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