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.
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