Poppy watches her for a brief moment as Lillith’s words replay in her mind.
It’s an old war injury—bomb blast in Mozambique—being exacerbated by the years.
It’s definitely worsening. Poppy has noticed a marked decline in her boss’s mobility since they departed Edinburgh, and she suspects something else is going on.
As Lillith disappears into the terminal, Poppy wrangles their luggage onto a trolley and pays the driver.
Sweating heavily, she shoves the loaded trolley toward the baggage drop. Once she’s off-loaded the bags, she hefts her book bag over her shoulder and trundles into the terminal crowds, dragging their two carry-on cases behind her. She spots her employer’s silver chignon in a short queue beneath a sign that saysOrchid Elites—VIP Check-in. Below it a smaller sign promises expedited service.
Excitement grows in her belly.
Poppy Buchanan, you are officially a VIP. Embrace it. Allow it. Permit abundance.
Whether it’s clear to you or not, the universe is unfolding exactly as it should.
Her mother always used to say that last bit.
Well, Mom, look at me now. Your little Poppy-Popstar has finally arrived. Took a while.
Once they’re checked in and have cleared security, Poppy and Lillith step onto an escalator under another sign that declaresTo Ship—Elites Only.
She feels a smile in her chest as they begin a smooth ascent, and Poppy exhales, finally relaxing.
But halfway up she senses something. The fine hairs prickle up the back of her neck, and skin tingles along her arms. She swallows, turns slowly, and carefully scans the crowds below.
They’re almost at the top of the escalator when she sees him.
The man from Athens.
She spotted him yesterday, watching them in the Plaka while they ate at a taverna beneath the Acropolis. And earlier that day he was among the museum crowds, seemingly following them. He stood out because he was dressed wrong for a tourist in this heat wave: tan bomber jacket, white polo, heavy jeans.
Poppy had first noticed him at the Edinburgh airport, staring at her and Lillith before their flight from Scotland.
He’s big. Muscled. Athletic. Square jaw. Low brow. Maybe late fifties, or early sixties. Buzz cut. He wears the same tan bomber jacket and jeans now.
But he’s not watching her and Lillith. He’s intently scanning a brochure from a rack of pamphlets.
Still, she’s sure it’s him.
As she and Lillith step off the escalator onto the gangway, the man quickly replaces the pamphlet and hurries toward the base of the escalator.
Fear bolts through Poppy. Her face goes hot, mottling her skin. It always happens when she feels frightened. Or guilty. Her face turns bright red and blotchy.
She tries to tell herself she’s imagining it. He’s not following her. It’s just coincidence. But her panic sharpens as the man steps onto the escalator and begins to ride upward.
This is what happens when you’ve killed a man.
You can never outrun the fear that one day someone from your other life will find you.
And make you pay.
It’s Criminal:
The Mystery of theBlack Orchid
A Trinity Scott & Gio Rossi True Crime Production
Visual—Santorini Cliffs—September 22, 2025
