temples and the original Olympic Stadium.
Jared had listened as Cory chatted. She spoke sparingly at first, then more comfortably—especially about her travels. He worked hard to appear relaxed and interested. But he felt neither.
“Erin is a very sweet person,” Jared answered. “You remind me of her.”
Her cheeks flushed. “The night at the bank, Mr. Larson seemed worried about me. I think he was embarrassed at how Mr. Grant was acting. It made me wonder what his daughter was like.”
Jared’s stomach still ached. Cory was a witness, not a friend. He didn’t want to get to know her. He wanted her back in Minneapolis, her deposition done. Then he’d figure out how to make this right.
“I didn’t know him, but Mr. Larson seemed like a good man too,” Jared replied.
The waitress returned with their tea. Jared silently dipped the folded bag into his cup, watching the steaming water darken.
Cory fidgeted with the cup in her hands. “Mr. Neaton, I heard about the lawsuit from Mom awhile ago, and I recognized Mr. Larson’s name and everything.” Her voice was apologetic. “I didn’t tell anybody because—well, I just thought it would all get taken care of.”
“No one likes to get involved in these things, Cory,” Jared answered automatically. “You couldn’t know how important that night was.”
Cory nodded listlessly.
“Do you ever feel like moving back to Ashley?” she asked.
Jared thought an immediate no, but held that back. “I don’t think about it much,” he responded. “I’ve moved on.”
Cory nodded in agreement. “I’m not going back. At least I don’t think so. I want to go to grad school in psychology. Maybe work in the Twin Cities. But”—she paused—“I do miss it when I’m gone for long. The people mostly.”
They finished their tea and slung their backpacks to leave. It was getting late, and they’d need to head to the airport soon. Cory had seen the Acropolis once before, but asked if they could return to the hill topped by the Parthenon for a final visit. Jared agreed.
The paths leading to the Acropolis gate were long and steep, especially with the burden of their backpacks. Despite the cold, Jared began to sweat. At last, they reached a spot where paths diverged, a sign showing that one headed toward the Areopagus while another angled upward toward the Acropolis. The Areopagus, Cory explained, was where Paul of Tarsus preached in the first century. In the other direction, she went on, near the top of the Acropolis path, was a final staircase that passed through a gate leading to the plateau occupied by the Parthenon and other Greek monuments.
This junction was busy with passing tourists, most heading toward the Acropolis. Jared looked up at the steep climb of that path.
He felt no draw to the attraction today. His time with Cory had only heightened his unease—he felt nearly sick now—and he just wanted to get to the airport. “Cory, you go ahead. Come join me over there when you’re done,” he said, pointing in the direction of Areopagus.
He could tell that she was disappointed, but Cory only nodded as they parted.
The Areopagus was a rocky outcropping roughly a quarter mile away from the Acropolis across a shallow valley filled with trees and bushes. Jared found a spot near the highest point of the rocks and eased his backpack onto the ground. The sun was warmer up here, and the breeze felt good after the walk.
People milled around the hilltop, some in guided groups, others singly or in pairs, taking pictures or reading books. Jared pulled his digital camera from his bag and turned toward the Acropolis. Across the valley, the final carved steps were visible, rising to the gate. Jared turned on his camera and pointed it in the direction of the steps.
The sun was bright now. As his lens opened, Jared pressed his eye to the viewfinder and zoomed onto the figures climbing the steps. After a moment, Cory entered his view, treading doggedly upward, her red backpack clear even amidst the herd of tourists.
He zoomed out slightly to take a picture. As he steadied, a man wearing a brown jacket stepped into the field.
Jared’s mind flashed to the hostel door and the man in the brown leather jacket who’d brushed hurriedly past. It was, he recalled, just moments before he’d found the package.
The jacketed man on the Acropolis was twenty steps below Cory, separated by a mass of other tourists ascending to the gate. His face was forward, his head covered by the hood of a