone."

It’s been over a week as we work tirelessly with the Oracle Collective. I’m still healing but getting my strength back. Brock contacted Gray unbeknownst to me, about the shooting. He in turn contacted the Embassy in Athens and put us in a safe house, this time in a nice area by the ocean. The rambler is white stucco with two bedrooms, a dining area, kitchen, bathroom, and large living room. The décor is simple but with some antique framed portraits of Greek mythology in bold colors. The sofa is a neutral color, light beige, with a few stone-colored throw pillows. A deep ruby red Greek style chair complements the reds in the portraits. We have a beautiful view of the ocean and spend countless hours on the veranda analyzing data, tracking digital footprints, and following leads. The hunt for Lisa and her partner becomes an obsession, fueled by a thirst for justice and a desire to avenge my near-death experience. The Embassy now has full support, and the local police have put out alerts in the area. However, Lisa and “Bob” are probably back in the States for all we know. I don’t even know her last name if she’s married or goes by an alias. Athena's team of hackers proves to be invaluable, their skills and resources far exceeding our expectations. They uncover hidden connections between Lisa, her partner, and a shadowy figure known only as "The Architect," a high-ranking member of the Shadows. "How are you feeling today?" Brock says as I’m poring over the computer data Athena sent us. I instinctively rub my chest. "Better, thanks to the pain meds. Still sore, but not as bad as a few days ago." "That's good to hear. We'll have you back in fighting shape in no time." I sigh, wishing I didn’t have to be in fighting shape. "If only I could say the same for our investigation. I still can't believe Lisa did this. And to think, we don't even know her last name." "I know. It's a lot to process. But Gray pulling some strings with the embassy has helped. This safe house is a lifesaver." "It is. The view helps clear my head, even if just for a little bit. But every second we're here, Lisa and 'Bob' could be slipping further away." Brock squeezes my hand. "We'll find them, Trice. We have the Oracle Collective on our side, and they're making progress. Did you see what they found on 'The Architect'?" I nod. "It's incredible. They're like digital ghosts, uncovering connections we never would have found." "This safe house might be a temporary refuge, but it's also our war room. We'll use this information to bring down the Shadows, and we'll get justice for what happened to you." A light tapping on the door interrupts our conversation. Brock opens it to reveal Athena, Hermes, and Hestia, their faces alight with a mixture of excitement and urgency. "Good news?" Brock asks, stepping aside to let them in. Athena nods, a determined glint in her eye. "We've been digging into 'The Architect's' data, and we've uncovered some interesting connections." They all look like they’ve been up all night. Athena’s hair is swept up in a messy bun; she’s wearing cargo shorts and white t-shirt. Hermes is in jeans and a black shirt, his hair, short and a dark curly, looks as if hasn’t been washed in at least a week. Hestia though looks made up, her dark black hair brushing just past her shoulders. She looks like she’s ready for office work in white slacks and a pink and black polka-dotted blouse. Hestia takes a seat on the edge of the sofa, her voice hushed. "His real name is Alistair Kincaid. British national, ex-MI6, with a long history of covert operations and a reputation for ruthlessness." Hermes, unable to contain his excitement, chimes in. "But that's not all. We traced his financial records, and they lead to a series of shell companies and offshore accounts. It's a complex web of deceit, but we're starting to see a pattern." I lean forward, intrigued. "What kind of pattern?" Athena exchanges a knowing look with her colleagues. "It seems The Architect has been funneling funds into a project called 'Operation: Pandora's Box'." The name sends a shiver down my spine. "Pandora's Box? What does that mean?" Hermes shrugs. "We're not sure yet. But based on the encrypted files we've decrypted; it appears to be a large-scale operation with global implications." Brock paces the room, his mind racing. "This is big, really big. We need to find out what this operation is all about and how it connects to the Shadows' broader agenda." I’m grateful Brock is with me as he’s able to put his legal expertise to use with his connections back in the States. Hestia nods in agreement. "We're working on it. We've planted a few Trojan horses in their systems, hoping to intercept more information. But we need to be careful. They're already suspicious." A heavy silence falls over the room. The stakes have just been raised. We're no longer just dealing with a shadowy organization; we're facing a potential global threat. The weight of this responsibility presses down on us, a reminder of the importance of our mission. "We have to stop them," I say, my voice filled with determination. "We have to expose their secrets and prevent them from unleashing chaos on the world." Brock takes my hand, his eyes filled with unwavering support. "We will, Trice. We will." *********************************************************************************** Later that evening, amidst pizza boxes scattered around the kitchen and emptied Greek wine, we follow a trail of encrypted messages and financial transactions, tracking The Architect to a remote island in the Aegean Sea. It's a heavily fortified compound, guarded by armed mercenaries and state-of-the-art security systems. But the Oracle Collective is undeterred. The three hackers devise a plan to infiltrate the compound, using their hacking skills to disable the security systems and creating a diversion while the rest of the team breaches the compound. Brock and I, still recovering from our injuries, are relegated to a support role. We monitor the operation from a safe distance, our hearts pounding with each update from Athena. The glow of the computer screen illuminates Athena's focused face as she types furiously, her fingers a blur across the keyboard. Brock and I stand behind her, our eyes glued to the monitor, hearts pounding in our chests. The Collective Oracle has a six-member team, not included Athena, Hermes, and Hestia, who are back at the safe house with us, as they hack into their systems to allow the rest of the team access. “How's it going?” I’m hovering over her shoulder as her fingers whisk across the keyboard. She says without turning, “We're in. Firewall breached and security systems bypassed. Hermes is feeding the cameras a loop of the last hour, so they won't see us moving around.” The screen flickers, revealing grainy footage from inside the compound. A group of guards patrols the perimeter, oblivious to the silent intrusion. “What about the motion sensors?” Brock says. “We're jamming them with a low-frequency pulse. They won't detect a thing.” The screen switches to a schematic of the compound. A red dot, marking the location of the Oracle Collective, moves steadily towards a heavily fortified building at the center. I stand, tapping my foot nervously. “That's where they're keeping the files, right?” Athena nods. “That's our target.” The red dot reaches the building, pausing for a moment. Then, a series of small explosions appear on the screen, followed by the sound of alarms blaring. “What was that?” Brock says, startled. Turning to face us and grinning, Athena says, “Just a little distraction. We needed to draw the guards away from the main entrance.” The screen shows the guards rushing towards the source of the explosions, leaving the main building unguarded. The red dot quickly enters the building, disappearing from view. I don’t realize I’m holding my breath and let it out. “Are they inside?” “Yes. Now comes the tricky part.” Minutes tick by, each one agonizingly slow. We watch the screen, our eyes darting between the empty corridors of the building and the chaos outside. Suddenly, the red dot reappears, now accompanied by three flashing green dots. Hestia says softly from the sofa. “They found the files. They're downloading them now.” Brock looking relieved says, “That's great! How long will it take?” “A few more minutes. Then we're out of there,” Athena remarks, her fingers furiously tapping again. We wait, the silence in the room hung heavy, a suffocating blanket stifling any attempt at conversation. Finally, the green dots disappear, and the red dot starts moving again, retracing its steps towards the exit. “They got it. They're on their way out,” Athena says. We watch as the red dot exits the building, the guards still preoccupied with the diversion. The team moves quickly, slipping through the shadows, their movements unseen. “They did it.” Brock claps his hands. Turning to us, Athena smiles. “Mission accomplished. We have the evidence we need.” From what I could understand, among the stolen data is a list of names – the Shadows' operatives in Greece. It's a major breakthrough, a key to unraveling their network and exposing their crimes. But our victory is short-lived. As we celebrate our success, a chilling message appears on our screens: "You've made a grave mistake."

Lisa's eyes, once filled with warmth and laughter, now burn with a rage I never thought possible. Her hand trembles as she raises the gun, the barrel pointed directly at my chest. My heart pounds in my ears, drowning out the crackling fire and the rumble of collapsing stone. "Move," she hisses, her voice raw with pain. "You're getting us out of here." Bob, if that’s even his name, snickers and pushes Brock forward. Brock tries to protest, but Lisa cuts him off with a venomous glare. "Not a word. One wrong move, and she's dead." With a heavy heart, I obey. Brock and I stumble through the labyrinth, each step a heavy burden. The gun remains trained on me, Lisa's eyes never leaving mine. I see the anguish in her face, the betrayal, the hatred. But beneath it all, I see a flicker of something else. Pain. Deep, raw pain that has festered for years, poisoning her heart and twisting her love into something dark and unrecognizable. We navigate through the maze, the heat and smoke growing more intense. The ground shakes beneath us, and chunks of stone rain down from above. But Lisa doesn't falter. She pushes us forward, her resolve unwavering. Finally, we emerge from the labyrinth, blinking in the harsh sunlight. The ruins lie behind us, a smoldering testament to the destruction we've left behind. Lisa lowers the gun, but her eyes remain fixed on mine. "I never forgave you, Patrice," she says, her voice barely a whisper. "Not for what you did to Emily." A chill rushes through me as she recounts that fateful summer in 1984. Six couples, on a prom date in the Spanish Fork mountains, their lives forever changed by a single, tragic event. Emily's death. I remember the words I said before she crossed the bridge. Emily started across the bridge, we all encouraged her on. Halfway through, a wooden plank cracked and then a second, and before we could react, Emily lost her footing, teetered, and fell off the bridge. We all stared in horror as she plunged down to the raging river below. A few of the guys tried to go down the mountain to search for her while the rest of us headed back to get help. A few hours later, search and rescue pulled her lifeless body out of the river. Lisa screamed and collapsed in her boyfriend’s arms. After that night, the town mourned. We graduated a month later, but it was a somber day without Emily. The principal had her friends say some things about her, but Lisa only cried and had to be helped off the stage. They had been best friends since toddlers, and after Lisa was never the same. I blamed myself, knowing that if I had not pushed her, she wouldn’t have fallen to her death. It took years before I could process her death and move on. I never thought Lisa would be coming after me 40 years later. As if she could read my mind, Lisa snaps me back to the present with those dreaded words. "You pushed her," she accuses, her voice rising. "You told her to go, even though she was scared. You killed her." Tears stream down my face as I shake my head. "Lisa, it wasn't like that. It was an accident. The bridge collapsed. I have blamed myself for her death for years, but I realize this was a freak accident and could have happened to any one of us." But my words fall on deaf ears. Lisa's face contorts with rage, and she raises the gun again, this time aiming at Brock. "If I can't have her back," she snarls, "I'll take away the one thing you love most. See how you like it." My heart leaps into my throat. I can't lose Brock. Not like this. Not because of me. "No, Lisa!" I scream, lunging towards her. But it's too late. A deafening roar echoes through the air as the gun goes off. I feel a searing pain in my chest, a white-hot agony that sends me stumbling backward. My knees buckle, and I collapse onto the ground, my vision blurring. Brock screams my name, his voice filled with panic and despair. He rushes to my side, cradling my head in his lap. "Patrice! Stay with me!" he pleads, his voice thick with emotion. I can barely make out his face through the haze of pain. My body feels heavy, my limbs leaden. I reach out to touch his face, but my hand falls limply to my side. In the distance, I hear footsteps fading away. Lisa and her partner are gone, leaving me bleeding on the ground. Brock rips off his shirt and presses it against my wound, trying to stem the flow of blood. His hands are shaking, his eyes wide with fear. "Help!" he yells, his voice echoing across the desolate landscape. "Somebody help us!" But there's no one around to hear his cries. We're alone, stranded in the middle of nowhere. I try to speak, to reassure him, but the words won't come. My eyelids flutter closed, and darkness envelops me. *** I awake to the rhythmic rocking of a vehicle and the sound of Brock's voice, frantic and urgent. He's talking to someone on the phone, explaining our situation. "She's been shot in the chest," he says, his voice breaking. "We need help. Please, hurry." I try to open my eyes, but the pain is too intense. I groan softly, and Brock's hand finds mine. "It's okay, Patrice," he whispers. "We're almost there. Just hold on." I cling to his words, the only anchor in this sea of agony. I don't know how much time passes before the rocking stops and I'm lifted out of the vehicle. I hear the clang of metal doors, the muffled sounds of voices, and then the cool sensation of antiseptic on my skin. I'm vaguely aware of hands probing my wound, of needles piercing my flesh. A doctor's voice cuts through the fog, "She's lucky. The bullet missed her heart, but we need to get her into surgery now." I cling to those words, a glimmer of hope in the darkness. I'm alive. I made it. But the pain is still there, a constant reminder of the betrayal and the loss. I drift in and out of consciousness, the world a hazy blur of beeping machines and hushed voices. Then darkness for who knows how long. When I finally open my eyes, I find myself in a sterile hospital room, the smell of disinfectant heavy in the air. Brock sits beside my bed, his face pale and drawn. He reaches for my hand, his eyes filled with relief. "You're awake," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. "I was so scared." I try to speak, but my throat is dry and raspy. Brock gently helps me sip water from a straw, his eyes never leaving mine. "What happened?" I manage to croak out. "Lisa shot you," he says, his voice barely audible. "But you're going to be okay. The bullet missed your heart, and they were able to go in and remove it." I look down and see a white piece of gauze with sterile tape holding it in place. The memories come flooding back, the fire, the labyrinth, Lisa's betrayal. A wave of nausea washes over me, and I close my eyes against the pain. "She's gone," Brock continues, his voice filled with sadness. "She and her partner disappeared." I open my eyes and look at him, my heart aching. "Why, Brock? Why did she do this?" He shakes his head, his expression pained. "I don't know, Patrice. I don't understand it." We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of what has happened hanging heavy between us. Finally, Brock breaks the silence. "We have to tell someone," he says, his voice firm. "We can't let Lisa get away with this." I nod, knowing he's right. We must expose the Shadows, and we have to bring Lisa to justice. But first, I have to heal. The days that follow are a blur of medical procedures, pain medication, and restless nights. Brock stays by my side, his unwavering support a constant source of comfort. When I'm finally released from the hospital, I'm weak and battered, but my spirit is unbroken. We return to the hotel in Athens, the scene of our initial encounter with the Oracle Collective. We need their help now more than ever. It’s been over two weeks now that we’ve been here, but we can’t leave now. Thankfully, Brock has enough vacation saved that we can stay for a while longer, and I put a hold on my consulting and gardening videos. We meet with Athena, Hermes, and Hestia in a secluded café, the tension thick in the air. We recount the events at the ruins, the fire, Lisa's betrayal, and my near-death experience. They listen intently, their faces etched with concern and anger. When we finish, Athena speaks, her voice calm but resolute. "We’ll help you," she says. "and try and find Lisa and her partner and expose the Shadows for what they truly are." A glimmer of hope flickers in my heart. With the Oracle Collective by our side, we might actually have a chance. But we’re running out of time.

A cold dread settles in my stomach. The pieces of this puzzle are starting to fit together, forming a terrifying picture. This isn't just a coincidence. We're being hunted. "We have to move!" Brock shouts, his voice cutting through the panic. We surge forward, our group now doubled in size. The labyrinth twists and turns, each passageway a potential dead end.The smoke grows thicker, making it hard to breathe. Suddenly, a flicker of light catches my eye. A faint glow emanates from a narrow opening in the wall. Could it be an exit? A way out? "This way!" I yell, pointing towards the light. We stumble towards the opening, desperation fueling our every step. The light grows brighter as we approach, revealing a tunnel carved into the rock. We squeeze through, one by one, emerging into a hidden chamber. The air here is cooler, the smoke less dense. We collapse onto the stone floor, our bodies wracked with coughs. But we're alive. We made it. For now. The chamber we find ourselves in is dimly lit, the only source of light filtering through cracks in the ceiling. It's a small, circular room with walls adorned with faded frescoes depicting ancient rituals. In the center, a pedestal supports a large, ornate bowl filled with water. "Where are we?" Linda asks, her voice trembling. "I don't know," Brock replies, "but it's safe, at least for now." We huddle together, the silence broken only by our ragged breathing. My mind races, trying to process everything that has happened. The fire, the man in the suit, the Shadows... it's all too much. "We can't stay here," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "We need to find a way out of these ruins." Brock nods in agreement. "But we need to rest first. We're all exhausted." We settle down on the cold stone floor, our bodies aching from the ordeal. The adrenaline that had fueled our escape begins to wear off, replaced by a bone-deep weariness. As I close my eyes, I can't help but think about Emily. The memory of her screams still haunts me, a constant reminder of my failure. I should have been able to save her. I should have done more. No, I should have told her not to cross the bridge. I start to weep. And as he has done for the last 35 plus years, and knowing my anguish now, he gently touches my shoulder, and I open my eyes to see him looking at me with concern. "It's not your fault, Patrice," he says softly. "You did everything you could." I nod, but the guilt still gnaws at me. I know Brock is right, but it doesn't make the pain any less real. I had told him about the tragedy years ago and I thought maybe I had processed it and was able to move on. Now, it’s like it happened yesterday and The Shadows are bringing it to the surface. I wonder if we’re being targeted because of that fateful night. "We'll find a way out of this," Brock assures me, his voice filled with determination. His words ignite a spark of hope within me. Maybe we can turn this tragedy into something positive. Maybe we can expose The Shadows and prevent them from hurting anyone else. With renewed resolve, I stand up and look around the chamber. There must be a way out of here. We just have to find it. Lisa follows me with her eyes but stays seated. I scan the chamber for any clues that might lead us to an exit. The frescoes on the walls, though faded and worn, depict scenes of ancient rituals and processions. Could they hold the key to our escape? Brock, sensing my curiosity, joins me in examining the artwork. We trace the lines and symbols with our fingers, searching for any hidden meaning or pattern. "Look," Brock says, pointing to a series of symbols etched into the base of the pedestal. "These look familiar." I lean closer, squinting in the dim light. The symbols are arranged in a circular pattern, each one representing a different element: earth, air, fire, and water. "They correspond to the four cardinal directions," I realize. "North, south, east, and west." "But which way do we go?" Linda asks, her voice filled with uncertainty. I study the symbols again, trying to decipher their meaning. Suddenly, a realization dawns on me. The symbols are not just representing directions, they're also depicting a path. "We need to follow the path," I say, my voice filled with excitement. "The symbols show us the way." As a group, we follow the path indicated by the symbols, moving from one fresco to the next. The path leads us through a series of interconnected chambers, each one more elaborate than the last. We encounter hidden passageways, secret doors, and intricate puzzles that test our wits and our courage. Along the way, we discover artifacts and relics that shed light on the history of the ruins. We learn that this was once a sacred site, a place of worship and pilgrimage. But it was also a place of secrets, a place where ancient knowledge was guarded fiercely. As we delve deeper into the labyrinth, the air grows thicker and the temperature rises. The ground beneath our feet trembles, and we hear the distant rumble of the fire raging outside. We know we're running out of time. We have to find the exit before the flames consume us. But with each step we take, the path seems to grow more treacherous. The walls close in around us, the air becomes suffocating, and the ground threatens to crumble beneath our feet. And before I know what has happened, Lisa pivots, a gun trained on me, and says the three words I will never forget ... "You killed her."

I was going to make this a five-part series, but realized four would do, so here's the                   conclusion of Rebecca Schaffer's murder by an obsessed fan, John Bardo. Bardo was initially infatuated with pop stars Debbie Gibson and Tiffany. However, his obsession shifted tragically after he watched Rebecca Schaeffer's intimate scene in "Scenes from the Class Struggle in Beverly Hills." Dr. Kris Mohandie, a clinical police and forensic psychologist, described Bardo's disturbing thoughts: "'How dare she? She's supposed to stay innocent for me.' He decided, 'I’m going to punish you and permanently possess you by taking your life.'" Even more disturbing was Bardo's revelation that he drew inspiration from a 1982 article in People magazine about Arthur Jackson, who attempted to kill actress Theresa Saldana. Jackson received a 12-year prison sentence, the maximum at the time. During Bardo's trial, his lawyer argued mental illness, supported by testimony from his siblings about his troubled mental health history, including dropping out of high school for treatment. Bardo's mental health history prevented him from legally acquiring a firearm, leading him to persuade his brother to obtain one for him. Marcia Clark, then-deputy district attorney (later famous in the O.J. Simpson trial), countered that Bardo's actions stemmed from obsession, not insanity. In 1991, he was convicted of first-degree murder and received a life sentence without parole, which he continues to serve at Avenal State Prison in California. In 2007, Bardo was seriously injured when stabbed 11 times by another inmate at Mule Creek State Prison. Rebecca's tragic death had a lasting impact: in 1990, California passed the first anti-stalking law in the U.S., making it a felony to cause fear for safety, applicable nationwide by 2019. And on April 12, 2024, the 35th anniversary of her death, ABC aired "Your Biggest Fan" on 20/20, examining John Bardo's motives and the subsequent legislation protecting celebrities and others from stalking. Remembering Rebecca Rebecca Schaeffer, a promising young actress on the brink of stardom, tragically met her untimely death on July 18, 1989, when she was fatally shot by Robert John Bardo, a disturbed fan who had been obsessively stalking her for years. The impact of her death reverberated not only through Hollywood but also sparked legislative changes regarding stalking and privacy protections. Schaeffer initially moved in with Dawber, her co-star of "My Sister Sam," and her husband Mark Harmon for a few months upon arriving in Los Angeles after landing the role as her sister. "We just naturally fell into a sisterly bond," Dawber recounted to 20/20. "I had lost my own sister when she was 22 and I was 25, so having another young woman in the house felt comforting and familiar. It was a positive experience for both of us." Dawber, an experienced actress, was delighted to witness Rebecca's burgeoning career. "I was thrilled to see her embracing the Hollywood life," Dawber shared. After her stay with Dawber and Harmon, Schaeffer moved to an apartment in the hills above the Sunset Strip. However, she soon grew concerned about the isolation and opted to relocate to her residence on Sweetzer Avenue. After her death, those who knew Rebecca remembered her not just for her talent but for her kind and gentle spirit. Jenny O'Hara, her co-star from "My Sister Sam," reminisced about Rebecca's genuine nature: "She was so natural, she was herself. There was nothing phony about her; there was nothing put on about her. She was amazing." Rebecca's agent, Jonathan Howard, mourned the loss of not just a client but a dear friend: "What the world really lost was an angel. I lost a friend. ... Hollywood lost a rising star, and the world lost an angel." Her close friend and director Brad Silberling, who was deeply affected by her death, recalled the last message Rebecca left him before her audition for "The Godfather Part III": "The morning she died, he discovered a sweet message she had left on his answering machine. It was the last time he ever heard her voice." Rebecca's parents, Danna and Benson Schaeffer, were devastated by the loss of their only child and threw themselves into advocating for stricter gun control and anti-stalking laws. Danna Schaeffer, reflecting on the phone call that changed her life forever, recalled, "I still remember how sunny my voice sounded when he picked up the phone... Then he said, and these words are inscribed in my brain, 'Mrs. Schaeffer, I have terrible news. This morning Rebecca was shot and killed.'" The impact of Rebecca's death was profound, not just on a personal level for her loved ones but also on a societal level. Her tragic murder highlighted the dangers of celebrity obsession and led to significant legal reforms. California passed the first anti-stalking law in the aftermath of her death, and Congress later enacted the Driver's Privacy Protection Act to restrict access to personal information like home addresses. Brad Silberling, reflecting on the broader implications of Rebecca's murder, said, "We weren't aware of the ripples going out right after Rebecca died... But it was an earthquake." Rebecca Schaeffer's legacy endures as a reminder of the dangers of unchecked obsession and the importance of protecting privacy and safety. Her memory lives on through the advocacy work of her parents and the lasting impact she had on Hollywood and beyond.

This is the continuing story of how Rebecca Schaeffer, a beautiful, young and talented 21- year-old actress was shot and killed right outside her door by a crazed, obsessive fan on July 18, 1989. Although John Bardo confessed to the crime, investigators still needed a motive and what led him to kill the "love of his life." Authorities arrested Bardo the day after he was seen on a Tucson, AZ highway trying to kill himself as he screamed that he had killed Rebecca Schaeffer. He was held on one-million-dollar bail pending trial. In a chilling twist, just a stone's throw from the tragic scene of Rebecca Schaeffer's murder, police unearthed a discarded yellow shirt, a gun holster, and a worn copy of "The Catcher in the Rye" – eerie clues in a haunting puzzle. This is a brief summary of the book: J.D. Salinger's "The Catcher in the Rye" immerses us in the troubled mind of Holden Caulfield, a rebellious teenager cast adrift in New York City after being expelled from yet another prep school. Over a few chaotic days, Holden grapples with the jarring transition to adulthood, railing against the perceived hypocrisy and superficiality of the world around him. Bardo was 19 and investigators were able to piece together scenes from "The Catcher in the Rye" and how they correlated with his state of mind and possible motive to kill Schaeffer. A cryptic call from a Tennessee Highway Patrol officer added another layer to the chilling narrative. The officer revealed that Bardo's own sister received a bone-chilling confession from her brother on that fateful morning, placing him mere moments from Schaeffer's doorstep. Shortly before Bardo boarded a Greyhound Bus headed for L.A., he wrote a letter to his older sister in Knoxville, Tennessee. In the letter, he wrote: “I have an obsession with the unattainable. I have to eliminate I cannot attain.” He, however, did not specifically mention Rebecca Schaeffer. Bardo's defense painted a portrait of a troubled mind, his attorney arguing that mental illness rendered him incapable of such a calculated act. Bardo's brother, Edward, added a poignant detail to the narrative – a past marred by a stint in a psychiatric hospital. The pieces of a dark puzzle were slowly falling into place, unveiling a disturbing tapestry of obsession, madness, and a life tragically cut short. Within the confines of a jail cell, a chilling confession unfolded as forensic psychiatrist Dr. Park Dietz sat face-to-face with Bardo, the troubled young shooter. "There was something very special about Rebecca," Bardo confided, "and I just couldn't let go of her." A dark obsession that echoed the haunting words of Mark David Chapman, John Lennon's killer, with whom Bardo found a twisted kinship. Both men, tragically, clutched copies of "The Catcher in the Rye" as they carried out their horrific acts. Going back to what was in his confession letter, he thought Hollywood was corrupting young Rebecca and he was disappointed that she would succumb to the evils of Hollywood, especially given her love scene in a movie. Bardo's chilling revelations continued, revealing that U2's haunting song "Exit" became a macabre inspiration for his crime. In a dramatic twist during the trial, Bardo's attorney, Galindo, played the very song that allegedly ignited the young man's murderous intent. As the music filled the courtroom, Bardo was overcome, singing along, tapping his feet, and bobbing his head to the rhythm – a chilling display of the darkness that consumed him. In a dramatic turn of events, Dr. Park Dietz, the forensic psychiatrist, delivered a chilling testimony. While acknowledging Bardo's lifelong struggle with schizophrenia, Dietz concluded that it did not absolve him of legal responsibility for his actions. Stay tuned to the conclusion ...

In the summer of 1987, he'd traveled to California carrying a teddy bear and flowers. He tried to see Rebecca at the Warner Bros. studio. Still, he had been turned away by the security guard, according to Rhonda Saunders, formerly with the Los Angeles District Attorney's Office. After "My Sister Sam," Schaeffer had scored a big part in a movie called "Scenes from the Class Struggle in Beverly Hills." The movie contained a love scene that Schaeffer appeared in -- a break from her character in "My Sister Sam" -- and it flicked some sort of evil switch inside Bardo. "All those rageful feelings. ... 'How dare she? She's mine. ... She's supposed to stay innocent for me.' That gets ... converted into a plan of cold-blooded revenge," said Dr. Kris Mohandie, a clinical police and forensic psychologist. "I’m going to punish you and permanently possess you by taking your life." In July 1989, he walked into a gun store in Tucson and tried to purchase a firearm but was turned away. Bardo's initial attempt to purchase a firearm at a local gun store was thwarted by the owner's vigilance. Sensing something amiss, the owner probed Bardo with questions, leading him to reveal his history of mental illness. Recognizing the legal implications, the owner refused to sell Bardo the gun, citing his status as a prohibited possessor. Undeterred, Bardo manipulated his brother, Edward, into buying the gun for him. Edward, unaware of his brother's sinister intentions and believing the gun was for target practice, agreed to the purchase. However, he imposed a condition: Robert could only use the weapon in his presence. This naive act of trust would have devastating consequences. With the gun in his possession, Bardo's next step was to obtain Rebecca Schaeffer's address. He hired a private investigator, who illicitly procured it from the state Department of Motor Vehicles. Armed with this information and fueled by his obsession, Bardo boarded a Greyhound bus from Tucson to Los Angeles, carrying a bag containing a chilling collection of items: the autograph Schaeffer had sent him, her photograph, and a copy of "The Catcher in the Rye," a book infamously associated with the murder of John Lennon. On the morning of July 18, 1989, as Rebecca awaited the delivery of a script for "The Godfather Part III," Bardo arrived at her doorstep. Her faulty intercom system forced her to answer the door in person. Holding up the autographed photo, Bardo briefly conversed with Rebecca before politely excusing herself, mentioning an upcoming interview. However, Bardo's obsession wouldn't be deterred. He went to a nearby diner, stewing in his twisted thoughts, before returning to Rebecca's apartment. When she opened the door again, her irritation evident, Bardo uttered a chilling phrase: "I forgot to give you something." Clutching a letter he had written, Bardo presented it to Rebecca, a seemingly harmless gesture masking his sinister intent. As Rebecca began to read the letter, unaware of the impending doom, Bardo's hand reached for the cold steel of a .357 Magnum revolver concealed beneath his clothes. With a swift and calculated motion, he raised the weapon and fired a single shot, piercing Rebecca's heart. Her last words were, "Why? Why?"Her life, filled with promise and talent, was instantly snuffed out. Bardo, his twisted mission accomplished, fled the scene, leaving behind a lifeless body and a community in shock. The news of Rebecca's senseless murder sent shockwaves through Hollywood and the nation. Friends and colleagues were stunned and heartbroken, grappling with the horrifying reality that such a tragedy could befall someone so young and promising. The question on everyone's lips was, "How could this happen? How could someone simply walk up to another person's house and take their life?" Rebecca's death marked a turning point in the public's understanding of stalking and the urgent need for greater protection for its victims. Her death became a chilling reminder of the vulnerability of celebrities and the insidious nature of stalking. As the sun beat down on the bustling streets of Los Angeles, a frantic air and ground search unfolded near Rebecca Schaeffer's apartment. Police helicopters buzzed overhead, their spotlights sweeping the landscape. At the same time, officers on the ground combed the area for any clues that could lead them to the person responsible for the young actress's senseless murder. Unbeknownst to them, Robert John Bardo was already miles away, fleeing the scene of his heinous crime. He boarded a Greyhound bus back to Tucson, Arizona, seeking refuge in the familiar surroundings of his hometown. But the guilt and paranoia gnawed at him, manifesting in a bizarre episode on the freeway. A day after the murder, witnesses reported seeing Bardo running erratically alongside the highway, his face contorted in anguish. He screamed the chilling confession, "I killed Rebecca Schaeffer," his words echoing in the ears of those who heard them. This disturbing display of remorse and madness further solidified Bardo's connection to the crime, setting the stage for a swift apprehension and a high-profile trial that would grip the nation. As the manhunt for Rebecca Schaeffer's killer intensified in Los Angeles, a pivotal moment occurred in Tucson, Arizona. Robert John Bardo, disheveled and seemingly unrested, was apprehended by Officer Paul Hallums. A quick search revealed a damning piece of evidence: a photograph of Rebecca Schaeffer tucked into Bardo's shirt pocket. The pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place. Meanwhile, back in Rebecca's hometown of Portland, Oregon, a somber funeral was held. Friends, family, and fans gathered to mourn the young starlet's death, overflowing the synagogue and spilling onto the street. The outpouring of grief was a testament to Rebecca's impact on those who knew her. In a poignant interview, Rebecca's father, Dr. Benson Schaeffer, reflected on the devastating loss, saying, "I was still in a state of... personally, in a state of unreality. The world just seemed physically wrong." Stay tuned for Part 3 ... Comments 5 Jon T. Oswell II and 4 others Like Comment Share Comments settings Add a comment… Open Emoji Keyboard No comments, yet. Be the first to comment. Start the conversation

Ready for some true crime? I've been working on this for some time and will be doing this in 5 parts: 1st part: Introduction to victim & perpetrator 2nd part: How they met and their relationship 3rd part: When and where it all went wrong 4th part: The crime 5th part: The investigation 6th part: Closing the case & sentencing Let's get started: Victim This case is about Rebecca Lucile Schaeffer. For those who don't know her story, buckle up. This is a case of obsession that eventually led to murder, with some crazy twists & turns. Rebecca, born in 1967, was born in Eugene, Oregon, as the only child to parents Danna, a writer and educator, and Dr. Benson Schaeffer, a child psychologist. Her upbringing was steeped in Jewish tradition, and her early aspirations leaned toward becoming a rabbi. However, her path took a different turn during her junior year at Lincoln High School when she was bitten by the modeling bug. As Rebecca's talent blossomed, her family relocated to Portland to support her aspirations. Her dedication and perseverance paid off when she landed a role on the soap opera "One Life to Live" at the age of 15. This marked a turning point in her career, opening doors to new opportunities and cementing her passion for acting. Rebecca's striking looks and natural charm caught the attention of local agencies, leading to appearances in department store catalogs and television commercials. This early success fueled her ambition, and at the age of 16, with her parents' blessing, she spent a summer in New York City working with the prestigious Elite Model Management. The experience solidified her passion for the entertainment industry, and she decided to stay in the city to pursue modeling full-time, marking the beginning of her journey toward a promising career in Hollywood. A budding actress with a radiant smile and captivating presence, Rebecca quickly became a recognizable face on the small screen. She landed a starring role as Patti Russell in the CBS sitcom "My Sister Sam" propelling her into the limelight, showcasing her natural talent and charisma. Rebecca's infectious enthusiasm and genuine warmth extended beyond her professional life. She was known for her kindness, compassion, and ability to connect with people on a personal level. Her friends and colleagues often described her as a ray of sunshine, someone who could brighten even the darkest of days. As her star continued to rise, Rebecca's talent and beauty caught the attention of filmmakers. She landed a starring role in the critically acclaimed film "Scenes from the Class Struggle in Beverly Hills," further solidifying her status as a rising star in Hollywood. With a bright future ahead of her, Rebecca's dreams seemed within reach. Little did she know that a dark shadow was lurking, threatening to extinguish her light. Perpetrator: Robert John Bardo, born on January 2, 1970, was the youngest of seven children raised in a tumultuous environment. His father, Philip, was a non-commissioned officer in the U.S. Air Force, and his mother was of Korean descent. Bardo's early life was marked by frequent relocations due to his father's military career, ultimately settling in Tucson, Arizona, in 1983. During his formative years, Bardo experienced a troubled childhood, enduring abuse at the hands of one of his siblings. The turmoil at home led him to threaten suicide, resulting in a brief stint in foster care. Mental illness ran in Bardo's family, and he was eventually diagnosed with bipolar disorder, a condition that would significantly impact his life. At the age of 15, Bardo's emotional struggles escalated, leading to a month-long institutionalization for treatment. His academic journey ended prematurely when he dropped out of Pueblo Magnet High School in the ninth grade. He then took on a job as a janitor at Jack in the Box, struggling to find stability in his life. Bardo's troubled past continued to haunt him, as evidenced by three arrests as a teenager. The charges ranged from domestic violence to disorderly conduct, painting a picture of a young man grappling with anger and instability. Neighbors also recounted instances of Bardo's bizarre and threatening behavior, raising concerns about his mental well-being and foreshadowing the dark path he was about to embark on. In the quiet town of Tucson, Arizona, Bardo harbored a dark obsession. His fixation on actress and model Rebecca Schaeffer consumed his every thought, driving him down a dangerous path of delusion and obsession. Bardo, a 19-year-old pizza delivery boy, spent countless hours poring over newspaper clippings, photos, and memorabilia of the actress. He transformed his bedroom into a shrine dedicated to his idol, a place where he could immerse himself in his fantasy world. Bardo's infatuation with Rebecca went beyond mere admiration. He believed that they were destined to be together, that she was his soulmate and his "guardian angel." He wrote her numerous letters expressing his undying love and devotion. He even hired a private investigator to track down her address, a chilling act that would ultimately lead to tragedy. As Bardo's obsession intensified, his mental state deteriorated. He became convinced that Rebecca was being corrupted by the Hollywood lifestyle, that she was losing touch with her true self. His delusional thinking fueled his anger and resentment, driving him to take drastic measures. Bardo's actions became increasingly erratic and disturbing. He sent Rebecca numerous gifts, including a teddy bear and a religious card, hoping to win her affection. He even traveled to Los Angeles to meet her on the set of "My Sister Sam," but was turned away by security. Undeterred, Bardo continued to write letters, each one more desperate and disturbing than the last. Stay tuned for part two ...