Search Results

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.

Karl Gabriel, husband to the widowed Viktoria Gabriel, vanished into the fog of war during the tumult of the First World War. Officially reported dead after a shell attack in Arras, France, his body remained a ghostly absence, never recovered from the battlefield's grasp. However, whispers lingered in the wake of the Hinterkaifeck murders, casting doubt upon Karl's supposed demise. In the absence of her husband, Viktoria bore a son, Josef, under the shadow of whispered rumors. Gossips in the village speculated that Josef's origins were shrouded in a dark secret — a supposed relationship between Viktoria and her own father, Andreas, tinged with allegations of sexual abuse. These scandalous murmurs, documented in court records and known throughout the community, painted a haunting portrait of familial betrayal and forbidden desire. Andreas, accused of unspeakable acts, stood convicted by the town, his perverse actions exposing a dark underbelly hidden within the walls of their once seemingly peaceful village. Rumors swirled like specters in the night, suggesting Karl may have eluded death on the battlefield, returning to cast a shadow over the village once more. Viktoria's son, Josef, born in Karl's absence, bore the weight of speculation, whispered to be the product of an illicit union between Viktoria and her own father, Andreas. In the hushed corners of the village, the echoes of a sordid past reverberated, etching a tale of forbidden secrets into the fabric of the community. As the fog of war lifted with the end of the Second World War, whispers of a shadowy figure emerged from the darkness of Soviet captivity. War captives from Schrobenhausen claimed to have encountered a German-speaking Soviet officer who bore the sinister aura of the Hinterkaifeck murderer. Some dared to suggest that this enigmatic figure could be none other than Karl Gabriel, drawn to the distant lands of Russia by unknown motivations. In the aftermath of the murders, suspicion fell like a shroud upon Lorenz Schlittenbauer, a man entangled in the web of tragedy and intrigue. Bereft of his first wife and rumored to have shared an intimate connection with Viktoria Gabriel, Schlittenbauer became a figure of suspicion in the eyes of his neighbors. His actions on the night of the discovery raised eyebrows and questions alike. As he and his companions stumbled upon the scene of horror, Schlittenbauer's behavior struck a discordant note. Breaking through locked gates to enter the barn, he then ominously retreated into the darkness of the farmhouse alone, wielding a key that had mysteriously disappeared days prior. His cryptic remarks hinted at knowledge beyond the reach of mere speculation, igniting suspicion among the villagers. Yet, Schlittenbauer's shadow loomed large over Hinterkaifeck, fueled by unsettling encounters and whispered secrets. A chance meeting at the site of the demolished farm, his words laden with eerie familiarity with the crime scene, sent shivers down the spines of those who dared to delve into the mystery. Was he a harbinger of justice or a puppeteer pulling the strings of deceit? As the whispers of suspicion echoed through the cobblestone streets of Hinterkaifeck, the truth remained elusive, concealed within the fog of uncertainty. Karl Gabriel and Lorenz Schlittenbauer — two figures entwined in the tapestry of tragedy — cast shadows that stretched far beyond the confines of the village. Their stories, veiled in mystery and shrouded in doubt, linger as enduring enigmas, beckoning intrepid souls to uncover the secrets that lie buried in the heart of darkness.

In the desolate embrace of the Bavarian countryside, a shadow settled over Hinterkaifeck. Whispers of the occult swirled around the isolated farmstead, where the maid fled in terror from unseen sounds in the attic, a phantom newspaper materialized from a distant city, and chilling footprints materialized in the snow, leading to a broken lock. Was it a malevolent spirit or something far more human lurking in the darkness? Days bled into weeks, anxiety tightening its grip on the Gruber family. Footsteps echoed in the dead of night, yet searches yielded nothing. Unease turned to dread when young Cäzilia confided in her friend about her mother's desperate flight into the forest, shrouded in the secrecy of a violent quarrel. Did Viktoria stumble upon a truth too horrifying to face, or was her disappearance a harbinger of the tragedy to come? Then, a new face arrived. The unsuspecting young maid, Maria, became the unwitting bridge between life and oblivion. As shadows lengthened on March 31st, 1922, a macabre dance of death unfolded. One by one, the Grubers were lured to the barn, their pleas silenced by the brutal blows of a mattock. But the killer's hunger wasn't sated. Returning to the house, they stalked the sleeping Josef and Maria, extinguishing their lives with chilling efficiency. The farmhouse became a tomb for three days, the living mingling with the dead. Smoke curled from the chimney; meals were eaten, and fires stoked – all by unseen hands. Was it one deranged mind or a chilling conspiracy? Did they flee into the night or vanish like smoke, leaving behind an enigma etched in blood and whispers? Hinterkaifeck stands as a chilling testament to the darkness that can lurk in the human heart. The truth remains buried beneath Bavarian soil, a mystery as captivating as it is terrifying. Will you dare to unravel its secrets, or will you fade into the chilling silence like the footsteps in the attic? What Really Happened? The shadows cast by the Hinterkaifeck murders stretch long and twisted, riddled with inconsistencies that whisper of a deeper mystery. Though the official report claims the family was lured to their deaths by restless animals, an unsettling truth hides in the silence of the barn – its walls cannot harbor the echo of human screams. Then, amidst the chilling void, a flickering light. A lone artisan stumbles upon a fire burning in the murdered family's hearth, its smoke carrying a stench that twists the stomach. But who stoked the flames? Why did their whispers of investigation die on the wind? The whispers take a darker turn as figures dance at the edge of the forest, cloaked in the veil of a moonless night. Witness to their silent movements, a farmer shudders, recognizing the specters in the news – the ghosts of Hinterkaifeck. Could their secrets lie buried beneath the whispering pines? Madness itself seems to echo the murders' chilling song. A stranger, consumed by the darkness, confesses in the dead of night, only to vanish like smoke from a dying fire. His identity, lost in the shadows, fuels the flames of paranoia. The Hinterkaifeck murders remain an enigma, a puzzle with missing pieces that whisper of unseen hands and secrets guarded by the darkness. Each inconsistency, each unanswered question, is a chilling invitation to peer deeper into the abyss, where the truth may lie, waiting to be unearthed... if you dare to listen.

As investigators combed through the aftermath of the Hinterkaifeck Murders, a chilling landscape of clues and unanswered questions unfolded. The farmhouse, now a crime scene, whispered secrets that seemed to elude rational explanation. The Crime Scene : The Gruber family and their maid, Maria Baumgartner, were found brutally bludgeoned in the barn, their bodies arranged in a horrifying tableau. Oddly, a gruesome detail puzzled investigators — it appeared the killer had stayed on the farm for days after the murders. Food from the pantry had been consumed, and witnesses in the nearby village reported seeing smoke from the chimney during that time. The Mysterious Footprints The Absent Neighbors The Inexplicable Motive: The Supernatural Theories: Witness Testimonies: As the investigation unfolded, the shadow of suspicion deepened, and the once-quiet village of Hinterkaifeck found itself caught in a crime that defied resolution. "Whispers in the Bavarian Wind" invites you to explore the enigma that continues to haunt the legacy of the Hinterkaifeck Murders, where the past remains entwined with the shadows of an unsolved mystery.

As promised, here is the chilling true crime story of the Hinterkaifeck Murders. I will set the scene and then, each day, unravel the story and what is known now. Feel free to comment, share, like, etc., to get the conversation going. If you know any details I still need to cover, please comment below. Without further ado ... In the tranquil hamlet of Hinterkaifeck, nestled in the rolling hills of Bavaria, Germany, an unspeakable tragedy unfolded in 1922, leaving a community haunted by whispers of a crime that defied explanation. "Whispers in the Bavarian Wind" unravels the chilling true story of the Hinterkaifeck Murders, a tale that continues to send shivers down the spines of those who dare to delve into its enigmatic depths. The Gruber family, comprising Andreas Gruber, his wife Cäzilia, their daughter Viktoria, and her two children, Cäzilia and Josef, led a quiet life on their secluded farmstead. Yet, the tranquility of Hinterkaifeck would soon be shattered by an unseen malevolence. Strange occurrences plagued the Gruber farm in the weeks leading up to the tragedy — unexplained footsteps in the snow, creaking floorboards, and unsettling noises echoing through the house. The family became increasingly unnerved, suspecting an intruder, but their fears were dismissed as mere paranoia. On a fateful night in March 1922, the veil between the mundane and the macabre was violently torn. The entire Gruber family, along with the maid, Maria Baumgartner, met a gruesome end at the hands of an unknown assailant. The murders were as brutal as they were mysterious, with the killer seemingly residing on the farm for days after the crime. As investigators descended upon Hinterkaifeck, they were met with a chilling tableau. The farmstead bore witness to the unspeakable — the victims seemingly lured into the barn, one by one, and brutally slain. The motive remained elusive, and the identity of the perpetrator obscured in the shadows of speculation. The whispers of Hinterkaifeck persist to this day as theories and conjectures swirl around the motives and potential suspects. From the supernatural to the deeply rooted secrets within the Gruber family, the truth remains elusive, leaving an indelible mark on this once-serene Bavarian village. "Whispers in the Bavarian Wind" invites you to step into the past, where the echoes of a heinous crime still resonate through time. Brace yourself for a journey into the heart of darkness, as the Hinterkaifeck Murders reveal a chilling enigma that continues to defy resolution. This is the first installment of the True Crime Story of The Hinterkaifeck Murders in Bavaria, Germany. Go back in time to 1922 when a family is murdered in their barn, and the clues are so bizarre, you would have to dispel all subscriptions to understand.  Like, comment, share, and join my newsletter, Musings & Mysteries, where I post chapters and discussions on true crime. If you love gardening or want to learn how, join my Gardening Tips & Tricks group, which will be picking back up again in March 2024! Want someplace to vent with job stuff? Come on over to Job Support, Sucks, and Successes! Visit my website @ jewelswrites.blogspot.com , and if you're passionate about sales and can work 100% commission, with monthly revenue tied in, and live in the USA, DM me!

My toes curl against the couch and as I watch Brock scroll through his phone, oblivious to the storm brewing within me. 9:00, then 9:10, the minutes bleed into agonizingly long ticks as my heart hammers against my ribs like a desperate bird trapped in a cage. Then, when I thought they wouldn't show at all, a sharp rap against the door shatters the tension. It's nearly 10:00. Brock's head snaps up, his eyes flashing to me, a silent question. I'm not the only one on edge. Herc, our normally placid mutt, whines from the foot of the couch, hackles raised like a frightened porcupine. "They're really late," Brock mutters, checking his watch. He rises, a hand hovering near my shoulder, offering unspoken reassurance. My fingers itch to grasp it, anchor myself to his calm, but my limbs feel frozen. As I unlock the door, a grim picture unfolds. Not Gray and Lopez. Holder, his familiar face twisted into a mask of cold calculation, a gun glinting in his hand. My breath catches in my throat, the world narrowing to the glint of metal and the dark abyss of his eyes. He's in all black. "Officer," my voice sounds foreign, brittle. But Brock is beside me, a buffer against the icy dread. "So, you know." It was a statement. A humorless smile plays on Holder's lips. "Oh, yes, I know, Trice. But not in the way you intended." His gaze flicks to Brock, then back to me, lingering on the fear I can't hide. "Couldn't keep your nose out of my business, could you?" Brock puts a hand on my arm, a steady rock in the storm. "Not sure what you're talking about, Officer." His voice is smooth, a lawyer's practiced calm masking the storm brewing beneath. Holder scoffs. "Don't play dumb with me. I'm a cop, remember? Look, whatever you think is going on, it's not. You don't know the real story." "Okay, then tell us," Brock counters, voice unwavering. "But standing there with a gun pointed at us in the open doorway isn't exactly a smart move. Chief and Lopez are on their way." A slow, chilling grin spreads across Holder's face. "No, they're not." He waves the gun, casting an ominous shadow across the room. "They had, shall we say, a little blowout. They will be a while. And no, I didn't kill them. Also, before I was a cop, I sold cameras. Yep, even the tiny ones you found in your home. And the ones you, well, I, didn't. The ones I hid without any of you knowing." Herc growls, low and menacing, echoing the fear clawing at my insides. I kneel, burying my face in his fur, seeking solace in his warm, solid presence. "Get your mutt under control," Holder snarls, but his voice lacks conviction. Brock's hand tightens on my arm, a silent message: stay quiet. The next few minutes are a blur of adrenaline and whispered threats. Holder, a predator circling his prey, his words dripping with venomous intent. His plan, diabolical in its simplicity, lays bare: a diversion, a false trail, and us, trapped like flies in a spider's web. And then, a detail, innocuous, almost inconsequential. The scent of Brock's cologne, faint but familiar, wafting from Holder's hair. My head snaps up, a new wave of terror drowning the old. The fourth camera, the one Brock hadn't found, the one tucked away in the sanctuary of our bathroom. My eyes meet Brock's, a silent exchange, a desperate plan forming in the shared flicker of understanding. As Holder rambles on, the gun swaying in his hand, a fragile dance of life and death, I know this isn't the end. It's just the beginning of a game, a deadly game where the stakes are our lives, and the prize, our freedom. The game has changed, and we're ready to play. My blood runs cold as Holder’s smug laughter washes over me. He knows everything. Our trap, Gray’s involvement, even our hushed conversation in the living room – confirmed by the faint trace of Brock’s cologne clinging to him. Panic prickles at my scalp, but I force it down. We have to think, to keep him talking. “Yeah, Gray lured me to the basement to catch my reaction, and so I played right into his hands.” I had to keep him talking. “How did you meet Troy?” He snickers. “In Vegas. We both had an, shall I say, obsession with gambling. It turned into something bigger and better, but if I tell you everything, well then, I’d have to kill you, so that’s all you need to know. Now,” he smacks the couch and I jump. “We need to head on over to your neighbors and grab my future. Once I’m long gone with the goods, you can go running to Gray, unless he meets us here first, in which case, if he tries and stops me, I’ll shoot you both. You might want to ring him and prevent that.” I fumble around my pocket to pull out my phone. My finger is shaking as I punch in Gray’s number. “Hey, Trice. Sorry, we had some tire troubles.” “Oh, okay. Do what you need to. It may be hours before he shows up anyway. Plus, I have a migraine, so maybe hold off coming for a while.” I hold Holder’s gaze and sneer at him. I wait and he says, “Are you OK?” It’s like a broken record of the many times he’s asked me that over the last year, but this time, I must lie to him. “Yes.” And then I think of a code phrase that we came up with months ago for when I was in danger. “Don’t worry.” “Got it.” He hung up. “That’s good,” Holder says. “I’m impressed.” “Listen, can we just get on with this?” Brock says. “Of course. Don’t want you two to stay up past your bedtime.” I would love to strangle him, but I keep my composure. He gets up. “Let’s go. Oh, and hands up and all that.” I raise my hands and Brock follows suit. Herc has been staring down Holder this whole time and he gets up and tries to step between Holder and me. “Put the dog somewhere. I would hate for an accident to occur.” “Come on Herc.” He follows me to his crate, and I have to cajole him in, nearly pushing him inside. I close it and whisper, “We’ll be back.” I hug him and hope I’m right. “All right then, lead the way.” Brock and I get up first, then Holder’s behind us. I feel a jab in my back and know it’s the gun. Brock opens the door and we both walk out. The air is a little cool, the wind picking up. I shiver, as I look at Brock. He’s staring straight ahead, no expression. I adjust my eyes to the darkness but wish we had some light in which to see. The streetlight’s a few houses down and although I see light coming from Leah’s home across the street, is faint like the little lamp she keeps on for when she’s gone. No other light is visible in other homes. But then, it was probably 10:00 by now and people are in bed, either unwinding or going to sleep. We get to the neighbors, and since we have to get in through the window, I dread having to climb the fence. The last time, I sprained my ankle. “Just answer one thing,” I say, taking a chance. “Why did Troy hide the drugs and money in our shed as well as his basement?” “Why do you think? He wanted a little extra for himself, the little prick. We were supposed to split it fifty-fifty until he started getting greedy. He kept changing it. Before he died, he was only willing to give 20%, said it was because he was taking all the risk. I didn’t know about your shed until we all showed up that morning. I hired someone to grab it for me, but then he ended up dead and here we are. Karma came back and bit Troy in the ass, though, so now I get it all,” he said, emphasizing all. “Pretty smart,” Brock chimes in. “Enough talk. Okay, time to climb. Hubby goes first, but don’t try anything. Me and Trice here don’t want to part ways in an unfortunate incident.” He called me Trice?? “I got it,” Brock says, his voice tight. I squint to see Brock scale the vinyl fence, getting a foothold and hoisting himself over it. “Okay, your turn,” he turns to me. I grab hold on one of the posts for support and do the same as Brock, slipping a bit before getting good traction and getting to the top. I then slide down the other side. “You alright?” Brock says, looking down at my leg. “Yeah.” I say and then whisper, “Do you think he’ll kill us?” “Not if we do everything right. Follow my lead.” A minute later, Holder is over the fence, and we walk to the window, the perfect height and width to climb through. Brock slides it open and again follows the same pattern as we did the fence. We get inside and it’s darker than outside. “Vegas, huh?” I throw out, feigning curiosity. His eyes glint, relishing the spotlight. He spins a yarn of shared gambling thrills, of an alliance with Troy that morphed into something more sinister. Each word drips with menace, a twisted confession that hangs heavy in the air. Suddenly, the room feels like a pressure cooker. His hand smacks the couch, jolting me from my mental paralysis. “Time to collect my prize,” he declares, voice like ice cracking. The threat of our neighbors’ home, of Troy’s hidden stash, looms large. My mind scrambles for escape, for some crack in his facade. He shoves us towards the stairs, the cold kiss of metal biting into my back. We have to move, to act before Holder’s impatience boils over. But where do we go? How do we outwit a viper in his own den? The weight of responsibility, of Brock’s life hanging in the balance, threatens to crush me. But I won’t. We won’t. In the suffocating darkness, a spark of defiance ignites. We have each other, and that, somehow, feels like a weapon, a shard of hope against the encroaching darkness. We press on, deeper into the unknown, ready to face whatever awaits together. The harsh glare of the overhead light slices through the darkness, momentarily blinding as we blink away the shadows. Holder grins, the glint of metal at my back a chilling reminder of our precarious situation. "Okay, let's get this over with," he growls, shoving the gun barrel harder into my ribs. "Grab the drum, Brock." My husband hesitates, a silent defiance flashing in his eyes before it's swallowed by resignation. He pulls the heavy steel drum out from beneath the workbench, the metal groaning its protest. Each thud feels like a drumbeat against my own racing heart. Holder saunters over, the gun wobbling slightly in his hand. "Let's make sure it's all still there," he sneers. "Open it." Brock's hands tremble as he pries the lid loose. Money spills out, showering the dusty floor in a glittering cascade. Brick-like bags of drugs nestle amidst the bills, a silent testament to Troy's ill-gotten gains. Holder's lips curl into a satisfied smirk. "Good. Let's get it through the window. Once it's in my truck, I disappear, and you two can pretend this never happened." As if erasing the past year of nightmares, of fear and paranoia, were as simple as shutting a door. Brock shoves the drum towards the window, muscles straining against the weight. It's too much, the air filling with his ragged breaths. My blood pressure skyrockets, mirroring his struggle. "Seems you need some weight training," I snarl, a bitter joke biting through the tension. His eyes flash towards me, the familiar annoyance at my teasing replaced by a cold, calculating anger. "Now, Trice," he barks, voice dripping with venom, "you go first." My name, twisted on his tongue, feels like a fresh wound. "You don't have the right to call me that," I whisper, defiance blooming in my chest like a poisonous flower. "I'll call you whatever the hell I want," he snarls, the gun barrel nudging me towards the window. Gritting my teeth, I comply, clambering out into the cool night air. Every rustle of leaves, every whisper of wind, amplifies the fear buzzing beneath my skin. I wait, huddled in the shadows, as the drum groans under their combined weight. My breath hangs heavy in the air, punctuated by the tell-tale click of a car door unlocking. Just as my mind teeters on the edge of panic, two figures emerge from the darkness. Gray's silhouette, tall and unwavering, and Officer Lopez, her badge glinting faintly in the moonlight. My chest tightens, hope and fear warring within me. Will the scales of justice finally tip in our favor, or will darkness consume us whole? In the breathless silence, the answer hangs suspended, as fragile as a spiderweb, awaiting the slightest tremor to reveal its true strength. The next few minutes will determine our fate.

After Gray and Holder leave, I look at Brock and smile. “Did you see that excitement, the anticipation in his face? It’s him, Brock.” "It sure seems like it. And he will try and get the stash, if it’s there, before the department does, which means tonight.” “Yes, and Gray is obtaining the warrant to search the basement. It may take him a day, allowing Holder to head him off. We need to talk to the neighbors now and tell them what we and the police, don’t forget about that, suspects. We have them leave for the night, pay for a hotel, and keep a window slightly ajar or easy access for Holder to get in. We plant a tiny camera, like the ones Gray found here, to capture the whole scene.” “The rat gets trapped.” “Follow the smell,” I add a bit snarky. “Yep.” He winks. I contact Gray and tell him of our plan. “I like it. But I want to come with you when you talk to the neighbor. They will take it more seriously if it comes from a police officer.” “Fair enough. But we have to do it this evening.” “I agree. I’ll meet you here at 7:00. They should be home on a school night. Maybe the kids will be in bed or at least in their room. I’m getting a warrant signed soon by the judge.” I get off the phone with Gray. Now, we wait. Since we have hours to wait and I need something to occupy my time, I head out and get some spring plants. I’m still vigilant, checking my rearview and side mirror every minute or so on the way to the nursery. So far, so good. The perfect spring plants for our area are pansies, hyacinths, primrose, and tulips, daffodils, and crocus that come from bulbs. Since I already have a bunch of bulbs starting to come up, I wanted to add some plants as a border in my gardens. I find purple, pink, yellow, white, and peach colors that will complement the bulbs and head home to plant them. The weather is nice and even somewhat warm as it’s close to April. We can still get snow, but I’ll take the warmth. After spending the afternoon planting and taking my mind off tonight, I take some pics and record about 15 minutes of video for my YouTube channel. The colors blend nicely with my bulbs and I can see the gardens come alive. Later that evening after Brock and I have eaten, we wait for Brock. It’s nearing 7:00 and anxiety starts creeping into my stomach. This could go very wrong, but it’s the only way to catch Holder in the act. Gray shows up a little after 7:00 and we invite him in. He takes out a piece of paper. “Here’s the warrant. Are you ready to do this?” “As ready as I’ll ever be,” Brock nods in agreement. “Okay. So, we’ll go over and I’ll present the warrant. Whatever we find, we need to ensure it can be readily available and even seen. The window will be left unlocked. I will plant a tiny camera somewhere inconspicuous and watch the basement at your home via my laptop. If he comes and finds the stash, I will call up Officer Lopez and we will make a quiet raid on him.” I nod, my hands feeling clammy and cold. When I watch this type of thing go down on TV, I know it’s not real, but now that it’s happening next door, it’s a little unnerving. I grab a jacket and bend down and pet Herc, telling him to stay here and watch the house for us. He whines a little but stays back when we open the door. The night air is a little cool but otherwise clear. The sun is going down, a perfect time, as the darker it gets, the more Holder will take advantage of the cover. When we get to the door, Gray knocks and announces his name and rank. The door opens and a woman of about thirty stands with a little boy in her arms. Her brown hair is pulled into a messy ponytail, and she looks haggard, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt. Her green eyes match that of her son. “Hi, ma’am, we don’t mean to bother you,” Gray says. “I have a warrant to search the basement.” “My basement?” She looks alarmed. “We have reason to believe that there may be drugs or money stashed in the basement from the previous owner. He was a drug dealer before leaving the home and left some of his stash in your neighbor’s shed.” He motions to Brock and I. “We think he used two places to hide the drugs.” “Seriously?” She looks like she’s done for the day as I heard yelling in the background and saw two other kids running past the hall. “You’d better not be running,” she says over her shoulder. The little boy in her arms starts whimpering. “Oh, not you, too.” She looks as if she’s about to cry. “Cory!” Her husband comes to the door. “What’s up, Camille?” He’s about six inches taller than her, with wavy brown hair and blue eyes. He looks fit, wearing a muscle shirt. He stuffs his hands in his pockets. Gray explains what we’re doing here again. “Damn, seriously? No wonder the price was so cheap." “We didn’t know and still don’t know if drugs are here, just a hunch. If we find them, we believe someone may try and break in to get them.” “What?” Camille’s eyes go wide. “We'll plant a camera where it can’t be seen, and we’ll be next door watching. If he opens up an unlocked window and finds the drugs, we can immediately be here to catch him. If you feel more comfortable leaving for the night, we will understand.” Brock watches their faces. I feel bad that he has to deal with this tonight. “I sure as hell am not staying here if some thug is going to try and steal drugs in the basement. I’ll call my parents and see if we can stay there for the night. They live in Salt Lake City,” Camille says. “How sure are you that drugs are in the basement?” Cory adds. “We aren’t, but why would this person hide drugs in a neighbor’s shed when he had plenty of space in his own basement?” “Yeah, I guess that makes sense,” Cory says. “Please, come in,” Camille backs up and allows us in. “Let’s just see if the drugs are here before we do anything.” “That’s what we’re here for.” He produces the warrant and shows it to Camille and Cory. “Let me put a video on for the kids and put the baby down,” Camille says. “Cory can show you the basement.” We all follow Cory to the basement. I quickly glance in the foyer and the living room. The house looks very different than what Deanna and Troy had it. They used mainly browns and reds for their furniture with crème throw pillows and taupe walls, while Cory and Camille chose the lighter colors of blues and greens with accents of slate gray and white. Cory gets to the door and flicks on the light, illuminating the stairs - they're carpeted and the walls white. I don't what I'm expecting, but every time I watch a horror flick, the stairs always creak, as if one more person stepping down would collapse them, and the light is dim. We follow Cory down the steps. Deanna said Troy would finish the basement, but that never happened. “We don’t ever come down here. I thought one of these days, I would finish it, but with the way the economy is now, it may not be for years. The two boys sleep in one room, the girl in the other, and we take the third bedroom,” Cory explains as we get to the basement. I scan the area, trying to find a place where Troy would have hidden the drugs. “Well, there’s not much here,” Brock states the obvious. Other than sheetrock and concrete and the furnace and water heater in the corner, I can’t see anywhere else Troy would have stashed drugs. A window at the back catches my attention. It’s large enough for someone to climb through, perfect. Another smaller window in the corner lets in some sunshine and is much smaller. We split up and search the area. It’s good-sized but empty. I suddenly feel like an idiot thinking Troy could hide anything here, let alone drugs and possibly money. Just as I’m about to say something, I notice a cylindrical object tucked under the stairs. I walk over, peer under it, and see a steel drum in the shadows. “Hey, over here,” I wave everyone over. “There,” I point under the stairs. Gray kneels and pulls the drum out. It fit perfectly on its side, and no one would have noticed unless they were practically on their knees searching for it. He dons some gloves and opens the lid as we all look, anticipating what we’ll find. I’m the first one to gasp as I see stacks and stacks of bills piled on each other. And on the sides, little packets taped to the drum with white powder in them. “Jackpot,” Brock says. Cory lets out a small whistle. “You called it Trice, “Gray says. He pulls out his phone and takes snapshots of the drum and then the stash hidden inside. He then punches in a number. “Hey, Lopez, we found it.” He sticks his phone in his back pocket. “She’s dispatching Holder and they’re on their way. You and your family need to stay somewhere else for the night,” he says, turning to Cory. It was at this time that Camille came down the steps. “You found it.” She comes over and sees for herself. “Wow.” “We need to get the kids and head to your mom’s house,” Cory says. “I called and they said to come over.” Camille is still staring into the drum. “Okay, good. We need to make this drum a little more visible but not by much. We want Holder to see it and then gauge his reaction. Watch to see if he scans the area. If it’s him, he will come back later tonight, late, possibly. Keep all lights off and lock the doors so he thinks you’re sleeping. They’ll be here in ten minutes. Get a few things packed and head out.” Cory and Camille rush up the stairs and Gray closes the lid and slides it under the stairs, leaving the drum a little visible. “You two leave now and I’ll meet you at your house after Lopez and Holder have come. I will have Holder take photos and tell both that we’ll get the drug unit out to retrieve the drum in the morning. He will know he has tonight to get the drugs and money.” Brock and I leave while Gray stays, plants the camera, and waits for the officers to come. Camille and Cory are packing the kids in the car when we rush back to the house. The trap has been set.

I motion for her to follow me out back, away from the cameras. Grabbing a lawn chair, I invite her to sit. She slowly eases into the chair. After telling Leah everything I know, she sits speechless for a bit and then speaks. “I just can’t believe this is happening to you. And why would Troy use your shed to hide the drugs when he has a basement he could have hidden them in. And – ” "Hold on. You’re right. He does have a basement. Why would he choose our shed?" I try to wrap my brain around that question. “Could your shed have been a secondary place to stash the drugs and money and his basement the primary place?” My eyes widen in shock but then realize. “Oh my God, Leah. The basement has always been off-limits, Deanna told me. She said Troy was building something that might harm the kids, so he kept the door locked. Even Deanna didn’t have a key, which she thought was odd, she told me, what like 2 years or so ago. I didn’t prod because she was in a hurry – I was coming back from my walk and her to take the kids to school. She kept saying Troy’s been acting weird. Have you noticed? I said I hadn’t, but I also hadn’t seen him very often lately. It was a quick conversation. I think it was close to when the kids were getting out of school.” I wrack my brain for that memory to see if anything else pops out. “Trice, I hate to say this, but I bet the basement is where the rest of the drugs and maybe even money are hidden.” I yank my neck to the east, as if I could see through my walls and into the neighbor’s home. “We have to search it.” “We? Oh no, you’re not roping me into this again, and you shouldn’t do this either. Contact Gray and let the police handle it.” “How do I know I can trust them? Not Gray or Lopez, but Holder. Remember, he could be dirty. If I tell Gray and it somehow gets back to Holder, who's to say he won’t risk it and try to find the drugs himself and then kills us to tie up loose ends. But, no, I wouldn’t involve you. Brock and I will do it.” “How? People live there now. How are you going to get into their basement without getting caught? Trice, this is insane talk. It’s also quite a stretch to think there’s drugs and money stashed away.” I barely hear Leah as I concoct a plan I had to tell Brock about now. “Leah, sorry, but I need to talk to Brock.” “Trice … “came the warning voice. “Please, just don’t utter this to anyone, even Trevor.” “You know I have kept all your secrets, but this is so dangerous.” “I know, but I’m tired of waiting around for justice to make an entrance.” I lay back and close my eyes. “Lee, I want my life back. I want to see my kids and grandkids. I want to go outside and plant some colorful flowers and not be looking over my shoulder, wondering when we’re next, you understand?” She touches my shoulder. “Of course I do. I just worry about you. Please be careful.” “I will – we will. With Brock by my side, I know I’m safe, but should something – “ “Don’t say it.” “It’s a possibility. If it does happen, be our voice. Promise me,” “Trice …” “Promise me, Lee. You know everything. Everyone should know too.” Leah turns and hugs me tightly. “You know I will.” Tears slide down my face, and I hear Leah sniffling, and I know she’s crying too. “Thank you.” As soon as Leah leaves, I wait for Brock to come home from the store so I can tell him my plan. He’ll know if it’s crazy or not. I wait another 30 minutes, and when he walks through the door with the bags, I help him put everything away and then say, “We need to talk.” We go out back where I was talking to Leah. He looks at me and, in his eyes, I see fear. “About what?” I tell him what Leah and I deduced about the neighbor’s basement. “You could be right, but Trice, how are we going to get inside to find out?” “Well, I have a plan.” “Uh huh. I gotta hear this,” he says, folding his arms. “I whip up a batch of brownies and then we go next door when it’s nighttime and when their kids are hopefully in bed. With a plate of brownies in hand, we ring the doorbell, practicing the neighborly art of introduction. Apologies flow for our tardy greeting, and we extend the sweet offering. Once inside, amid casual conversation, I'll strategically ask to use their restroom. That's when I'll discreetly check the basement door, gauging its accessibility. If it's locked, we'll pivot and brainstorm another approach. If it's ajar, I'll seize the opportunity, slipping downstairs to survey the layout and open any windows obstructing our entry. We’ll return later under the cover of night and come through the opened window.” I observe Brock's reaction, awaiting his response. He throws his head back and laughs, and I can't help but roll my eyes. "Trice, I love you, but you watch too many Lifetime mysteries," he teases, and I playfully slug his shoulder. "Okay, hotshot. Come up with your own plan," I challenge. "Why do have to do anything? It’s stupid, risky, and oh, yeah, dangerous. Did I leave anything out?" Brock argues. "Yeah, it’s the only way to see if more drugs have been hidden," I counter. "And what if we find them, then what? We tell Gray we know there’s hidden drugs in our neighbor’s basement. Oh, wait, how do we know? Well, we broke into their home and found them. Is that OK?" Brock says, highlighting the flaws in my scheme. I deflate, realizing he's right. "If I tell Gray of my suspicion, he may laugh at me too." "Or he may believe you and check it out, you know, with a warrant," Brock suggests, seeing my frustration. "Listen, I know you want this to end and for justice to be served. But we have to do it legally." "Brock, what if Holder finds out? I still don’t trust him." "Then, we bait him. Let him find out and then lure him to the basement, all the while Gray is watching. We’ll know if he’s involved if he takes the bait. Remember, the mouse doesn’t go after the food, it goes after the smell." "Your point?" "You’ve heard the saying. 'The smell of money,' right? If Holder is dirty, we bait him with the smell." "And what would that be?" I lean in, intrigued. Brock smirks, his eyes glinting with a mischievous spark. "We create a scent of opportunity, something that screams wealth. Cash. Stack it up, leave a few bills out where he can see them. Nothing too flashy, just enough to make the air in that basement whisper 'fortune.' It's a universal language, Trice. The scent of green can either make someone's hunger rise or expose their greed. If Holder takes the bait, we'll know we've got him right where we want him." I have to agree; his plan makes more sense than mine. "Okay, it’s time to tell Gray." I pull out my phone and call his private number. It’s his day off, so I’ll probably catch him at home or out with his wife, which is why I sound apologetic when he answers, and I tell him we have to talk, first telling him to bring Holder along so we can gauge his reaction when I discuss the possibility of drugs and money being hidden in our neighbor's basement. “Just finishing up dinner. Give me 20 minutes.” I hear noises in the background and wonder if he’s at a restaurant, which makes me feel even worse that I’m interrupting his one day off. We go back inside and into the foyer to wait. I pace back and forth, peer through the shades, then go back to pacing, waiting for Gray. “You’re going to wear a hole in the carpet,” Brock pipes up, sitting on the straight-back Victorian peach couch we got from Paris, surfing on his laptop. We hardly ever come in here, and I just notice some of the paint peeled off the front wall. "Now that he’s coming, I’m second-guessing the basement theory," I admit. Brock puts his finger to his lips to shush me. I forget that we can still be recorded. As soon as Gray arrives with Holder, I bite my tongue. This is all part of the plan, I tell myself. They both go through the house, scanning for cameras. They find two more: one in our bedroom hidden under a fan blade by the light and the other in the living room between two portraits partially hidden by the TV. I shiver at the thought of someone watching us in our most intimate room. I steal a glance at Holder, trying to read him. No expression. “So, what’s up?” Gray says. I explain for the second time today. After I finish, Gray rubs his chin while Holder shows, what, a tiny smirk? “Well, I’ve heard of crazier things.” I watch Gray watch Holder, knowing that he’s looking for the same thing I am: a little anxiety or even excitement. Nothing. A little disappointed but not surprised, I turn it over to Brock for the plan. This time, I see something, a glint of anticipation in Holder’s eyes. We got him.