Chapter 27 Emily's Testimony

Chapter 27 Emily's Testimony
Emily Oliver POV
The fluorescent lights in the Athens police station buzz like trapped insects. I've been sitting in this gray interview room for twenty minutes, my laptop open, phone connected to the station's display screen, and Detective Lily Mateo reviewing my footage with the kind of focus that makes me feel simultaneously validated and terrified.
"This one," Lily says, pointing to the timestamp. "June tenth, 14:47. Can you explain what we're seeing?"
I lean forward, recognizing the clip immediately. My first day at Poseidon Resort—I was doing a live-stream walking tour of the property for my followers, talking about the infinity pools and the view. But there, in the background, barely visible through a terrace window: David. Camera raised. Photographing Amelia on the beach below.
"I didn't notice him when I was filming," I say. My voice sounds smaller than I want it to. "I was focused on the architecture, the sunset lighting. It wasn't until I reviewed my footage after his arrest that I saw him. He's watching her. Not just taking photos—watching."
Lily makes a note. She's been making a lot of notes. My entire digital archive is spread across her desk: screenshots, video files, blog posts I never published because something felt off but I couldn't name it.
"Walk me through the group dinner," Lily says. "June fourteenth."
I pull up the file. The video quality is good—I always use good equipment. The scene unfolds on screen: the resort's terrace restaurant, string lights casting warm glows, our table near the edge overlooking the Aegean. Amelia sitting beside David, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. Dr. James Mitchell across from them, asking casual questions that weren't casual at all.
"What made you film this?" Lily asks.
"Instinct." I pause the video on David's face—the exact moment James asks about his photography assignments. "See that? Right there. His expression changes for maybe half a second. Micro-aggression. Anger. Then it's gone, smoothed over with that charm he wears like a mask. But I caught it."
I'd been a travel blogger for six years. You learn to read people when your safety depends on recognizing danger in unfamiliar places. David triggered every alarm I'd learned to trust.
"Tell me about your independent research," Lily says.
My stomach tightens. This is the part that makes me feel guilty. "June thirteenth. I couldn't sleep. Something about David bothered me—the way he isolated Amelia from other guests, how he always knew where she was, the intensity of his attention. It felt performative. So I started digging."
I pull up my research folder: screenshots of his minimal social media presence, searches for "British photographer Mediterranean," forums where solo female travelers share safety concerns. And then—the blog that made my blood cold.
"Ana Kowalski," I say quietly. "Prague travel blogger. Her last post was December fifteenth, 2023. She mentioned meeting 'charming photographer who actually sees me.' After that—nothing. Her Instagram went dark. Her blog abandoned mid-sentence about Christmas markets. I found obituary notices in January. Strangulation. Hotel room."
Lily's pen stops moving. "You connected this before you knew about the other victims?"
"I connected that a travel blogger went silent after meeting a photographer. I didn't want to be paranoid. But I documented it anyway." I meet her eyes. "Occupational hazard. I document everything."
"Your documentation may have saved Amelia's life," Lily says.
The words should feel good. They don't. They feel like lead in my chest.
"I should have said something sooner," I whisper. "I should have confronted him, warned her more explicitly—"
"You did warn her. Dr. Mitchell told us you expressed concerns at that dinner. You documented evidence. You trusted your instincts when society tells women to doubt them." Lily leans forward. "Emily, you're a witness. A crucial one. The defense will try to discredit you—call you attention-seeking, claim you're monetizing tragedy. Can you handle that?"
I think about Ana's abandoned blog. About the other solo female travelers I've met in hostels and cafes, women who trust strangers because we're taught to be polite. About Amelia's face when she realized the man she was falling for had been hunting her.
"Yes," I say. "I can handle it."
Lily nods, returns to my footage. We review everything: David following Amelia through the resort's gardens, always maintaining distance. Him photographing her during meals when she wasn't looking. The way he touched her—possessive, controlling, disguised as affection. Every frame of evidence makes me feel sicker.
"There's one more thing," Lily says, pulling out a file folder. "We recovered David's laptop. You're in it."
She slides a printed document across the table. My own face stares back at me from a screenshot—one of my Instagram posts. Beneath it, notes in neat handwriting: Emily Oliver, 29, American, solo travel blogger, 3M monthly readers. Single. Adventurous. Posts location data regularly. Stays in mid-range hotels, occasionally splurges. Father died when she was young—possible vulnerability. Backup option if primary target becomes unviable.
The words blur. My hands shake.
"He was evaluating me," I say. "Like I was auditioning for something."
"His 'Prospects' folder contained two hundred forty-three women," Lily says. "You were number sixty-seven. He'd been monitoring your travel schedule for eight months."
Eight months. While I was posting sunset photos and hotel reviews and recommendations for solo female travelers, he was watching. Planning. Deciding if I was worthy of being his next "completed work."
"If Amelia hadn't recorded him," I say slowly, "if she hadn't fought back—"
"You might have been next," Lily finishes. "Which is why your testimony matters. You're not just a witness to his behavior with Amelia. You're evidence of his pattern. The hunting, the selection process, the systematic stalking disguised as coincidence."
I close my laptop. My fingers rest on the smooth metal—the tool I use to document beauty, connection, adventure. The same tool that accidentally captured a predator.
"I'll testify," I say. "Whatever you need."
Lily starts to respond, but my phone buzzes. A notification from my cloud storage—new facial recognition match on uploaded footage. I frown, pull it up.
It's a clip from June eleventh. Breakfast terrace. I was filming a coffee review, panning across the morning crowd. The algorithm flagged a face in the background: young woman, maybe thirty, blonde, laughing at something David is saying. He's leaning in close, that same intense attention I watched him give Amelia.
I screenshot the woman's face, reverse image search it.
The results make my throat close.
"Detective," I say, my voice barely steady. "You need to see this."
Lily moves to my side of the table. I show her the search results: missing person report from Malta, October 2022. Sarah Bennett, British tourist, twenty-eight years old, disappeared from her hotel. Last seen with an unidentified man described as "well-dressed British photographer."
"He was already hunting someone else," I whisper. "While courting Amelia, he was evaluating another woman. How many others didn't we see?"
Lily takes my phone, studying the footage. David's body language in that brief clip mirrors exactly how he approached Amelia—the slight lean, the focused eye contact, the charming smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
"I need this footage immediately," Lily says. "And I need you to review everything else you filmed. Every background, every crowd shot, every accidental capture. If he was hunting at Poseidon Resort, your camera might have caught evidence we don't even know exists yet."
I nod, already opening my complete archive. Hundreds of hours of footage. Thousands of photos. Every moment I documented thinking I was sharing travel inspiration—now potential evidence of a serial killer's hunting ground.
My phone buzzes again. Another facial recognition match.
Then another.
"Jesus," I breathe. "How many?"
Lily's expression is grim. "Let's find out."