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

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

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

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

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

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.