Chapter Six: What’s Really Going On?

 

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.

Chapter Five: We’ll Be Making a Move

 

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.”

They?

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 The Matrix.

"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?