Chapter 36 Return to Athens
Chapter 36 Return to Athens
Amelia Noah POV
The flight attendant's voice crackles through the cabin: "Ladies and gentlemen, we've begun our descent into Athens. Local time is 7:42 AM."
I haven't slept. Kate's passed out in the seat beside me, neck pillow askew, mouth slightly open—the sleep of someone whose sister isn't on trial for her life. I can't begrudge her. One of us should rest.
Outside the window, Greece materializes through morning haze. Azure water. White buildings climbing hillsides. The Aegean stretching infinite and indifferent. Six months ago, I saw this view and thought: freedom. Now I think: battlefield.
The last time I flew to Greece, I was running from Marcus's betrayal, desperate to prove I could be whole without a man defining me. I drank too much wine. Cried in the airplane bathroom. Arrived in Santorini broken and hungry for someone to make me feel chosen.
David was waiting.
Now I'm flying toward him—not away. Flying toward a courtroom where I'll face him across polished wood and procedural language. Where twelve strangers will decide if eight women's deaths matter enough to lock him away forever.
"Melia?" Kate's awake, groggy. "We landing?"
"Ten minutes."
She straightens, takes my hand. Her palm is warm, grounding. "You good?"
"No. But I'm here."
"That's good enough."
The plane descends. My ears pop. My stomach churns—anxiety or altitude, impossible to distinguish. I close my eyes and run through Andreas's coaching: Stay calm. Stick to facts. Don't engage speculation. You survived him once. You can face him again.
We land with a jolt that feels metaphorical.
The Athens airport is chaos before we even reach baggage claim. I see them through the glass: cameras, microphones, reporters pressed against barriers like hungry animals. Signs reading "JUSTICE FOR THE EIGHT" held by supporters. Other signs—smaller, angrier—reading "INNOCENT UNTIL PROVEN" and "DAVID THORNTON IS BEING RAILROADED."
"How did they know our flight?" Kate's voice is sharp with protective fury.
"Someone leaked it. David's supporters, probably." I pull my hood up, sunglasses on. "Let's just get through this."
But we can't get through. The crowd is too thick. Reporters shout questions the moment they spot us:
"Amelia! How do you feel about the trial?"
"Are you nervous about testifying?"
"Do you regret going to Greece?"
"Is it true you're profiting from the victims' deaths?"
Kate's arm becomes iron around my shoulders, propelling me forward. Security tries to hold back the press but they surge anyway, cameras flashing, bodies pressing close. I can't breathe. Can't think. This is what drowning feels like on dry land.
Then Detective Lily Mateo appears like a guardian angel in a leather jacket.
"Back up," she commands, badge raised. "Give her space or I'll arrest every one of you for harassment."
Greek security reinforces her position. Lily guides us through a side corridor I didn't know existed—staff only, fluorescent-lit, blessedly empty.
"Welcome back to Athens," she says dryly. "Sorry about the welcoming committee."
"How did they know?" I manage.
"David's defense team has been leaking information to sympathetic media. Flight details, hotel location, trial schedule. They want you intimidated before you even reach the stand." Lily's jaw is tight. "It's working, but we're adjusting. You'll have security detail 24/7. No one gets near you without going through me first."
We exit through a loading dock where an unmarked van waits. Kate and I climb in. Lily takes the front passenger seat. The driver—plain clothes officer, barely speaks—navigates Athens traffic with aggressive efficiency.
"Andreas briefed you on security protocols?" Lily asks without turning around.
"Yes. Stay in the hotel. Don't go out alone. Coordinate all movements with your team."
"Add one more: turn off location services on your phone. David's supporters have been tracking witnesses through social media check-ins."
Kate immediately grabs my phone, starts adjusting settings. "Done. What else?"
"The hotel has protesters outside. Both sides. It's going to be loud." Lily finally looks back at us. "I know this is overwhelming. But you're safe. We've secured the entire third floor—just you, Kate, Emily Oliver, and Dr. Mitchell. No one else has access."
"Emily's here?" Something loosens in my chest.
"Arrived yesterday. Been asking about you every two hours." Lily almost smiles. "She's as stubborn as you are."
The hotel is modern, anonymous, exactly the kind of place international business travelers stay without remembering. But the lobby is anything but anonymous—protesters crowd the sidewalk outside, held back by police barriers. I see their signs through tinted windows:
HE MURDERED OUR DAUGHTERS
BELIEVE SURVIVORS
EIGHT WOMEN DEAD - ONE KILLER
And on the other side:
DAVID THORNTON IS INNOCENT
INNOCENT UNTIL PROVEN GUILTY
FREE DAVID
"How can they think he's innocent?" I whisper. "The evidence—"
"Some people will always believe a charming white man over any amount of evidence," Lily says flatly. "Especially when he has expensive lawyers feeding them narratives. Don't look at them. Don't engage. They don't matter."
We're escorted through a service entrance, up a freight elevator, down a quiet hallway to suite 312. Kate unlocks the door with the key Lily provides.
The room is nice—sitting area, kitchenette, two bedrooms, balcony overlooking Athens. I walk straight to that balcony and stop.
The Acropolis glows golden in morning sun. The city sprawls below—ancient and modern layered like sediment. Somewhere in this city, David sits in a cell waiting for trial. Somewhere, eight families prepare to watch justice play out. Somewhere, the woman I used to be still exists in the ether of memory and regret.
"Amelia." Kate joins me outside. "You should eat something. Sleep. Andreas is coming at noon for final prep."
"I can't sleep."
"Then eat. Please."
I follow her inside. She's already unpacking—her organizational therapy, making chaos manageable through perfect folding and systematic arrangement. My suitcase stays closed. I can't think about clothes or toiletries when tomorrow I meet the families of eight murdered women.
Kate orders room service. I push eggs around a plate, manage half a piece of toast. My phone buzzes constantly—messages from Emily (you're here! come to my room when you're ready), from Dr. Chen (checking in before trial, call if you need), from Rebecca my literary agent (thinking of you, you've got this).
And one from Andreas: Trial prep 12pm sharp. Bring your recording device. We're doing final evidence review.
At 11:55, there's a knock. Kate checks the peephole, opens to reveal Andreas Papadopoulos in person for the first time since Athens depositions. He looks exactly as he did on video calls: sharp suit, calculating eyes, the weariness of someone who's fought too many battles against expensive defense teams.
"Miss Noah. Kate." He shakes our hands. "Are you ready?"
"No," I say. "But let's do this anyway."
He smiles slightly. "You keep saying that. Good instinct—acknowledging fear without letting it stop you."
We spread out across the coffee table: trial schedules, witness lists, evidence photos. Andreas walks me through the next five days:
December 11th: Final witness prep, meeting victims' families
December 12-14th: Jury selection
December 15th: Opening statements
December 16th-20th: Prosecution case (I testify approximately December 18th)
December 21st-23rd: Defense case (David testifies approximately December 22nd)
December 24th: Closing arguments
December 27th: Verdict (court dark December 25-26 for holidays)
"Two weeks," I breathe. "Two weeks decides everything."
"Yes. But right now, we focus on today." Andreas pulls out the recording device I used in Santorini. The one with David's confession. "This is our strongest evidence. The defense will attack its authenticity. We need you comfortable describing how you recorded it, why you recorded it, what happened immediately before and after."
We review it for the thousandth time. David's voice fills the hotel room, urbane and chilling:
"They were nothing before me. I immortalized them. That's art."
"You're different, Amelia. You see me. Really see me."
"Five days. That's my pattern. Long enough to build trust, short enough they don't see it coming."
Every word is a nail in his coffin. Every admission is proof. But Andreas warns: "Pemberton will suggest you manipulated this conversation. Led him into false confessions. Made him say things out of context."
"How do I counter that?"
"By being unshakeable. By knowing your truth so completely that his lies can't touch you."
We practice for three hours. By the end, I can recite every second of that recording, explain every choice I made, defend every action without hesitation.
"Good," Andreas finally says. "Tomorrow, the families. Are you prepared for that?"
"No. But I'll do it anyway."
"Keep saying that. It's working." He gathers his files. "One more thing. David will be in the courtroom every day. You'll see him. He'll see you. Can you handle that?"
I think about Frame 217. About his hands around my throat in memory if not reality. About eight women who couldn't fight back.
"Yes. I can handle it."
After he leaves, Kate insists I nap. I lie in the bedroom with blackout curtains drawn, eyes closed, mind racing. Sleep feels impossible. But exhaustion is stronger than anxiety.
I wake disoriented. The room is dark. Kate's voice filters from the other room—she's on the phone with Tom, her husband, explaining trial logistics in whispered tones.
My phone is on the nightstand, screen dark. I check the time: 11:47 PM. I slept for nine hours.
Notifications fill the screen: Messages from Emily. Updates from Andreas. News alerts about trial starting in four days.
And one message from an unknown number, sent three hours ago.
I open it.
The text is simple. Seven words that make my blood freeze:
Frame 218 will be beautiful too.
Frame 218. The number after mine. The next victim in his sequence.
He's threatening me. From prison. Someone on the outside is helping him.
My hands shake so badly I almost drop the phone. Kate appears in the doorway.
"What's wrong?"
I show her the message. Watch her face drain of color.
"Oh my God. Who—how—" She grabs the phone. "I'm calling Lily. Right now."
Lily answers on the first ring. Kate explains in sharp, efficient sentences. Within ten minutes, Lily's at our door with two officers and a tech specialist.
"Show me the message," Lily commands.
I hand over my phone. The tech specialist starts tracing the number while Lily reads the threat with barely controlled rage.
"Frame 218," she says slowly. "He's claiming you'll be his next victim even from prison. This is witness intimidation. Terrorist threat. Andreas will use this at trial."
"Someone's helping him," I whisper. "Someone outside has my private number."
"We'll find out who. But right now, we secure you further. No phone calls from unknown numbers. All communication through verified contacts only. Security detail increases to three officers minimum." Lily's voice is steel. "He's trying to scare you before you testify. Don't let him win."
"I'm terrified."
"Good. Fear keeps you vigilant. But don't let it silence you." She hands back my phone. "That message just became evidence. Thank you for reporting it immediately."
After they leave, Kate and I stand in the darkened hotel room, Athens glowing through the windows, protesters' distant chants filtering up from the street.
"He's still hunting me," I say. "From a prison cell, he's still hunting."
"But you're still here. Still breathing. Still fighting." Kate pulls me into a hug. "Tomorrow, the families. Then jury selection. Then you testify and send him away forever."
"What if I can't?"
"You can. Because eight women are depending on you. And because you're too stubborn to let a serial killer win."
I look at my phone. At that message. Frame 218.
David's promising to kill me. Even imprisoned, even facing life sentences, he's promising.
I screenshot the message. Send it to Andreas with note: Add this to evidence. He's threatening me before trial even starts. Use it.
His response comes immediately: Already drafting motion. This shows ongoing danger. Thank you. Sleep if you can. Tomorrow we fight.
I can't sleep. But I can stand on this balcony overlooking Athens—the city where justice will be decided—and refuse to run.
David's in a cell.
I'm free.
And in four days, I'll take that stand and make sure he stays locked away forever.
Frame 218 won't exist.
Because I'm still here.
And I'm not prey anymore.
I'm a witness.
And my testimony will destroy him.