Chapter 3 The Deadly Trip

# Chapter 3: The Deadly Trip

The flight to Santorini was tense, despite the champagne and first-class amenities. Elsie chatted animatedly about the infinity pools and sunset views awaiting us, while I nodded at appropriate intervals, my mind elsewhere. In my carry-on bag, sealed in a waterproof pouch, were copies of every document I'd gathered: the DNA test, surveillance photos, and the original birth and death certificates I'd found hidden in my father's summer house in the Hamptons.

"You seem distracted," Elsie observed as our plane began its descent, the Aegean Sea spreading beneath us like spilled sapphires. "Still worried about what your father said?"

I forced a smile. "Just tired. And curious why he was so against this trip."

Her eyes flickered momentarily before she reached for my hand. "Parents can be so overprotective. You deserve this break."

I let her fingers entwine with mine, fighting the urge to pull away. "You're right. I'm probably overthinking it."

The Andronis Luxury Suites perched on the cliffside of Oia, offering breathtaking views and, more importantly, adjoining rooms with a shared terrace. I'd insisted on booking them myself, ensuring that my room had the superior security features I'd paid the hotel manager handsomely to install.

"This is paradise," Elsie sighed as we were shown to our accommodations, her eyes widening at the private plunge pool and panoramic views of the caldera.

"I've arranged a sunset cruise for tomorrow," I said casually. "But tonight, I thought we could just relax. Room service and catching up."

"Perfect."

After settling in, I excused myself to "make a work call" and slipped into the bathroom, where I called Daniel.

"Everything's in place," he confirmed. "The hotel staff has been briefed, surveillance is active in all common areas, and I've got a local contact ready if you need backup."

"And the other matter?"

"Confirmed. Melanie Harvey has been at Lakeside Psychiatric Facility since 1993. Diagnosis: severe postpartum psychosis and delusional disorder. She's been receiving monthly visits from Richard Harvey and, more recently, Elsie Stephens."

My heart pounded against my ribs. "Has she ever had other visitors?"

"Just one. A woman named Helen Morris visited regularly until her death five years ago."

I made a mental note to investigate this Helen Morris later.

"There's something else," Daniel added, his voice dropping. "Your father made a large wire transfer to a Greek bank account yesterday. Five million dollars."

Ice flooded my veins. "Whose account?"

"It's registered to a Maria Constantinos. I'm still working on identifying her."

After hanging up, I rejoined Elsie on the terrace, where she'd already ordered a bottle of the same Assyrtiko wine I'd mentioned wanting to try weeks ago.

"To new experiences," she toasted, her eyes never leaving mine as we clinked glasses.

I took a deliberate sip, then set my glass down, watching as she mirrored my exact movements—the same tilt of the head, the same appreciative murmur, even the same finger tracing the rim of her glass afterward.

"You know," I said carefully, "sometimes I feel like we're so in sync it's almost supernatural."

Her smile widened. "Great minds think alike."

"Or perhaps it's something deeper." I leaned forward. "Like we're connected somehow."

Something flashed in her eyes—hunger, perhaps, or triumph. "What do you mean?"

I shrugged, retreating. "Just a feeling I get sometimes. Like we were meant to be in each other's lives."

She reached across the table, squeezing my hand. "I've always felt that way too, Lara. From the moment we met."

The moment she thought we'd met, I silently corrected.

Dinner progressed pleasantly enough, with Elsie recounting stories from her childhood that seemed designed to elicit sympathy—foster homes, loneliness, dreams of belonging. I wondered how many were true and how many were calculated performances.

"I should turn in," I announced eventually. "The time difference is hitting me hard."

"Of course. Sweet dreams, Lara."

In my room, I activated the surveillance app on my tablet, watching as Elsie moved around her suite. She spent an inordinate amount of time staring at herself in the mirror, practicing expressions that looked eerily like mine. Then she pulled out her phone, scrolling through what appeared to be photos of me, studying them intently.

I set an alert to notify me if she left her room and tried to sleep, but rest wouldn't come. Around 2 AM, my phone buzzed—Elsie was on the move. I watched on the tablet as she slipped out onto the shared terrace and approached my sliding door.

I'd deliberately left it unlocked.

Silently, I moved to the closet, where I'd set up a small camera with a direct view of my desk. On that desk sat my open laptop and the folder containing the DNA test and other documents.

Through the closet slats, I watched as Elsie entered my room with practiced stealth. She paused, listening to my pre-recorded breathing sounds coming from the bathroom, then moved directly to the desk. Her hands trembled as she opened the folder, eyes widening at its contents.

She pulled out her phone, photographing each document, her breathing becoming more erratic with each page she turned. When she reached the DNA test, a small sound escaped her—something between a gasp and a sob.

I snapped several photos of my own, capturing her in the act of stealing my private documents. Then I watched as she replaced everything exactly as she'd found it and slipped back to her own room.

I waited ten minutes before retrieving the folder and replacing it with an identical one—minus the most damning documents, which I stored in the room's safe. Then I called Daniel.

"She took the bait," I whispered. "She now has photographic evidence that she's Richard Harvey's daughter."

"And the tracker?"

"Activated in her phone when she used it to take photos. We'll know everywhere she goes."

"Good. I've got more information on Maria Constantinos. She was a nanny for a wealthy family in Athens in the early '90s. She disappeared around the same time Melanie Harvey supposedly drowned."

The pieces were aligning, forming a picture I wasn't sure I wanted to see.

"Keep digging," I instructed. "And send someone to watch the psychiatric facility. If my father visits Melanie after receiving any communication from Elsie, I want to know."

The next morning, Elsie was unusually quiet at breakfast, her eyes slightly puffy as though she'd been crying. She picked at her Greek yogurt, stealing glances at me when she thought I wasn't looking.

"I was thinking," I said casually, "we should visit the southern part of the island today. There's a little church near the water that's supposed to be beautiful."

She hesitated before nodding. "Whatever you want to do."

The church of Agios Nikolaos sat on a small peninsula, waves crashing against the rocks below. As we stood at the edge of the cliff, gazing out at the endless blue, I decided to push further.

"My mother loved Greece," I said softly. "Though she never brought me to Santorini specifically."

Elsie's body tensed beside me. "Did your father ever visit here?"

"Once," I replied, watching her carefully. "With his first wife, I believe."

Her breath caught. "I didn't realize he was married before your mother."

"Melanie," I said, letting the name hang between us. "She drowned near here, actually. The day before I was born."

Elsie's face had gone pale, her knuckles white where she gripped the stone wall. "What a tragic coincidence."

"Yes. Coincidence."

That afternoon, storm clouds gathered on the horizon, unusual for Santorini in this season. Our sunset cruise was cancelled, leaving us confined to the hotel as thunder rumbled over the caldera.

I ordered room service and invited Elsie to dine in my suite, positioning her chair so the hidden camera could capture her expressions clearly.

"I've been thinking about family lately," I said, twirling pasta around my fork. "How little we sometimes know about our own history."

Elsie's eyes darted to my laptop, where she knew the folder of documents lay. "What do you mean?"

"Just that we all have secrets. Things we keep hidden, even from ourselves." I took a sip of wine. "For instance, I recently discovered some interesting documents in my father's study."

The color drained from her face. "Oh?"

"Nothing important," I lied smoothly. "Just some old photographs I'd never seen before."

The relief in her eyes was palpable. "Family photos are such treasures."

"Indeed. Especially when they reveal unexpected connections."

Outside, lightning split the sky, followed immediately by a deafening crack of thunder. The lights flickered once, twice, then stabilized.

"I should go," Elsie said suddenly, standing. "I'm feeling a bit under the weather."

"Of course. Rest well."

As soon as she left, I checked the tracker on my phone. She was pacing in her room, making no calls, sending no texts. Waiting.

Around midnight, as the storm reached its peak, my phone pinged with an alert: Elsie had sent an email with large attachments. The recipient: Richard Harvey.

I smiled grimly. Right on cue.

Less than five minutes later, my father called. I let it go to voicemail. He called again immediately. Again, I ignored it.

A text appeared: "Lara, call me immediately. It's an emergency."

I turned my phone off completely and went to bed.

In the morning, I awoke to find Elsie gone—checked out at 5 AM, according to the front desk. She'd left a note: "Family emergency. Had to return to New York immediately. So sorry. Talk when you get back."

I checked my phone, turning it on to find seventeen missed calls from my father and one text message from Elsie, sent at 3:17 AM:

"Some truths are worth tearing apart bloodily."

I forwarded the message to Daniel with instructions to meet me at the airport, then packed my bags. Before leaving, I placed one final call—to Maria Constantinos.

"Yes?" answered an elderly woman's voice in heavily accented English.

"Ms. Constantinos, my name is Lara Harvey. I believe you knew my father, Richard Harvey."

A long silence followed, then: "The baby. You are the baby."

My heart pounded. "Which baby, Ms. Constantinos?"

"The one she tried to drown. The one I saved."

The phone slipped from my suddenly numb fingers, clattering to the floor as thunder rumbled in the distance, an echo of the storm that had passed but whose consequences were only beginning to unfold.