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The words "One foot in front of the other" reverberate in my mind, a chilling mantra from a dark past. My breath hitches in my throat as the memory unfolds before me - the rickety bridge, the swirling river below, and the terrified face of my friend, Emily, as she hesitates on the edge. I had been the one to utter those words, a desperate attempt to instill courage in her heart. But it had backfired. The bridge had collapsed, and Emily had plummeted into the raging torrent. I had watched in horror as the current swept her away, her screams swallowed by the roaring water. Now, those same words are being used against me, a cruel mockery of my past trauma. The man in the suit, a specter from that fateful day, stands before us, his eyes glinting with a sinister satisfaction. "You remember, don't you?" he taunts, his voice dripping with venom. "You remember what happened to your friend." I stumble backward, my knees weak. "Who are you?" I gasp, my voice barely a whisper. He chuckles, a low, menacing sound that echoes through the ancient ruins. "Don't you recognize me, Patrice?" he asks, stepping closer. "It's been a long time, but I never forget a face." His eyes lock onto mine, and a chilling realization washes over me. It's him. The man who had been lurking in the shadows that day, the man who had watched Emily fall to her death. "You," I breathe, my voice filled with a mixture of fear and rage. "You were there." He nods, a smug smile twisting his lips. "I was indeed. And now, it seems, our paths have crossed once more." Brock steps forward, shielding me with his body. "What do you want?" he growls, his voice thick with anger. The man shrugs. "What do you think I want? You've been meddling in things that don't concern you. The Shadows don't take kindly to interference." "The Shadows?" Brock questions, his brow furrowed in confusion. "You'll learn soon enough," the man sneers. "But first, you have a decision to make. One foot in front of the other, and you might just leave here alive. Refuse, and you'll meet your fate like your friend Emily did at the bottom of the river." I start to hyperventilate as I clutch onto Brock’s left arm as tight as I can. I can’t believe this is happening. What could they want with us? We’re harmless. Why are they doing this? My mind is racing, trying to make sense of it all. But the only clear thing is that we're in grave danger. "Don’t listen to him, Patrice," Brock urges me, his voice a steady anchor in the storm of my fear. "We're getting out of here." He pulls me along, and we start to run deeper into the labyrinth. The smoke thickens, making breathing hard, but we push on, driven by adrenaline and desperation. The passageways twist and turn, leading us deeper and deeper into the heart of the ruins. We pass crumbling walls adorned with faded frescoes, their once-vibrant colors muted by time and ash. We stumble over fallen stones and debris, our hearts pounding in our chests. Behind us, we hear the footsteps of our pursuer, his heavy breathing echoing through the narrow corridors. We know we can't outrun him forever, but we have to keep moving. We have to find a way out. We turn a corner and come to a dead end. A solid wall of stone blocks our path, its surface rough and unyielding. We're trapped. I turn to Brock, my eyes wide with fear. "What do we do now?" Brock scans the wall, searching for a hidden door or a weak spot. But there's nothing. We're cornered. Suddenly, the man in the suit emerges from the shadows, his face illuminated by the fire's flickering light. He raises a gun and points it directly at us. "End of the line," he says, his voice cold and final. My heart leaps into my throat. Is this it? Is this how it all ends? Time seems to slow to a crawl as the man raises his gun. Brock's arm tightens around my waist, pulling me closer. My mind races, desperately searching for a way out of this nightmare. But the options are bleak. We are trapped, cornered like animals. The man's finger tightens on the trigger. A bead of sweat trickles down his temple, his eyes filled with a predatory gleam. The silence is deafening, broken only by the crackling of the fire in the distance. Just as he's about to pull the trigger, a deafening roar echoes through the ruins. The ground trembles beneath our feet and the walls around us shudder violently. Chunks of plaster and stone rain down, filling the air with dust and debris. The man in the suit stumbles backward, his eyes wide with surprise. The gun clatters to the ground, forgotten in the chaos. Brock seizes the opportunity, grabbing my hand and pulling me towards a narrow crevice that has opened up in the wall. We squeeze through, the rough stone scraping against our skin, and emerge into another corridor. We run, our lungs burning, our legs aching. We don't know where we're going, but we know we have to keep moving. The labyrinth twists and turns endlessly, a maze of shadows and crumbling walls. Suddenly, we hear voices ahead. We slow down, our hearts pounding with a mixture of hope and fear. Could it be other tourists? Or is it more of the Shadows? We round a corner and find ourselves in a large chamber. A group of people are huddled together, their faces etched with terror. Among them, I recognize Bob and Linda, the couple we met at the vineyard. This is twice now that they have been in the same place as us. What are the odds? "Thank God!" Linda cries out, rushing towards us. "We thought we were the only ones left." Bob explains that they had been exploring another part of the ruins when the fire broke out. They had gotten separated from the rest of their group and had been wandering through the labyrinth ever since, the same as us. Goosebumps form on my arms. Is this just a coincidence? Then I remember Linda’s words that we would see them again. "We saw that man," Linda says, her voice trembling. "The one who was following you. He's the one who started the fire." A cold dread washes over me. How does she know this? But I don't have time to dwell on it. The fire is spreading rapidly, and the heat and smoke are becoming unbearable. We have to find a way out fast. As we navigate through the maze, I can't help but think about the words that haunt me: "One foot in front of the other." They were meant to be words of encouragement, a mantra to help overcome fear. But now, they seem like a curse, a reminder of the tragedy that has shaped my life. But I refuse to give up. I refuse to let this man win. I will find a way out of this labyrinth, even if it's the last thing I do. And it may very well be…

A ferry ride later, and we find ourselves in Mykonos, a labyrinth of whitewashed buildings and blue-domed churches that seems to spill down the hillside towards the Aegean Sea. The sun beats down, and a few wispy clouds scatter across the sky, casting a light shadow over the shimmering turquoise sea. Brock and I spend the morning exploring Little Venice, its colorful houses perched precariously over the water, and the afternoon lounging on the beach at Paradise, where the thump of electronic music mixes with the sound of the waves. Later that afternoon, as we sip iced coffees at a charming café overlooking the harbor, waiting for our food, I notice a couple across from us who look like Americans; the man, with a silvery mop of hair, wore gray slacks and a white button-down shirt. He was smiling at the woman across from him, who had jet-black hair but a hint of gray at the sides. Her green eyes were expressive, listening to him. They look friendly enough, but as I keep staring, something about the woman seems vaguely familiar. I catch the woman as she looks at me; a similar recognition falls over her face, and as if we were both thinking the same thing, we end up meeting and striking up a conversation with this American couple, Bob and Linda, who were enjoying a platter of fresh seafood. "So, where are you folks from?" Bob asks, his friendly demeanor instantly putting us at ease. "We're from Utah," Brock replies, "a small city in the North." I'm glad he didn't say exactly where, as we have learned to be cautious around strangers. "Utah?" Linda echoes, her emerald eyes sparkling with interest. "I've always wanted to visit. I hear the landscapes are just breathtaking." "They are," I chime in. "We live nestled against the Wasatch Mountains, so we have stunning views right from our backyard." The conversation flows effortlessly from there. We talk about our lives back home, our children, and our grandchildren. We say goodbye to the couple and hope to meet again. Later that afternoon, we hop on another ferry to Santorini. The island rises from the sea like a giant layer cake, its white buildings clinging to the cliffside. We take a cable car up to Fira, the capital, and wander through its narrow streets, browsing shops selling local crafts and admiring the views of the caldera. We even indulge in a wine tasting at a local vineyard, sipping crisp whites as the sun dips below the horizon. We see Bob and Linda again at this place. We had just finished a few tastings when I noticed Linda and Bob sitting at a table away. ‘Look, Brock, it’s Bob and Linda.” “Oh yeah,” he says, following my directions. At that moment, Linda looked up and saw me, eyebrows raised, and motioned for us to join them. “Wow, are you following us?” I say jokingly, pulling up a seat. “I guess we just have similar tastes,” Linda shrugs. We learn more about “The Camden’s from California,” as they coined themselves. We learn that they’ve been traveling Europe for several weeks. "So, what brought you two lovebirds to Greece?" Bob asks, his eyes twinkling with amusement. Brock and I exchange a glance, a silent agreement to keep our troubles to ourselves, at least for now. "Oh, you know," I say, "the history, the food, the beautiful islands..." "I just love Greece,” Linda pops in. “We’ve been here several times. We’ve also been to Italy, Morrocco, India, China, Egypt, just so many places.” Linda flips her hair and brags more about their travels over the years. “We also have two kids and three grandkids, one grandson and two granddaughters.”  They keep us young, that's for sure. We have pictures." As she pulls out her phone, I can't help but study her face. Her eyes, a clear, vibrant emerald, seem to pierce through me, sparking a flicker of recognition. Something about her voice, too, feels oddly familiar. "That's wonderful," Brock replies, looking at Linda's photos. "We have six ourselves from two sons. They're growing up so fast." The conversation flows easily, touching on family, retirement, and more about their travels. It’s embarrassing that this is the first place we’ve been out of the country, but I stay silent on that. And even as I laugh and share stories, the nagging feeling that I know Linda from somewhere refuses to dissipate. Her voice echoes in my mind, each syllable stirring a distant memory I can't quite grasp. When I mention my gardening YouTube channel, Linda's eyes light up. "You're the Gardening Guru of Grantsville?" she asks, a delighted laugh escaping her lips. "The very one," I reply with a smile. "I'm a huge fan!" Linda says, excitement spread across her face. "I'm subscribed to your channel and love your tips and tutorials. You've inspired me to try many new things in my garden." A warm glow spreads through me. Maybe that’s where I saw her on her YouTube profile. It’s always gratifying to know that my work makes a difference in people's lives. As Linda and I chat animatedly about gardening, Brock and Bob discover a shared passion for law. They swap stories of courtroom dramas and legal victories, their laughter filling the air. Before we part ways, Bob and Linda suggest we meet for dinner that evening. "We'd love to," I say, feeling a genuine connection with this couple, especially with Linda. Back at the safe house, I admire myself, turning side to side as I smooth down my turquoise summer dress. I smack my lips after applying light pink lipstick and tease my hair, giving it some volume. I notice a sun-kissed glow about me and realize I'm starting to relax and enjoy this vacation, even with all the threats and what happened to Brock. And even though his arm is still in the sling, he seems to be doing fine. Brocks comes out of the bathroom looking quite distinguished, and I smile. His silvery hair fills out more daily, but his blue eyes are still as bright as the day I met him. He's wearing beige slacks and a dark brown button-down shirt. I whistle. "Why, thank you, my darling," he says, coming over and kissing my lips. "You look like a young goddess in that dress," he says, winking. I bought the dress in Athens and knew the color would bring out my eyes and brighten my cheeks. It's a flowy dress with just enough cleavage to look attractive. We leave, careful to ensure no one is tracking our moves, which is stupid since we're not necessarily hostages. We gather at a quaint restaurant tucked away in a quiet corner of Mykonos. We share delicious Greek cuisine, laugh over shared stories, and delve deeper into our lives and dreams. Throughout the evening, I can’t shake the feeling of deja vu. It’s like I’ve had this same conversation before, the memory remaining tantalizingly out of reach. *** The following morning, we bid farewell to Mykonos and board a ferry to Santorini, leaving Bob and Linda behind but with a promise to keep in touch. “Oh, of course. I have a feeling we will see you all again,” Linda said. Before they left, though, Linda looked at me and I swear I could see her eyes squinting at me as if there was some hint of animosity. Of course, I swept it aside as being tired and still quite cautious with what we’ve already been through. As we arrive in Santorini, the majestic island rises from the sea like a volcanic crown, its whitewashed villages clinging to the cliffside. We explore the ancient Minoan settlement of Akrotiri, wandering through the labyrinthine ruins. We go deeper, venturing down a hidden passageway, a maze of narrow corridors and twisting turns. Emerging into a large, open chamber, we find ourselves surrounded by vibrant frescoes and scattered pottery. The silence is deafening, the air thick with the weight of history. ‘These are amazing,” I whisper as if feeling the need for reverence. “They really are. These temples are thousands of years old yet have been well-cared for and preserved.” Brock sweeps his hand across some hieroglyphs. After some time, I realize we had been there too long and feel the need to leave. An acrid smell hits my nostrils as we return the way we came. Smoke. “You smell that, right?” I ask, raising my head, trying to get a sense of where it was coming from. "Yeah. It’s getting quite strong. We need to get out of here," Brock says, his voice urgent. But as we search for an exit, the smoke grows thicker, making breathing difficult. Panic gnaws at me as we stumble through the maze, desperately seeking an escape. Suddenly, a figure emerges from the smoke-filled darkness, blocking our path. He looks familiar to the man who followed us in the botanical gardens, yet his eyes are different but have the same deadness. He’s not as tall as the other man, either. He displays the same chiseled jaw and blank star, however. He’s wearing a black shirt and jeans. Why are they always wearing black? Instinctively, I know we’re in danger. "One foot in front of the other," he rasps. Those words… And just like that, I’m back to that fateful day, the one I blocked out for years, never wanting to hear them again. Those words uttered years ago on a rickety bridge now resonated with a sinister new meaning. The memory of my friend, her terrified face as she plunged into the rushing water below, floods my mind. It was an accident, but it was those words that propelled my friend to take the dare, the one that ended her life that day. The past and present collide in a terrifying moment of recognition. Even though I have never seen this man before, the phrase he uttered has haunted my dreams for years. Why would he say this? Maybe he is just reacting to the danger and trying to help us escape, but who am I kidding? Whoever these people are, they're working for someone else who is seeking justice. But why and who is doing this? And what do they intend to do?

What should have been the day we go back home after a fun-filled, yet relaxing vacation is now the day we have to go to the Embassy and try and get protection while we’re here, which could be days or even weeks. As I watch Brock gingerly moving his arm in a physical therapy session, my thoughts turn to the same question that floods my mind: who is targeting us and why? Yes, we know about The Shadows and that they’re an international terrorist organization but why US? What have we done to incur their curiosity or wrath for that matter? “You look lost in thought,” I hear Brock say to me. I snap back to being present. I never knew he was done or that the therapist had left. I raise my head and see him giving me a pensive look. “Yeah, I am.” I fold my arms and curl up on the black leather sofa in the living room. Thankfully, the Embassy made accommodations to stay in a safe house while we try and move past this “incident” what the Athens police called it. Of course, this wasn’t just an incident. However, Emannuel has been great to work with and I thank God Gray was able to contact him so quickly. Brock sits down next to me and puts his good arm around me. I lean against him and close my eyes. “Look, we’ll find out what The Shadows wants with us, and justice will be done. I have some of my paralegals looking into some connections to see what they can dig up. Since The Embassy doesn’t seem too interested in American citizens being threatened and even attacked on their watch, it’s up to us and Emmanuel. I refuse to leave here until we know the Shadows agenda, what it has to do with us, and that we have protection—at the least.” “That could take days or weeks, Brock. You have work and so do I. We can’t just take a sabbatical with you trying to explain to your legal team that we have to stay in Greece because we’re being targeted by an international terrorist group, one who may have been responsible for a bomb threat at the airport, a dead body in our hotel closet, being followed, threatened. Now you recovering from surgery from a knife attack. It all sounds fantastical. I mean who goes through a year of all we have and then the nightmare follows us to the very place we deicide to vacation in? It doesn’t make sense. “None of this make sense, but here we are. I’ll be damned if I sit and wait for Athens to do anything. We’re just American citizens, and according to them, nobodies they care to even put their time and manpower into investigating and catching these criminals. Who knows, maybe it’s like the Mob and half of them are in on it,” Brock chuckles. “I just feel like I’m in a James Bond movie –“ “Am I James Bond?” He snickers. “Of course, even got the Sean Connery dark hair to match.” I reach up and swipe a piece of hair off his forehead. It was true. Brock’s hair was thick, and even though streaks of gray showed through, his jet-black hair looked much like 007 in his later years. He would be turning 60 in a few months and the wrinkles in his forehead and fine lines around his eyes were getting more prominent. Of course, who was I to talk? In the last year, my hair was nearly all gray, mixed with blonde, my natural color. My bobbed cut was now growing out, nearly to my shoulders now. My fine lines and wrinkles creased across my forehead and near my eyes. I have perpetual purple indents under my eyes that look as if I hadn’t slept in a year. To be honest, I probably average 5 hours a night now. It’s like my life has turned a dark corner, one I never anticipated and wanted. “Listen, let’s go somewhere and get away from all this doom and gloom. We can take a ferry to some of the islands—Santorini, Mykonos to name a few. We can go in the morning.” “Brock, we’re in a safe house for a reason.” “I know but we can’t just stay here, isolated and only allowed to leave when told. This is our vacation, dammit and I refuse to stay cooped up. Plus, they said it would be a few days until they would have some answers, if that. I want to see the sights and check out some ancient ruins. After all, this is what coming to Greece was about, to see things we would never see in the States.” He's right. We’ve only seen The Parthenon, which was marred by The Shadows stalking us, and the Botanical Gardens at Athens. Why not go check out the islands and see other landmarks? “Okay, let’s do it,” I say, raising my head and kissing him. We embrace and kiss some more and then he leads me into the bedroom so we can drown out the noise and confusion and just be with each other. *** The next morning, the sun shone brightly through our bedroom window. I glance at my watch that read 6:42. Brock was still asleep, so I quietly climb out of bed and, yawning, walk to the bathroom. A hot shower helps relax my muscles and when I climb out, after turning the hot to cold gradually, I feel invigorated and ready to get out of this stuffy small place and see the rest of what Greece has to offer. Screw being afraid. The Shadows were not going to keep us hostage and fearful of every step we took. If the last year taught me anything it was to make the most of every day because you never know when God or some lunatic decides your time is up. When Brock woke up and got ready, we decided to hit a small café to get breakfast. Emmanuel told us the place was in a hidden alcove, and even though we really didn’t understand where we were, I figured it wasn’t too far from Athens. The house, if you could call it that, was a two-bedroom rambler with a small kitchen, bathroom, and living room – just big enough for a small family if needed. The colors were neutral and not much in terms of décor, but it was a place for refuge not a four-star hotel. There were other houses next to them, in a row of safe houses but that was it. As we walk to the café, I notice the dilapidated buildings, many with stucco and limestone looking as if they were hundreds of years old, which they very well could have been. Café Kleos wasn’t busy, just a few people sitting at a table, but the quaint place was charming. Greenery was placed all around, some on tables as a centerpiece, others hanging from the ceiling or on tables. Portraits of Greek Gods and Goddesses lined the red back wall, making them stand out. The six or seven tables and a handful of booths were spread apart by at least five feet. A few fans were turning in the dim light. “Two?” The hostess asks in broken English. She was a middle-aged woman with long black hair pulled into a ponytail. She wore a black shirt and khaki slacks. Her nametag read She grabs two menus. “Yes, please,” Brock says, motioning me to lead the way with Alena in front. She asks if a window booth is OK and we both nod. The stone table is adorned with the requisite silverware wrapped in cloth napkins, with a simple red candle encased in a glass dome and a few yellow flowers on each side as an accent. The seating was comfortable and placing my hands on the table, it feels smooth, not rough. I pore over the menu as I suddenly realize how hungry I am. The night before, and actually for days, my appetite has been low, waiting for Brock to recover and hear how the investigation is going with The Shadows, hoping it yields promising results. I order the Greek Omelet with mushrooms, green peppers, olives, cheese, and a Greek sauce Alena said was a favorite. A cup of sweet tea tops it off. Brock orders the same but with a side of sourdough toast and coffee. “This is a nice place,” I say, glancing around the small café. “It is. See, this is what we should be doing, not worrying about being stalked and attacked by a group of henchmen and looking over our shoulders everywhere we turn.  You know, when I was doing some research last night while you were sleeping, I noticed that The Shadows operate in many different countries, but their headquarters are in Greece. Not only are they a terrorist organization but they are a justice league of sorts. People hire them to enact vigilante justice out of the eye of the government. If people think they’ve been wronged, they hire these mercenaries to “take care of the problem,” hence why they’re called The Shadows. They operate in a very secluded area and can carry out cyberattacks to bring a company down, or to attack people. Emmanuel said people pay a small fortune to right wrongs and get justice that governments can’t or refuse to get.” The more Brock talked, the more he was animating his words and his expression turned to an excitement of sorts. “So basically, vigilante justice.” “Precisely.” “But again, what does that have to do with us, a senior couple in UTAH of all places?” “This is the million-dollar question.”

It’s been nearly a week since all hell breaks loose for us. The oppressive hotel walls close in, suffocating me with an unnerving sense of dread. Every creak of the floor, every whisper in the corridor, echoes the lurking danger outside. The once inviting Athenian streets now seem fraught with hidden threats, their beauty marred by a chilling unease. Brock, though physically mending, carries a burden of guilt in his eyes. He blames himself for the attack, for putting us in harm's way. It's a battle I wage daily, trying to convince him that he isn't at fault, he saved my life, and that this web of violence was spun long before our arrival. Emmanuel remains our unwavering rock, his determination a stark contrast to the growing unease within the embassy. Sarah's calls become more frequent, her tone a mix of concern and thinly veiled frustration. "Ms. Summers," she begins one day, her voice clipped, "the embassy is strongly advising immediate repatriation. The longer you remain in Greece, the greater the risk. We cannot guarantee your safety indefinitely." I look at Brock, his eyes reflecting the turmoil within me. We're trapped between the embassy's cold pragmatism and the unknown threat looming over us. Returning home feels like abandoning our quest for answers but staying means exposing ourselves to further danger. It's Brock who breaks the silence. "We need to find out who's behind this, Sarah. We can't just run and pretend it never happened." Sarah sighs, the sound of weary resignation. "I understand, Mr. Summers. But please consider the risks. The local authorities are at a dead end, and our resources are limited. We're simply not equipped to handle this kind of situation." The conversation ends with promises of further updates and reassurances that ring hollow. We're left with a stark choice: surrender to fear or fight for the truth, even if it means facing the darkness alone. Emmanuel, sensing our unease, offers a glimmer of hope. "There's a lead," he announces one evening, his voice laced with cautious optimism. "A contact of mine in the underworld heard whispers about a group of individuals targeting foreigners. It's vague, but it's something." A spark of determination ignites within me. "We have to follow this lead, Emmanuel. It's our only chance." Brock nods in agreement, a newfound resolve in his eyes. We look at each other, a silent understanding passing between us. We're in this together, bound by a shared trauma and a thirst for justice. The embassy's warnings fade into the background as we embark on a new path, one that promises danger but also the possibility of uncovering the truth behind the shadows that haunt us. Emmanuel's lead takes us deep into the heart of Athens, a world away from the tourist-filled Plaka and the ancient ruins. It's a maze of dimly lit alleyways, graffiti-covered walls, and faces that seem to hold a lifetime of secrets. We move under the cover of night, a trio of shadows in a world that thrives in darkness. Our destination is a nondescript bar, a place where whispers are traded like currency and secrets flow as freely as the cheap liquor. Emmanuel leads the way, his confident stride a stark contrast to our nervous anticipation. He exchanges a few words with the burly bouncer, a silent nod granting us passage into the dimly lit interior. I feel like I’m in some 007 movie, not my reality. The air is thick with the scent of stale smoke and sweat, a cacophony of voices rising and falling in a language we barely understand. We find a secluded corner table, our eyes scanning the room, searching for any sign of Emmanuel's contact. Minutes feel like hours as we wait, the tension mounting with each passing moment. Just when I'm about to lose hope, a figure emerges from the shadows. He's a wiry man with a weathered face and eyes that seem to pierce through our facade. He’s tall, thin, and too mysterious, but I don’t care at this point. He slides into the seat opposite Emmanuel, a silent nod acknowledging our presence. Their conversation is brief, a hushed exchange of words and subtle gestures. Emmanuel listens intently, his brow furrowed in concentration. When they're done, he turns to us, a grim expression on his face. "They call themselves the Shadows," he reveals, his voice barely a whisper. "They're a group of mercenaries, specializing in covert operations. They're ruthless, efficient, and they leave no trace." Goosebumps form on my arms and I hug myself as a sick feeling permeates my gut. "They're the ones who attacked us?" Emmanuel nods. "It seems so."  "But why us? What do they want?" Brock's frustration shows in his furrowed brow. The questions hang heavy in the air, unanswered and ominous. We leave the bar with more questions than answers, a sense of foreboding settling over us. We're no closer to uncovering the truth, but we now have a name, a face to the darkness that's been haunting us. I keep recalling the past – Troy’s secret and murder and the love triangle between him, Jeff and Melanie, and Officer Holder, the dirty cop doing Grant’s bidding. Goldie’s murder, and on and on. Was this all connected somehow? It sounds ludicrous the more I think about it, but stranger things have happened. I flip back to the present. The Shadows. The very word evokes a sense of dread, a chilling reminder that we're caught in a dangerous game with unseen players. But fear is a luxury we can't afford. We have to fight back, to expose their secrets and bring them to justice. Brock and I exchange a worried glance, the weight of this discovery heavy in the air. We can't just sit idly by while this clandestine organization manipulates world events from the shadows. A sense of responsibility, mixed with a thirst for justice, fuels our determination. We spend countless hours poring over encrypted documents, deciphering cryptic codes, and tracing digital footprints. It's a rabbit hole of interconnected conspiracies, shadowy figures, and hidden agendas. The deeper we delve, the more we realize the extent of The Shadows' influence. They've infiltrated governments, corporations, and media outlets, subtly shaping narratives and manipulating public opinion. They've even orchestrated major historical events, leaving a trail of chaos and destruction in their wake. They could have been responsible for the airport bomb threat and the bellhop's murder. “This goes deep,” I say, taking off my reading glasses and rubbing my eyes. Our virtual investigation takes us to various corners of the globe, from bustling cities to remote villages. We encounter enigmatic informants, double agents, and whistle-blowers who risk their lives to expose the truth. It's past midnight when Brock and I fall into bed. This goes deeper than I ever imagined.                                                                  *** The next day, Emmanuel stops by our room and informs us about an alliance we should follow up on. After throwing on a sundress and grabbing some lunch, he takes us to a hidden tavern nestled in the winding streets of Athens. The air is thick with the scent of ouzo and grilled octopus. The smell is pungent. We make our way to a secluded corner. Three figures emerge from the dimness, their faces illuminated by the glow of their smartphones. “This is the Oracle Collective, a shadowy group of Greek hackers we've been tracking for weeks,” Emmanuel says. This seems like a joke, and I want to laugh, as it’s straight out of some conspiracy novel; however, I bite my tongue. Their leader, a woman with piercing blue eyes and a mane of raven-black hair, introduces herself as "Athena." Her companions, a young man with a mop of curly hair and bulging muscles, known as "Hermes," and a tall, quiet woman with a piercing gaze named "Hestia," nod in greeting. Her bobbed black hair is a stark contrast with her white skin and reminds me of the EMO kids back in the 90s. The Oracle Collective, despite their reputation for anonymity, are intrigued by our mission. After all, they've dedicated themselves to uncovering the truth and exposing injustice within their own country. The idea of taking on The Shadows, an international organization with tentacles reaching deep into Greece, is a challenge they can't ignore. I can tell it in their eyes. They want this challenge. Over glasses of retsina and plates of meze, we share our findings and strategize. The Oracle Collective, with their deep knowledge of Greek politics and their extensive network of informants, are invaluable allies. They propose a focused approach. “We'll investigate The Shadows' operations within Greece, focusing on their connections to corrupt politicians, influential businessmen, and extremist groups,” Athena says. “We've known about them for quite some time. They have a damn good security system, so it won't be easy,” Hermes says. “While we work on the ground in Greece, the Oracle Collective will utilize their cyber skills to infiltrate The Shadows' digital infrastructure, gather intelligence, and disrupt their communications. The plan is ambitious, but with the combined expertise and resources of our alliance, we believe it can be done,” Emmanuel says, folding his arms. With each step closer to uncovering the inner workings of The Shadows, a growing sense of urgency consumes me. We know we have to expose their nefarious activities before it's too late. But the same question I have asked myself for the past year keeps haunting me. What does this ultimately have to do with us?

The lobby is a whirlwind of activity. Veronica, her usual composure shattered, barks orders at the shaken staff. Hotel guests, a mixture of frightened and curious, cluster at the periphery of the scene. Paramedics burst through the entrance, their professional demeanor at odds with the chaos. I'm shoved aside, my own needs forgotten in the rush to reach Brock. They lay him down on a makeshift gurney in the manager's office, cutting away at his bloodied shirt with urgent motions. I try to push forward, to be by his side, but the gruff security chief holds me back. "Ma'am," he says, not unkindly, "you need to let them work. We'll let you in as soon as possible." Tears blur my vision as I watch them tending to Brock, the bloody bandages and medical jargon twisting a painful knot in my stomach. A thousand questions swirl in my head: Just when I feel the desperation completely overwhelm me, a hand rests gently on my shoulder. I turn to see Veronica, her face softened by genuine concern. "Mrs. Summers," she starts, "is there anyone you can call? Family? A friend back home?" Numbly, I nod. "A friend. He's... he's Chief of Police." Hope flickers in Veronica's eyes. "Good. Call him. And tell him to contact the Embassy. They can help… provide protection." The phone feels heavy in my hand as I dial Gray's number. My voice, raw with emotion, stumbles over the explanation of what's happened. Gray is silent for a moment, the gravity of the situation sinking in. Then, his voice takes on its familiar tone of calm resolve. "Trice, listen to me. I'm sending someone. He's…discreet…can handle things without drawing too much attention. Be ready to give him all the details." I barely manage a choked "Thank you" before the call ends. A strange mix of relief and trepidation fills me. Help is on the way, but what form might that help take? It wasn’t but fifteen minutes later, when in the midst of this turmoil, a new figure enters the lobby. He's unassuming, medium-height, brown eyes scanning the room with a practiced efficiency. He moves through the throng of people with a quiet purpose that draws my attention. Then, his gaze locks on me. "Patrice Summers?" the man asks, his voice low and steady. I nod, unable to speak. "My name is Emmanuel. Gray sent me." That was fast. The next few hours bleed together in a surreal blur. Brock is rushed to the hospital, the sirens a mournful wail fading into the bustling Athenian streets. I accompany him in the back of the ambulance, his hand weakly gripping mine. The doctors speak a mix of Greek and heavily accented English, their words more focused on medical jargon than reassurance. Emmanuel arrives at the hospital, a quiet shadow of efficiency. He speaks with the doctors, translates their updates, navigates the labyrinthine hallways with unnerving familiarity. In him, I find an uncanny sense of stability amidst the storm. "I live in Athens," he explains later with a slight accent, his voice a steady hum in the sterile hospital waiting room. "Gray trusts me. And I trust him. His judgment is sound." The Embassy, alerted by Veronica and Gray, sends a representative. Her name is Sarah, crisp professionalism barely masking the unease beneath the surface. She's sympathetic but clearly overwhelmed by the situation. Forms are filled out, statements are given, and promises of protection ring hollow in the face of the very real danger that has followed us across the world. Brock's surgery is long, the waiting an excruciating exercise in helplessness and fear. When the surgeon finally emerges, her expression is drawn but there's a flicker of relief behind her weariness. "He will recover," she assures us, "the wound wasn't as deep as we feared, but it was dangerously close to his heart." "Thank you," I manage to say. Exhaustion washes over me in a wave, pushing back the panic for a moment. Brock will be okay. That is our small victory amidst this swirling nightmare. *** A few days later Brock is released from the hospital. The embassy arranges for temporary accommodations at a secure hotel, but the atmosphere hangs heavy with a sense of being trapped. Emmanuel, however, becomes a lifeline. He procures groceries, provides updates, and most importantly, begins his investigation. "It's not random," he declares one evening, having spread various maps and notes over a small table in our cramped quarters. "your hotel room, the botanical gardens, Parthenon…they targeted places where you were vulnerable, less likely to have immediate help." His finger traces a route on the map, circling back to our original hotel. I feel a chill run down my spine. "So…they've been watching us this whole time?" Emmanuel nods grimly. "That's how they knew where to find you. Someone's been tailing you, feeding information." We spend the rest of the evening poring over details, my mind reeling. The idyllic Greek getaway has transformed into a chessboard where we are the hunted pawns. Emmanuel's quiet presence and methodical approach offer a semblance of control within a situation spiraling further from our grasp. As the days turn into an agonizing week, Brock slowly recovers his strength. We were supposed to be leaving Greece the next day but now we are embroiled in a murder, attempted murder, and who knows what else. Emmanuel's investigation, however, yields frustratingly little. The attackers leave no clear trace, disappearing like ghosts into the labyrinthine city. He seems to be everywhere and nowhere simultaneously, questioning locals, blending into the shadows. The embassy, initially supportive, grows increasingly impatient. Sarah pushes for us to return home, citing limited resources and escalating risk. Gray, through phone updates, remains steadfast that we stay put until we can identify the threat. It's a standoff between bureaucracy and desperate determination. And so, we wait. Brock heals, Emmanuel investigates, and I try to cling to the fragments of normalcy in a world that suddenly feels hostile and foreign. Athens, once a beacon of history and beauty, has transformed into a menacing trap. When will it end?

The begonias' beauty and the laurel tree's myth seem almost cruel in contrast to the dark cloud hanging over us. As Brock suggests, we resolve to talk to the embassy in the morning, but part of me fears even they won't be able to protect us. Suddenly, a flicker of movement catches my eye. Amid the crowd, a shadow slips away behind a column. Instinctively, I grab Brock's arm, my words choked with a mixture of dread and determination. "Did you see that?" He follows my gaze, brow furrowed. "See what? I just see tourists...lots of them." "Someone was watching us," I insist. "There!" I point to where the shadow disappeared. With a shared look of apprehension, we weave through the crowd, eyes scanning frantically. We reach the column, but no one is there. Only the cold, aged stone remains, silent witness to whatever just vanished. My heart thunders in my chest. "Am I imagining things?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. But then I remember last year when I saw someone in my backyard - Holder - and my instincts are rarely wrong. Brock grips my hand, his answer as firm as the weathered rock beside us. "Maybe, but it's a risk we can't afford. Something's not right." He glances around, his movements swift and deliberate. "Let's get out of the open. They could be anywhere." We make our way out of the temple complex, blending in with the departing tourists. Each rustle of leaves and every passerby has me jumping. The sense of being hunted gnaws at what's left of my vacation spirit. As we finally reach the street below, I feel an oppressive weight descend upon me. The sunlight that was once warm now feels harsh. There is a sense that this isn't some isolated incident but the start of something much darker. Brock pauses, pulling something from his pocket. It's his phone. He hesitates, finger hovering over the screen, then says, "I need to make a call." Intuition tightens in my chest. "Who are you calling?" He meets my gaze, a new kind of seriousness in his eyes. "Gray." Brock holds the phone to his ear, his expression a mix of determination and grim resignation. He paces nervously, his voice lowered. "Gray...it's Brock. Listen, I need a favor. Something's happening here in Athens...it's not good." I watch him, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. Gray, always cool and collected, was the anchor that steadied us during the chaos surrounding Troy and Melanie. But would he listen this time, with the threat seemingly less concrete? Brock's voice takes on an edge of desperation as he describes the bellhop, the threats, the lingering sense of danger. He pauses, listening intently to Gray's reply. With a sigh, he nods. "Yeah, I get it. We'll head to the embassy first thing – " His words are cut short by a sudden commotion across the street. My stomach lurches as a dark sedan screeches to a halt, its tires squealing in protest. Two men, faces obscured by mirrored sunglasses, burst from the car and sprints in our direction. "Brock, move!" I scream, just as the first shots crackle through the air. We scatter, tourists erupting into a frenzy of shouts and running feet. I stumble, fear and adrenaline scrambling my thoughts. Brock yanks me behind a street vendor's cart, the flimsy wood providing scant protection from the renewed gunfire. Through the chaos, a primal terror takes hold. This is no random act – they're intent on silencing us, and they aren't afraid to do it in broad daylight. Amidst the pandemonium, Brock's voice breaks through the haze. "Run!" He shouts. "Circle around the backside of the market; meet me near the hotel!" Without hesitation, I take off, weaving through panicked bodies and dodging fallen displays of souvenirs. The smell of cordite hangs heavy in the air, stinging my nostrils with a stark reminder that these bullets are no figment of our paranoia. My lungs burn, and my legs threaten to give out, but I force myself onward. I need to reach the hotel and pray Brock makes it, too. I have so many questions and a creeping dread that the answers could be far worse than anything we could have imagined. If this all ties back to Troy, then how deep does it run? Who else might be involved? Finally, I break through to the bustling street, catching a glimpse of the hotel in the distance. A wave of desperate relief washes over me. If I can just get there, maybe there's a chance... But that hope is cruelly ripped away as a figure materializes directly in my path—a man I hadn't seen before but whose mirrored glasses mark him as part of this terrifying chase. His dark, slicked-back hair and deep blue eyes look dead as the veins in his neck jut out. He blocks my way, a sinister grin stretching across his face. He's at least 6 inches taller than me; there's no way I could outrun him. And now, trapped and utterly alone, I know the game is truly over. However, Brock emerges and charges the man before I can act or react. With all the commotion, I can’t tell what’s happening. Time distorts as the attacker stumbles back from Brock's unexpected charge. I seize the second of hesitation and dart past, my heart a frantic drumbeat in my ears. Adrenaline courses through me, fueling a desperate scramble toward the hotel. Behind me, I hear the sickening thud of bodies colliding, followed by a grunt of pain. Brock's cry hangs in the air, chilling me to the bone. They're fighting, but for how long? I push myself harder, my vision blurring with tears of fear and strain. The hotel looms closer, its familiar façade a beacon of hope in this terrifying chaos. I burst through the revolving doors, colliding with a surprised guest. "Help!" I gasp, voice raw with desperation, "My husband's been attacked!" Confusion swirls behind the front desk. Veronica, eyes wide with shock, fumbles for the phone. Security guards, usually more focused on checking luggage tags, spring into action, their expressions mirroring my terror. "Where?" A gruff voice booms over my ragged breathing. A man with a thick neck and buzzcut emerges from a back office, taking charge. "Where he is?" "Outside! I think he's hurt, please..." I trail off, unable to fight the sob building in my throat. They were so close - too close. The security team doesn't wait for more. Two guards rush with me back outside, guns drawn and shouts filling the air, scattering the remnants of the panicked crowd. I strain to see through the chaos, searching desperately for any sign of Brock amidst the melee. Then, I see him. He staggers back, clutching his shoulder. Blood stains his shirt, a shocking crimson against the pale fabric. The attacker, having recovered his knife, lunges again. My stomach twists with dread. Just then, a gunshot rings out. The attacker crumples to the ground, a dark stain spreading across his back. One of the guards lowers his weapon, the other rushes to Brock's side. I'm frozen in a strange limbo, caught between overwhelming relief and a growing sense of horror. The idyllic vacation spot has shattered, replaced by this brutal reality of blood and violence. Brock collapses to his knees; the guards lift him as he grimaces, supporting him as they hurry back within the hotel's safety. They sweep past me, headed for the manager's office, likely to make a makeshift medical station. My legs fail me. I sink to the polished marble floor, the coolness a sharp contrast to the wildfire raging within. The attack, the fear, the shockwave of witnessing Brock’s injury - it all crashes over me. My sobs echo through the grand lobby, a stark contrast to the cheerful bustle of earlier that morning. This was never just a vacation; it was an escape. An escape from the trauma back home, an attempt to find some semblance of normalcy. Now, even halfway across the world, that normality lies in bloody tatters at my feet. I’d give anything to leave this place – now – but Brock is injured and needs medical attention. I have to suck it up.

The next morning, the previous night's events weigh heavily on me as we sit down to breakfast in the hotel's dining room. The chatter of other guests provides a stark contrast to the tension that hangs between Brock and me. The hotel dining hall buzzes with activity as guests worldwide gather for breakfast. Sunlight filters through large windows, casting a warm glow over the space and illuminating the elegant decor. Ornate chandeliers hang from the ceiling, their crystals sparkling in the morning light, while intricate patterns adorn the walls, hinting at the hotel's rich history. Tables are arranged neatly across the room, each adorned with crisp white tablecloths and polished silverware. Guests sit huddled together, their voices mingling in a symphony of languages as they chat and laugh over steaming cups of coffee and plates piled high with breakfast delicacies. The air is alive with the tantalizing aroma of freshly brewed coffee, buttery pastries, and sizzling bacon, enticing guests to indulge in the culinary delights laid out before them. A buffet table stands at the center of the room, laden with an array of dishes from around the world – fluffy pancakes, golden waffles, platters of fresh fruit, and bowls of creamy yogurt topped with honey and nuts. When we’ve had our fill and then some, we sit, each lost in our thoughts. Amidst the hustle and bustle, I see the hotel manager, Veronica, who checked us in just three days ago, standing behind the front desk, her demeanor professional but guarded. Her eyes dart nervously around the room, her gaze lingering on Brock and me as we approach, a hint of apprehension flickering in her gaze. I can't help but notice the tension that hangs in the air, a palpable undercurrent beneath the surface of polite conversation. It's as if the hotel itself is holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. "We need to figure out our next move." His voice is low as he scans the room for any sign of potential danger. I nod in agreement, my mind already spinning with possibilities. "We can't just sit around and wait for them to come after us again," I reply, my tone resolute. "We need to take control of the situation." Brock's eyes light up with fierce determination. "Agreed. But how do we do that?" I pause, considering our options. "We need to gather more information," I say finally. Then, my gaze falls on the hotel manager. "We start with her, Veronica," I say. "She may know more than she's letting on." Brock follows my gaze, his expression thoughtful. "It's worth a shot," he says, determination flickering in his eyes. With a shared sense of purpose, we rise and make our way over to the reception desk. The manager looks up as we approach, her smile faltering slightly as she recognizes us. "Good morning," I say, sounding as casual as possible. "We were wondering if we could ask you a few more questions about the previous guests in our room." She hesitates, her eyes darting nervously around the room. Finally, in her strained voice, she says, "I'm sorry. I can't help you with that." Brock leans in closer, his gaze intense. "Please," he says, his tone soft but urgent. "We need to know what's going on. Our lives may be in danger." Veronica’s eyes widen in surprise, and for a moment, I see a flicker of fear in her gaze. Then, just as quickly, it's gone, replaced by a steely resolve. "I'm sorry," she repeats, her voice firm. "I can't help you." With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I realize we've hit a dead end. Veronica clearly knows more than she's letting on, but she's not willing to talk. As we leave the hotel, frustration and fear gnawing at our insides, I can't help but wonder what other secrets are lurking beneath the surface of this seemingly idyllic city. But one thing is clear: if we're going to survive this, we'll need to stay one step ahead of our enemies and trust no one but ourselves. That thought weighs heavily on my mind, so I steel myself for the challenges that lie ahead and prepare to face whatever dangers may come our way. The warm Mediterranean sun beats down on us as we traverse the streets of Athens, casting long shadows across the cobblestone pavement. The city pulses with life, its streets alive with the sights and sounds of a bustling metropolis. We navigate our way through narrow alleyways and crowded squares, the thrum of activity around us starkly contrasting with the heavy silence between us. As we make our way towards our next destination, the awe-inspiring Parthenon, perched on a hill overlooking the city, has stood the test of time it’s been thrown. I can't help but feel a sense of awe and wonder wash over me. The temple stands as a testament to the enduring legacy of this ancient civilization. As we approach, mingled with other tourists, the air grows heavy with anticipation. As we step through its ancient columns, a sense of reverence fills the air. The temple's grandeur is breathtaking, its towering columns reaching towards the sky like ancient sentinels guarding the secrets of the past. It's undergone a restoration and transformation, making it look like we have entered ancient Greece. We wander through the temple grounds, marveling at the intricate carvings and ornate architecture that surround us. Each step feels like a journey through time, a glimpse into the lives of those who came before us and the mysteries that still lie hidden beneath the surface. But as we explore the temple grounds, I can't shake the feeling that we're not alone. The same sense of unease that has plagued us since arriving in Athens lingers in the air, a silent warning that danger may lurk just out of sight. As we reach the heart of the Parthenon, a feeling of foreboding washes over me, a sense of impending doom I can’t shake. I glance around, searching for any sign of danger, but all I see are people taking pictures, some laughing and smiling, but most are awed at the site. I take some photos with my phone and even do some videos for my YouTube channel as I notice the delicate dark green petals of the Begonia plants surrounding the Parthenon, pink and yellow, alternating. A row of Bay Laurel with delicate pastel yellow flowers is the official Greek flower, and they stand at attention behind as if to guard the foundation. It was said there was a myth surrounding the plant: Apollo, the sun god, known for his arrogance, mocked Eros, the mischievous god of love, for his tiny bow and arrow. Eros, stung by the insult, vowed revenge. He dipped two arrows – one tipped with golden desire, the other with icy repulsion – and aimed them at the unsuspecting Apollo and a beautiful nymph named Daphne. Apollo, struck by the golden arrow, felt an overwhelming infatuation for Daphne. He pursued her relentlessly, his affections smothering. But Daphne, pierced by the aversion arrow, felt only dread towards his advances. The more Apollo pressed his love, the deeper her loathing grew. Driven by his relentless pursuit, Apollo chased Daphne through the woods. Exhausted and desperate, she cried out to her father, the mighty river god Peneus. In a final act of protection, Peneus transformed Daphne, not into stone, but into a magnificent laurel tree. Apollo, his heart heavy with longing, reached for the laurel. Though he could no longer hold Daphne close, he cherished the tree as a symbol of his love. He fashioned a crown of laurel leaves, forever binding him to her memory. The myth whispers that Apollo imbued the laurel with everlasting life, ensuring Daphne's beauty would forever grace the world. It was forever known as the Greek flower. Staring at the begonias, my mind flashes back to the bellhop and the one red begonia stuffed inside his mouth, almost signaling a signature or calling card. I snap back to reality when Brocks puts his arm around the small of my back, startling me. “You OK?” He says, turning to me. “Yes, just thinking about the bellhop. Remember a begonia was stuffed inside his mouth? I wonder what the significance of that is; why would the killer do that?” “Who knows? Some killers are just odd like that.” “Yeah, but it seems he was sending some message. And now I see all of these begonias,” I say, displaying my arms outward. It seems like we’re getting nowhere, yet we are again caught in the crossfire.” He turns my head up to his. “I know this is frustrating and even scary. But we’re together and I won’t let anything happen to you or me. Tomorrow let’s talk to the authorities about the threats. Maybe we can get some protection if we go to the American Embassy. I refuse to let this enemy destroy my vacation.” “I just don’t understand why we’re being targeted yet again. What is it about us that draws enemies? We’re just fifty-somethings with grandkids, and I’ve never hurt anyone, have you?” “Of course not. This could just trace back to Troy and Melanie. Who knows, maybe she’s out for revenge of some sort. She never did like us and even wanted to kill us. And maybe it’s not Melanie at all, but someone tied to the thugs who dumped Troy in his front yard.” “But how did they know we would be in Greece, of all places, and now? Someone must have been spying on us. Maybe there’s another hidden camera in the house.” “No, Gray scoured it with his officers. They found nothing.” “Well then how and where?” “Well, think back. Did you tell anyone where and when we were coming here?” “No –“ I hesitate, remembering I mentioned it to the Gardening Club and tell Brock this. “Okay, well, maybe word got around then.” “So, there were only eight people at the club two days before we left: Leah, Damian, Bradford, Alissa, Cassie, Amanda, Cruz, and me. And I guess the new lady who just started coming a few weeks ago. I think she said her name was Linda or Lisa. She was new in the area and heard about our club, so she decided to attend. She seemed very nice and was around the same age as me. Anyway, I doubt anyone cared that we were leaving.” But as the words left my lips, I wondered if I shouldn’t have said anything about our trip except to Leah. It’s not like we would have passed the next Gardening Club meeting. And, clearly, someone still thinks we’re a threat if they’re willing to travel or have their spies travel around the world to watch us. Now that we’ve hit a dead end with Veronica, I contemplate whether to call Gray and tell him what’s going on. Maybe he’ll have some advice or can contact the embassy for us. Or maybe that has to be higher up. I have no clue as this is the first time I’ve dealt with a crime in a foreign country, and the local authorities have already had their suspicions of us with the dead bellhop in our hotel room closet. No, maybe we shouldn’t involve anyone else. Brock and I will have to do some investigating on our own. Hopefully, we’ll get some answers.

The following day dawns with a sense of urgency hanging in the air. Over a hasty breakfast of lukewarm coffee and stale bread, Brock and I finalize our plan to confront Veronica again. We exchange a silent but determined glance, steeling ourselves for the risky endeavor ahead. As we make our way down to the lobby, I can feel the weight of our predicament pressing down on me. But there's no turning back now. We've come too far to let fear hold us back. Approaching the front desk, we find her busy with a flurry of activity, her attention divided between answering phone calls and assisting other guests. It's now or never. "Excuse me," I say, trying to keep my voice steady despite the nerves that threaten to overwhelm me. "We need to speak with you about something important." Veronica looks up, her smile faltering slightly at the seriousness in my tone. "Of course, how may I help you?" Brock steps forward, his expression grave. "We need to know who was staying in our room before us. It's crucial." Veronica's eyes widen in surprise, and for a moment, I fear that we've said too much. But then her expression softens, a flicker of sympathy in her eyes. "I'm sorry, but I can't give out that information," she says, her voice low. "Hotel policy." I exchange a frustrated glance with Brock, realizing we've hit a dead end once again. But then, an idea strikes me, a daring gambit born out of desperation. "Please," I implore, leaning in closer. "We're not asking for much. Just a name. It could be a matter of life and death." She hesitates, her gaze flickering between us. I can see the internal struggle written on her face, the conflict between duty and compassion. Finally, she sighs, relenting under the weight of our plea. "I shouldn't be doing this," she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper. "But I'll make an exception, just this once." With trembling hands, she retrieves a keycard from behind the desk and slides it across the counter towards us. "Room 305," she says quietly. "But please, be careful. I don't know what you'll find there." Gratitude floods through me as I grasp the keycard, my heart pounding with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation. We've been given a chance, a small glimmer of hope in the midst of uncertainty. “Thank you,” I say quietly. As we make our way to Room 305, I can't shake the feeling that we're on the brink of a breakthrough and that the answers we've been searching for are within our grasp. But little do we know, the truth that awaits us behind that door will shake us to our core and propel us into a dangerous game of cat and mouse with a foe far more cunning than we ever imagined. Were we ready? With a sense of foreboding, Brock and I stand outside Room 305, the keycard heavy in my hand. The air seems charged with tension as if the very walls hold secrets waiting to be uncovered. I insert the keycard into the slot, holding my breath as the light blinks green and the lock clicks open. With a silent exchange of glances, we push open the door and step inside. The room is shrouded in darkness, the curtains drawn tight against the bright Athenian sun. A sense of unease settles over me as I flick on the light switch, illuminating the space with a harsh fluorescent glow. The room is eerily silent, devoid of any signs of life. But as we begin to search, it becomes clear that someone has been here recently. The bed is unmade, the remnants of a hastily eaten meal scattered on the bedside table. A sound breaks the silence—a soft rustling coming from the bathroom. Brock and I exchange a tense glance before cautiously making our way toward the source of the noise. As we push open the door, a figure emerges from the shadows, their features obscured by darkness. My pulse quickens with fear, but then the figure steps forward into the light, revealing a face I never expected to see. It's the man from the gardens, the one who had been watching us, his expression a mix of surprise and apprehension. We stand frozen in place for a moment, locked in a silent standoff. Then, without a word, the man heads for the door, disappearing into the hallway before we can react. With a sense of urgency, Brock and I give chase, but by the time we reach the hallway, the man is long gone, vanished into the maze of corridors and stairwells. As we catch our breath, a sinking feeling settles over me. We may have missed our chance to confront our mysterious adversary, but at least now we have a name—a face to put to the danger that lurks in the shadows. But as we return to our room, the sense of victory is short-lived. For as I step into the bathroom to soak away the tension of the day, my eyes fall upon a small note resting on the edge of the bathtub. With trembling hands, I pick it up, my heart pounding in my chest as I read the words scrawled across the paper in a jagged script: "I'm watching you..." A chill runs down my spine as I realize that our ordeal is far from over. The danger is closing in, and we're running out of time to unravel the tangled web of secrets that surrounds us. The ominous note seizes my stomach, and I feel a wave of pure panic take over. My relaxing soak has now turned into a quick washdown, and getting out quickly to show Brock. “This is what I found,” I say, holding out the note I found on the bathtub’s edge. My hands are trembling. Brock takes it, and I see concern etched in between his eyebrows, evidenced by a deep groove. With a sense of urgency, Brock and I scour the room, searching for any clues that might shed light on who left the note. But aside from the unsettling message, the room appears undisturbed. As we rack our brains for our next move, a thought occurs to me—a connection between the man from the gardens and the note in the bathtub. Could it be possible that he's the one who's been following us, leaving behind these chilling messages as a warning? I mean it only makes sense. The theory sends a shiver down my spine but also ignites a spark of determination. If the man is indeed our adversary, then we must find a way to confront him and end this dangerous game once and for all. But first, we need a plan to lure him out into the open without putting ourselves at risk. As we brainstorm, a daring idea takes shape in my mind—a trap disguised as an opportunity. We set our plan into motion, carefully orchestrating each detail to ensure our safety while baiting our elusive foe. Hours pass in a blur of tension and anticipation as we wait for our plan to unfold. Each moment feels like an eternity as we remain on high alert, our senses heightened for any sign of danger. Finally, our patience is rewarded when we receive a cryptic message—an invitation to meet at a secluded spot outside the city under the cover of darkness. With a mixture of apprehension and commitment, Brock and I set out to confront our adversary once and for all. The air is tense as we park the car, and I mentally take note of the surroundings as we walk through the darkened streets, all my senses on edge. As we reach the designated meeting spot, we find ourselves face to face with the man from the gardens, his features illuminated by the moon's soft glow. For a moment, there is silence as we size each other up, the weight of our shared history hanging heavy in the air. Then, without a word, the man speaks, his voice low and gravelly. "I know why you're here," he says, his gaze piercing. "But you're playing a dangerous game - one they’ve intended you to lose.” I exchange a glance with Brock, our resolve unwavering. "We're not here to play games," I reply, my voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins. "We're here for answers." The man's expression softens with a hint of resignation in his eyes. "You may not believe me," he says, "but I'm trying to protect you. You can't begin to understand the forces at play here." Before I can respond, a sudden noise echoes through the darkness, interrupting our conversation. With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I realize we're not alone—someone else has been watching us all along. As figures emerge from the shadows, I can feel the weight of our predicament settling heavily upon us. But even as fear grips me, I refuse to back down—not when we're so close to uncovering the truth. With a silent nod to Brock, we steel ourselves for whatever comes next, knowing that our fate hangs in the balance and that the answers we seek may finally be within our grasp. As the figures enter the dim light, I feel tension crackling in the air. My heart and mind race, going through scenarios of escape and confrontation. A man speaks up. With his balding hair and low and menacing voice, he reminds me of Agent Smith in "You've been asking too many questions," he says, his tone dripping with malice. "It's time to put an end to your little investigation." Suddenly, the stranger who said he was trying to protect us whispers to us. “I’ll hold them off. Run!” With a burst of adrenaline, we seize the moment, bolting in the opposite direction and disappearing into the night. The adrenaline fuels our sprint, our hearts pounding as we navigate the labyrinthine streets, weaving through alleyways and side streets in a desperate bid for escape. Finally, breathless and exhilarated, we find ourselves safe from our pursuers. We pause to catch our breath, our chests heaving as we lean against a nearby wall. "That was too close," I gasp, my voice barely above a whisper. Brock nods, his expression grim. "We need to get out of here," he says, his tone urgent. "Before they find us again." With a shared sense of determination, we return to the rental car and head for the hotel. I’m starving, but I know it’s not wise to stop anywhere. We’ll have to get room service tonight. On the way back, my mind races with thoughts of what we've just witnessed and the dangers that still lie ahead. As we reach the safety of our room, a sense of relief washes over me, tempered by the knowledge that our ordeal is far from over. But even as fear gnaws at the edges of my mind, I refuse to let it consume me. We may be in over our heads, but we're not giving up. With a weary sigh, I sink into a chair, my thoughts consumed by the events of the night. We order room service, and after steak and shrimp, a garden salad and roll, and a brownie Sunday to top it off, I crawl into the cool sheets. What I can’t get out of my mind, however, is the man who says he’s here to protect us. From what? And how did he know we would be here? What’s really going on?

My blood chills despite the Athenian sun beating down. The scene with the bellhop replays in my head, a horrifying prologue to whatever unfolds next. Brock's attempt at humor grates on me. This vacation is turning sour - fast. "Screw shitty," I snap. "Let's make it amazing. Spite the universe with a botanical adventure." The rental car roars to life, weaving through vibrant streets that blur into a kaleidoscope of sights and sounds. At the gardens, the air explodes with a symphony of color and fragrance. Lush greenery stretches forever, punctuated by vibrant blooms that paint the landscape in a riotous palette. Towering trees whisper secrets on the breeze. This, this is what I came for. Filming for the channel is easy – my viewers will love this virtual tour of Greek flora. Exotic flowers beckon with intricate petals, their intoxicating scent filling the air. I zoom in on a stand of gladiolus, their purple spikes contrasting with the vibrant blooms. Asters peek through a sea of lilies, already blooming in early September – early bloomers it seems. Larkspur and a valley of roses create a rainbow of color, while delicate pink and yellow begonias encircle mounds of bear's breech, a flower steeped in Greek mythology. Butterflies flit like jewels amongst the blossoms, catching the sunlight. My camera pans the gardens, landing on a man in a light blue hoodie – staring, not at anything in particular. A cascading waterfall in front of him. A prickle crawls up my neck. The idyllic scene sours. We're being watched. I glance around, catching glimpses of the man, always seeming to hide his face just as I turn. I see him punching into his phone and then raising his phone to us. Is he taking pictures of us? An icy dread washes over me. "Brock," I whisper urgently, "we need to get out of here. Now." Brock follows my gaze, his face hardening as he spots the figure. He grabs my hand, leading us away from the tranquil beauty now tainted with fear. As we retreat to the safety of the car, the weight of the unknown hangs heavy. Our idyllic vacation has been shattered, replaced by a creeping sense of danger. “Did you notice the guy taking photos of us?” I say as we get back into the car. “Yeah, it’s definitely weird.” “It’s more than weird, it’s creepy. Who would do that and why?” “No clue, Trice. But I’m starving and I don’t see anyone around, so let’s go get some dinner.” We lose ourselves in the city, finding a charming diner with a view of the glistening Mediterranean. Blue skies, bright sunshine, the perfect postcard scene. We choose a table on the higher deck, snapping photos to send home. This, this is what our vacation should be about – red wine, Greek food, the sunset. The diner's decor throws us back in time. Bold blues and yellows adorn the walls, portraits of Greek scenes offer a glimpse into the past, and upbeat Greek music fills the air. We devour gyros and salad, finishing with a refreshing sorbet. Hand-in-hand, we walk the beach, the sun now a fading memory. The night chills us, a stark contrast to the day's heat. On the way back to the hotel, a flicker of movement in the side mirror catches my eye as we round a corner. Headlights. At first, I stop my pounding heart. There are other cars on the road besides us, I have to remind myself, but as we continue driving, the headlights become closer. "Brock…" "Yeah, I see it." His voice is a mixture of concern and frustration. "Let's see what they do," he says, accelerating. I'm thrown back in my seat, the seatbelt digging into my chest. "Brock, slow down! We're in Greece! We don't need to be speeding!" My voice cracks with panic. "The dead guy was bad enough. Let's not add police trouble to the list!" "Just gotta see their reaction," Brock mutters, pushing the car faster. One glance at the mirror confirms my worst fear – they're keeping pace. We're being chased. "Police station!" I shout, remembering Officer Lopez's lesson. Brock throws open the GPS, searching for the closest one. The chase continues until we turn into the bright lights of the station. Our pursuer hesitates, then disappears into the night. I barely catch a glimpse of the car before the darkness swallows it whole. "How did they know where we were?" Brock asks, parking in the hotel garage. My voice is a hollow echo. "No idea. Maybe we're just cursed." A horrifying thought creeps in. "Unless…" "Unless what?" Brock's eyes narrow. "This whole nightmare from last year… maybe Melanie isn't done." Brock lets out a frustrated sigh. "But how could she know about our trip? She's in New York." He's right. But someone is targeting us across the ocean. Here we are, in a foreign country, with no idea what's coming next, and absolutely no one to protect us. Unlike Utah, where we had Gray, the Chief of Police and friend for years, on our side. Here, we're alone. Unease coils around me. We came for a vacation, but we found a tangled web of danger instead. Sleep offers little solace tonight. Every creak of the floorboards sends a jolt through me. Brock tries to lighten the mood, cracking jokes about learning basic Greek phrases like "help" and "police" in case things escalate. But the humor falls flat. ************************************************************** The morning brings a decision. Do we continue playing tourist, pretending everything is normal, or do we confront the situation head-on? We discuss it over lukewarm coffee and stale bread in the hotel breakfast room, the chatter of other guests a distracting white noise. "We could try contacting the American embassy," Brock suggests. "But what would we say? 'Someone might be following us, but we have no idea who or why?'" I scoff. It sounds paranoid, even to my own ears. "Maybe there's a way to find out more about the dead guy from the hotel," I muse. "The police report, maybe? There could be a connection." Brock raises an eyebrow. "Are you suggesting we become amateur sleuths in a foreign country with limited Greek and zero police connections?" I shrug. "Desperate times call for desperate measures. Besides, wouldn't it be ironic if the key to unraveling this whole mess lies not in the gardens we fled, but in the very hotel room we're trying to escape?" A flicker of determination lights up Brock's eyes. "Alright," he says, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Let's see what trouble we can find." Our "investigation" starts with a friendly conversation with the cleaning lady. Her broken English and our limited Greek create a hilarious communication barrier, but with a combination of charades and persistence, we manage to convey our interest in the deceased bellhop. Her response sends a fresh wave of unease crashing over me. It seems the dead man wasn't just a random bellhop. He was on his way to deliver a package to a specific room number – ours. The cleaning lady's revelation hangs thick in the air. A package intended for us was intercepted by death. My mind races, possibilities swirling in a dizzying vortex. Frustration bubbles through me, as I battle a rising tide of fear. What was in that package? Who sent it? And why us? Plus, where is it now? "Room number?" Brock prompts, his gaze steady despite the tremor in my voice. The cleaning lady nods vigorously, muttering a string of Greek words that sounds suspiciously like our room number. A confirmation. The package was meant for us. A plan begins to form in my mind, a risky yet potentially crucial move. "We need to find out who was supposed to receive that package," I tell Brock, the urgency in my voice evident. "How?" His question echoes my own uncertainty. "The front desk," I say, my voice gaining conviction. "We can inquire about the guest who checked into our room before us. Maybe they left some forwarding information, or…" I trail off, a chilling possibility forming. "Maybe they didn't leave. Maybe the man at the gardens was the same one who killed the bellhop and the one who was chasing us." Brock nods, his face grim. "Let's go, but we need to tread carefully. We don't want to tip our hand if this person is still around." We head downstairs, apprehension simmering beneath the surface. The lobby is bustling with tourists, a stark contrast to the tense conversation we just had. Approaching the front desk, we try to appear nonchalant, two tourists with a casual inquiry. "Excuse me," I say to the receptionist, a young woman with a bright smile. "We were wondering if you could tell us anything about the guests who occupied our room before us?" Her smile falters for a brief moment, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her eyes. "Guests come and go all the time," she says politely, but her voice lacks the usual customer service cheer. "We understand," Brock interjects smoothly. "It's just that we noticed…" He trails off, searching for the right words. "Noticed what?" the receptionist prompts, her smile returning but not quite reaching her eyes. "There seems to be a bit of a draft coming from under the door," I lie, hoping to deflect suspicion. "We wondered if there might have been any maintenance on the room recently." The receptionist seems to buy it. She explains that routine maintenance was performed on all rooms before new guests arrived. Relief washes over me, a temporary reprieve. We thank her and head back to our room, disappointment gnawing at my gut. The dead-end at the front desk leaves us with more questions than answers. However, a new detail comes to mind, a glimmer of hope hidden within the receptionist's hesitation. The weight of the unknown hangs heavy, but a newfound resolve courses through me. We may be out of our depth, but we can't just sit here and wait for the other shoe to drop. Later that night, as the city sleeps and the only sound is the distant hum of traffic, a daring plan begins to take shape. It's risky, bordering on reckless, but it might be our only shot at uncovering the truth. Tomorrow, we pay the receptionist another visit. But this time, we won't be asking questions. We'll be making a move.

stir from my sleep, the soft light of dawn filtering through the curtains casting a warm glow over the room. Stretching lazily, I savor the quiet tranquility of the morning before the day's adventures begin. Opting for a refreshing shower to start the day, I make my way to the bathroom. The warm water cascades over me, washing away the remnants of sleep and invigorating my senses for the day ahead. After my shower, I select a breezy sundress in shades of blue and white, perfect for the balmy Greek weather. Slipping on a pair of comfortable sandals, I take a moment to admire myself in the mirror, feeling ready to embrace the day. Turning my attention to the task of unpacking, I begin to neatly fold my clothes and place them in the dresser. When I’ve unpacked, I roll the suitcase to the closet and open to door, but what greets me sends a blood-curdling scream from my lungs, piercing the air, sending shivers down my spine. Startled, Brock jolts awake, his eyes wide with alarm as he rushes to my side. "What's wrong?" he asks, his voice filled with concern. I point towards the closet, my hand trembling with fear. "There's...there's a body in there," I manage to stammer out, my heart racing in my chest. With a sense of dread, Brock approaches the closet and pulls open the door, revealing the lifeless form of a man sprawled on the floor. Shock washes over me as I take in the scene before me. Other than seeing a lifeless body is the closet, what is really odd is that one small begonia is stuffed in his mouth. “He’s the bellhop,” Brock whispers. As the reality of the situation sinks in, Brock and I exchange a look, knowing that our adventure in Greece has taken an unexpected and sinister turn, just as it had in the airport. And as we grapple with the shock of the discovery, I realize that our journey is far from over and our peaceful vacation is about to turn into a sea of questions and a trip down to the local police station – in Athens, Greece. A pounding on the door snaps me out of my trance. “Ma’am, hotel security here, are you OK?” A man’s voice in broken English calls out. I whisper, “What should we do?” “We have to let him in, Trice, and just tell him the truth.” I nod and take a deep breath, not knowing what our fate will reveal. As the shock of the discovery settles in, Brock opens the door to hotel security, their concerned expressions mirroring our own. They exchange a few hushed words with Brock before being granted entry. With a mixture of trepidation and relief, we step aside as the security personnel carefully assess the scene. Their professional demeanor is a reassuring presence in the midst of the chaos that has unfolded in our hotel room. After a thorough examination and the recalling of what I encountered once I finished unpacking, one of the security officers speaks up, his tone somber yet composed. "We'll need to notify the authorities immediately," he says, his voice carrying a weight of gravity. Brock nods in agreement, his jaw set with determination. "Of course," he replies, his gaze unwavering. "We'll cooperate fully with the police." As the security team makes arrangements to contact the authorities, a sense of unease settles over us. The reality of the situation is sinking in, and we know that we'll soon be faced with difficult questions and scrutiny. With a heavy heart, I turn to Brock, the gravity of our predicament weighing heavily upon us. "We'll get through this together," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. Brock nods, his expression resolute. "We will," he replies, his tone firm. "But first, we need to do everything we can to help the police with their investigation." As we await the arrival of the authorities, a sense of apprehension lingers in the air. Our adventure in Greece has taken another unexpected turn, and we can only hope that we'll emerge from this ordeal unscathed, but I don’t hold out much hope. What seems like forever, the police finally arrive at our hotel room. I remove my hands from my face as I stare into the eyes of a middle-aged Greek police officer. His demeanor tells me he’s not happy with tourists finding a dead body in their hotel room closet as he kneels down and examines the body, without touching it. A while later, the medical examiner is called in and he firmly tells us the man has been dead at least 12 hours. As I mentally calculate the time, I realize that when we got to the hotel room, he was already dead, in the closet. We fell asleep and it was nearly 9:00 when I woke up, so he had to have been killed while we were sitting in the bar drinking our wine. But who did it and why was he killed? And, more importantly, why was he killed in our hotel room? Goosebumps form on my arms as I wrap my arms around myself in an effort to calm my anxiety. A bomb threat hoax and now a dead bellhop in our closet – what next? “Sir, Madam, you will need to come with me. Put your hands behind your back.” The shock at what is transpiring leaves me speechless. “We did not have anything to do with his death. We were down at the bar when he was killed, 12 hours ago, according to the medical examiner,” Brocks says, not putting his hands behind his back. “It is protocol. You are a foreigner, and the hotel employee was killed in your room last night. Since we don’t have a suspect, we need to ask questions of the people who were in the room when he was discovered.” The Greek officer pulled out his cuffs and I notice a slight scar across his forehead. His dark hair mainly covers it, but it’s still slightly noticeable. His brown eyes look almost black as he furrows his brow, looking at Brock who still has his hands in front of him. “Sir, hands behind please.” “Is this an arrest? We will answer all the questions you have for us, but unless we are being charged with something, you cannot arrest us. I’m an attorney in America and know our rights, even in Greece.” A stare down begins and I silently plead with Brock to not stir up trouble. I need to support my husband though. “He’s right, Officer … “I say, prompting a name. “Officer Markopoulos.” I stifle a smile as I swear it sounded as if he said Marco Polo. “Right, Officer. My husband is not trying to be difficult, but I did do my research before arriving and unless we are being charged with a crime, you legally cannot arrest us.” Brock and I knew we had won when Officer Markopoulos put his handcuffs back inside his pocket. “Fine, you answer questions here.” We both nod. Officer Markopoulos’s stern gaze bores into me as he addresses us. "Tell me what happened before you discovered the body?" I swallow nervously, feeling the weight of his scrutiny. "Well, it all started when we arrived at the hotel earlier today. Everything seemed normal until this morning..." Interrupting, Markopoulos’s tone is firm. "What time was it when you made the discovery?" I glance at Brock, his expression mirroring my unease. "Around 9 a.m. I was unpacking my suitcase. When I was finished, I wheeled it over to store inside the closet and that is when I saw the dead body.” “I was asleep when I heard her scream. It jolted me awake and I and rushed to her,” Brock adds. “I am questioning the woman and then I will address you.” Markopoulos’s scrutiny deepens as he probes further. “The name is Patrice Summers.” Brock says with a curt tone, emphasizing our last name for effect. Officer Markopoulos ignored him and went on. "Did either of you notice anything unusual before the incident?" Brock hesitates before responding. "Not really. It all seemed pretty quiet." The officer's gaze intensifies. "Did either of you interact with the bellhop, or notice anyone else behaving suspiciously?" I shake my head. "We didn't interact with the bellhop directly, but I did see him briefly in the hallway yesterday. He seemed friendly enough." Marcopolous's tone remains stern as he concludes, "And did you notice anyone else in the vicinity around the time of the incident?" Brock shifts uncomfortably beside me. "No, it was pretty early, so the hallway was quiet." "Thank you for your cooperation," Marcopolous says crisply, his expression unreadable. "We may have more questions later on. In the meantime, please remain available in case we need to follow up." As the officer turns to leave, a knot of unease forms in the pit of my stomach. Our adventure in Greece has taken an unexpected turn, and I can't shake the feeling that things are about to get even more complicated. Just how was something that would haunt me.

I stir from my sleep, the soft light of dawn filtering through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the room. Stretching lazily, I savor the quiet tranquility of the morning before the day's adventures begin. Opting for a refreshing shower to start the day, I make my way to the bathroom. The warm water cascades over me, washing away the remnants of sleep and invigorating my senses for the day ahead. After my shower, I select a breezy sundress in shades of blue and white, perfect for the balmy Greek weather. Slipping on comfortable sandals, I take a moment to admire myself in the mirror, feeling ready to embrace the day. Turning my attention to the unpacking task, I fold my clothes and place them in the dresser neatly. When I’ve unpacked, I roll the suitcase to the closet and open the door, but what greets me sends a blood-curdling scream from my lungs, piercing the air and sending shivers down my spine. Startled, Brock jolts awake, his eyes wide with alarm as he rushes to my side. "What's wrong?" he asks, his voice filled with concern. I point towards the closet, my hand trembling with fear. "There's...there's a body in there," I manage to stammer out, my heart racing in my chest. With a sense of dread, Brock approaches the closet and pulls open the door, revealing the lifeless form of a man stuffed against the wall, his deep brown eyes and dark, curly black hair frozen in time. Shock washes over me as I take in the scene before me. Other than seeing a lifeless body in the closet, what is really odd is that a tiny begonia is stuffed in his mouth. “He’s the bellhop,” Brock whispers. As the reality of the situation sinks in, Brock and I exchange a look, knowing that our adventure in Greece has taken an unexpected and sinister turn, just as it had in the airport. And as we grapple with the shock of the discovery, I realize that our journey is far from over and our peaceful vacation is about to turn into a sea of questions and a trip down to the local police station – in Athens, Greece. A pounding on the door snaps me out of my trance. “Ma’am, hotel security here. Are you OK?” A man’s voice in broken English calls out. I whisper, “What should we do?” “We have to let him in, Trice, and tell him the truth.” I nod and take a deep breath, not knowing what our fate will reveal. As the shock of the discovery settles in, Brock opens the door to hotel security, their concerned expressions mirroring our own. They exchange a few hushed words with Brock before being granted entry. With a mixture of trepidation and relief, we step aside as the security personnel carefully assess the scene. Their professional demeanor is reassuring in the midst of the chaos that has unfolded in our hotel room. After a thorough examination and the recalling of what I encountered once I finished unpacking, one of the security officers speaks up, his tone somber yet composed. "We'll need to notify the authorities immediately," he says, his voice carrying a weight of gravity. Brock nods in agreement, his jaw set with determination. "Of course," he replies, his gaze unwavering. "We'll cooperate fully with the police." As the security team makes arrangements to contact the authorities, a sense of unease settles over me. The reality of the situation is sinking in, and I know that we'll soon be faced with difficult questions and scrutiny. With a heavy heart, I turn to Brock, the gravity of our predicament weighing heavily upon us. "We'll get through this together," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. Brock nods, his expression resolute. "We will," he replies, his tone firm. "But first, we must do everything we can to help the police with their investigation." As we await the authorities' arrival, a sense of apprehension lingers in the air. Our adventure in Greece has taken another unexpected turn, and we can only hope that we'll emerge from this ordeal unscathed. However, I don’t hold out much hope. After what seems like forever, the police finally arrive at our hotel room. I remove my hands from my face as I stare into the eyes of a middle-aged Greek police officer. His demeanor tells me he’s not happy with tourists finding a dead body in their hotel room closet as he kneels and examines the body without touching it. A while later, the medical examiner is called in, and he firmly tells us the man has been dead for at least 12 hours. As I mentally calculate the time, I realize that when we got to the hotel room, he was already dead in the closet. We fell asleep and it was nearly 9:00 when I woke up, so he had to have been killed while we were sitting in the bar drinking our wine. But who did it, and why was he killed? And, more importantly, why was he killed in our hotel room? Goosebumps form on my arms as I wrap my arms around myself to calm my anxiety. A bomb threat hoax and now a dead bellhop in our closet – what next? “Sir, Madam, you will need to come with me. Put your hands behind your back.” The shock at what is transpiring leaves me speechless. “We did not have anything to do with his death. We were down at the bar when he was killed, 12 hours ago, according to the medical examiner,” Brocks says, not putting his hands behind his back. “It is protocol. You are a foreigner, and the hotel employee was killed in your room last night. Since we don’t have a suspect, we need to ask questions of the people who were in the room when he was discovered.” The Greek officer pulled out his cuffs and I notice a slight scar across his forehead. His dark hair mainly covers it, but it’s still slightly noticeable. His brown eyes look almost black as he furrows his brow, looking at Brock who still has his hands in front of him. “Sir, hands behind, please.” “Is this an arrest? We will answer all the questions you have for us, but you cannot arrest us unless we are being charged with something. I’m an attorney in America and know our rights, even in Greece.” A stare-down begins, and I silently plead with Brock not to stir up trouble. I need to support my husband, though. “He’s right, Officer … “I say, prompting a name. “Officer Markopoulos.” I stifle a smile as I swear it sounded like he said Marco Polo. “Right, Officer. My husband is not trying to be difficult, but I did do my research before arriving, and unless we are being charged with a crime, you legally cannot arrest us.” Brock and I knew we had won when Officer Markopoulos put his handcuffs back inside his pocket. “Fine, you answer questions here.” We both nod. Officer Markopoulos’s stern gaze bores into me as he addresses us. "Tell me what happened before you discovered the body?" I swallow nervously, feeling the weight of his scrutiny. "Well, it all started when we arrived at the hotel earlier today. Everything seemed normal until this morning..." Interrupting, Markopoulos’s tone is firm. "What time was it when you made the discovery?" I glance at Brock, his expression mirroring my unease. "Around 9 a.m. I was unpacking my suitcase. When I was finished, I wheeled it over to store it inside the closet and that is when I saw the dead body.” “I was asleep when I heard her scream. It jolted me awake, and I rushed to her,” Brock adds. “I am questioning the woman, and then I will address you.” Markopoulos’s scrutiny deepens as he probes further. “The name is Patrice Summers,” Brock says curtly, emphasizing our last name for effect. Officer Markopoulos ignored him and went on. "Did either of you notice anything unusual before the incident?" Brock hesitates before responding. "Not really. It all seemed pretty quiet." The officer's gaze intensifies. "Did either of you interact with the bellhop or notice anyone else behaving suspiciously?" I shake my head. "We didn't interact with the bellhop directly, but I did see him briefly in the hallway yesterday. He seemed friendly enough." Marcopolous's tone remains stern as he concludes, "And did you notice anyone else in the vicinity around the time of the incident?" Brock shifts uncomfortably beside me. "No, it was pretty early, so the hallway was quiet." "Thank you for your cooperation," Marcopolous says crisply, his expression unreadable. "We may have more questions later on. In the meantime, please remain available if we need to follow up." As the officer turns to leave, a knot of unease forms in the pit of my stomach. Our adventure in Greece has taken an unexpected turn, and I can't shake the feeling that things are about to get even more complicated. So much for a relaxing vacation.

The wait is over! Patrice and Brock find themselves in Athens, Greece, when a bomb threat is called in and chaos reigns. The Summers can't catch a break. Déjà vu creeps up, and Trice and her husband Brock are again caught up in another mystery. However, now the danger becomes like a familiar record she can't quite recall. Are they being targeted again? Will the events in Greece spell out doom for the couple, or will more puzzle pieces slowly come together to reveal a shocking conclusion that no one saw coming. Chapter One: Welcome to Greece The announcement crackled through the PA system, its cheerfulness replaced by a monotone that sent a shiver down my spine. "Attention. Due to a security concern, the airport has been placed on lockdown. Please stay calm and follow the instructions of airport security." Brock's hand tightened around mine, his knuckles turning white. The once vibrant chaos of Athens International dissolved into a scene straight out of a nightmare. Whispers morphed into panicked murmurs, eyes darted wildly, and the air crackled with unspoken fear. Trapped in a sea of frantic humanity, we huddled in a dimly lit corner. The warmth of the Greek sun mocked us through the terminal windows, highlighting the chilling reality of our situation. Sirens wailed in the distance, a mournful symphony playing out the unknown danger lurking just beyond the walls. "This can't be happening," I murmured, my voice tight with disbelief. We were supposed to be on vacation, a chance to put the last year behind us. Now, fate had thrown us into the heart of a nightmare - again. Brock, ever the pragmatist, scanned the crowd. "We can't sit here," he said, his voice low and urgent. "We need to find a way out, get a sense of what's happening." The official exit was undoubtedly sealed. A desperate plan flickered in my mind - a back exit, a hidden passage, anything to escape the suffocating panic. We weaved through the throng, searching for a flicker of hope, a hint of escape in the concrete labyrinth. Suddenly, a commotion erupted further down the corridor. People surged forward, voices rising in a cacophony of fear. Adrenaline coursing through my veins, we pushed towards the source of the disturbance. There, a frantic woman, her words tumbling out in a torrent of accented Greek, said one word I could understand. "Bomb!" Brock cut through the panic, his voice a steady anchor in the storm. "Calm down, ma'am. We'll get help. Do you know anything about the situation?" The woman shook her head, tears welling in her eyes. A hollow feeling settled in my stomach.  This wasn't a simple security check. This was a calculated act, a sinister game with innocent lives as pawns. The weight of this realization pressed down on us. We needed answers. We needed to act. With a shared glance, a silent agreement passed between us. We wouldn't wait to be rescued. We were going to take matters into our own hands. If I learned one thing from when Troy and Goldie were murdered, it’s that the police are never there when you need them. "We split up," Brock declared, his voice resolute. "Gather information, find anything that might be useful." The labyrinthine corridors swallowed me whole, each echoing footstep amplifying the oppressive silence. Approaching a group of airport staff huddled around a flickering monitor, I ventured a question. "What's happening? Is there a bomb?" Met with a wary response and a mumbled assurance of "all hands on deck," I knew the official channels wouldn't provide the desperately needed answers. As I rounded a corner, breathless and frustrated, I spotted Brock. Relief washed over me, momentarily overshadowed by the grim expression on his face. "There are rumors," he said, his voice low. "Suspicious package near a departure gate. Unconfirmed, but..." The unspoken implication hung heavy in the air. Our vacation had become a desperate race against time, a twisted scavenger hunt with potentially deadly consequences. Our quest led us toward the rumored departure gate, each step fueling a burgeoning sense of dread. But the true danger, we soon realized, wasn't the bomb itself. It was the unseen forces orchestrating this chaos, the phantoms lurking in the shadows, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. As we ventured deeper into the airport's underbelly, the air grew thick with secrets and unseen eyes. We were no longer just tourists caught in a security lockdown. We were about to become unwilling players in a game far more dangerous than we could have ever imagined. My heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs as I inched closer to the huddle of airport staff. Their faces, etched with worry, were illuminated by the flickering glow of a nearby monitor. Straining to hear their hushed conversation, I took a deep breath and forced my voice into a semblance of calm. "Excuse me," I interjected, my words scraping against the tense silence. "Do you have any updates on the bomb threat?" The staff members flinched, their eyes darting toward me before settling on my face with a mixture of suspicion and exhaustion. A weary-looking woman with a badge that read "Eleni" finally spoke. "We're still trying to get a handle on things, ma'am," she said, her voice tight. "Everyone's stretched thin right now. Please, just stay calm and stay put in the designated areas." Her answer was frustratingly vague, offering little solace. All I could do was nod curtly, disappointment gnawing at me. The once bustling corridors were eerily silent, the usual symphony of announcements and greetings replaced by a suffocating stillness. Rounding a corner, I spotted Brock up ahead, his tall frame easily visible amongst the throng of anxious passengers. Relief washed over me, momentarily dissolving the knot of tension in my stomach. He was gesturing towards me, urging me to join him. "Trice," he said, a hint of urgency in his voice, "these folks might have some information." A middle-aged man stepped forward, his face creased with worry lines. His rumpled suit and loosened tie spoke of a long journey. "We heard whispers," he began, his voice thick with a Mediterranean accent, "about a suspicious package near one of the departure gates. A male called in and warned that if anyone left, the bomb would detonate in a few minutes. Not confirmed, mind you, but it could be something." Brock listened intently, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Thank you for letting us know," he said, his voice firm. "We'll pass this information on." A renewed sense of purpose sparked within me. We had a lead, a glimmer of hope amidst the chaos. Together, we set off once more, the weight of the situation pressing down on us. This wasn't just a bomb threat anymore. This was a race against time, a desperate hunt for answers in the labyrinthine heart of the airport. With each step, the air grew heavier, the shadows stretching longer. An unsettling realization began to dawn on me - we weren't the only ones playing this game, and the true danger lurked not in the potential bomb but in the darkness itself. Flickering lights played on panicked faces, the vacation dream morphing into a waking nightmare. It’s only just begun.