35

It was nearing seven a.m. when Jared rolled wearily out of bed, dressed, and headed to the showers. He’d slept little and poorly. The hot water coursed over his back, coaxing life into his limbs. Back in the room, he dressed, slipped on his jacket and gloves, and walked down the hallway toward the front foyer.

There was no one at the lobby desk. The door to the hostel was propped open, and a cold breeze whistled through.

Jared stepped outside and coughed as he sucked in chilled air tainted by the ubiquitous odor of diesel fuel. Sunlight had not yet peeked over the surrounding buildings and hills to the narrow street. Several storekeepers, bundled in sweatshirts and gloves, were already setting up displays each direction from the hostel.

Jared wished he could crawl out of his own skin. The day already felt ragged and bleak. His powerlessness to deal with Jessie—or to ensure Cory’s return to Minneapolis—wore at his stomach like acid.

There was a kiosk a block away that he’d passed the day before. Jared headed there now for some breakfast.

This was a bustling intersection, full of small sedans and motorbikes crawling to work through stop-and-go traffic. The vendor was busy with people lined up to buy pastries and coffee. Jared joined the queue of businessmen in dark suits and fashionably dressed women, puffing clouds of breath into the cold air as they waited their turn.

Jared bought a coffee and a kataifi—a pastry he’d discovered since his arrival—filled with walnuts and glazed with honey. He turned to make his way back up the side street toward the hostel.

As he neared the doorway, Jared lowered his head to sip the coffee—then sensed movement and jerked back. A brown leather jacket brushed past him through the door, the man muttering a grunted “excuse me” as he turned away up the street.

Jared could feel spilled coffee soaking through his glove. He set the cup and bagged pastry on the hostel’s front counter, searching around for a napkin or towel. The clerk was still absent. Jared removed the wet glove, crammed it into a pocket, then looked over the counter.

A plain manila envelope sat on the empty desk below. “Cory Spangler” was printed on its side in block letters.

Jared stared at the package. There wasn’t an address on it, only Cory’s name. Who would deliver something to Cory in Athens?

He felt a spike of concern about her intentions. Had she ordered a ticket to leave town? Rented a car? Jared looked around the vacant lobby, then slipped the envelope under his arm and headed to his room.

Seated on his bunk bed, Jared weighed the envelope in his hands. It was light and thin. Other than Cory’s name printed in black marker, there was nothing else on its surfaces.

He shrugged off a lingering uneasiness and tore open one end of the envelope. Tipping it over, an eight-by-eleven sheet slid out. It looked and felt like photographic paper, with one side glossy white and the other shiny blue. No images were apparent on either side.

Jared looked more closely at the blue side. The coloration, he saw, was caused by a thin plastic film, like Saran wrap, that covered one side of the sheet and overlapped on one edge.

He knew he had already gone too far to return the package: he’d sort that out later. Jared gripped the edge of the film with his thumb and finger and gently peeled it back.

An image, like a poor photocopy, was arranged on the white background beneath the plastic. It had the rough appearance of a newspaper article and accompanying photograph.

The photograph was a picture of Cory; it appeared to be the same senior class photo Jared had used to identify her. Underneath the image was a typed headline in bold letters:

Local Girl Dies in Accident Before She Can Testify in Bank Trial

Jared looked more closely and saw a date under the headline. It was the date the trial was scheduled to start in the deposit slip case.

The setup of images and typing was crude, as though it was assembled hurriedly. That didn’t reduce the impact.

The air left him like a kick to the stomach. He felt a rush of conflicting emotions but knew he needed to do something. He stood and paced the tiny room. He would find the desk clerk and ask who’d delivered the envelope. They would call the authorities, trace the paper.

Would Sidney Grant do this—over a civil lawsuit? Who should they tell? The American Embassy? Athens police?

The door handle was in his hand before it struck him—he shouldn’t even have the package. It was left for Cory.

He pulled in a deep breath. It was time to slow down here. He couldn’t talk to anyone until he’d shown this to Cory. And if he did that, what would she want to do? Call the police?

Probably not. She’d want to go away.

Jared fixed his eyes on the images. If he showed this to Cory, she would leave. And he would lose her. The case. Everything.

The images blurred. Jared blinked to clear his eyes; looked more closely. Something was wrong with the paper. The images seemed—less distinct. Was it the light? He held the page closer to his face.

No. The images were disappearing.

The words and photograph faded softly away, as though sinking back into the page, until Jared’s eyes ached from trying to hold them, and he was staring at a surface of unblemished white.

He turned the paper over, then back again. He raised it closer to the overhead light; back down onto his lap. He drew a finger over the face of the page. No lines, bumps, or indentations—no hint of the images remained.

They were gone.

Sidney Grant couldn’t do this. Someone would do it for him. An expert in threats and hiding their trail. Maybe in carrying out those threats. They were trying to shut Cory up. Could they know that Jared had already found her and extracted a promise to return with him?

What did they expect to happen now?

Jared leaned back onto the bed; he felt the envelope under his palm and the contour of something remaining inside. He picked it up and shook it over the bed until the object fell out.

It was a railroad ticket from Athens to Venice for one. It departed this afternoon.