Abby came back to the village the next day and wandered around the youth hostel getting stories about the shooting.
It was as bad as Abby feared. The creepy baseball cap guy who’d been looking at her had apparently gone up to her room and when Greg followed him inside, the guy whirled around and shot him in the neck. He died instantly. The shooter had fled the scene and because of the baseball hat no one seemed to have a clear idea of his face, or even the color of his hair. The one security camera at the hostel recorded the man running away into the streets of the village, but no one had a clue of where he went.
Abby spent the next few hours at the village police station, getting interviewed on the creepy baseball guy, what did she know about him (nothing), how long had she known Greg (twenty minutes), what did the shooter want with her (she had no idea—well-she did but she wasn’t going to share that with the police).
Abby had felt safe in that station. It was bustling with people going in out of the office where they’d placed her, mostly to take a look at her or to ask her if she wanted more sandwiches or coffee. Abby steeled herself for the Greek police to call up the CIA or the FBI and then Abby would likely have to tell them the real story: that her aunt had left her five million dollars that apparently had been stolen, and now some goons were after her. Even to her the story sounded ludicrous.
But as secure as she felt in the police station, by the time it was five o’clock everyone had cleared out and the one English-speaking policeman told her she was free to go.
“Do you need me to stay around the village? For more questioning?”
The police looked at her curiously. “No. We are done. You are free to go. That is all we need of you. You are free to go home, if you like.”
“That’s it? Do you think you’re going to catch this guy?”
The policeman shrugged. “We think he took a train out of the country. We’ve sent out a notice to the train commissioner. Maybe they will see him.”
Abby slumped. She had the impression this guy could care less if the shooter was caught. It was a bit of excitement on an off-season weekend for the village, but now it was over with.”
“Are Greg’s parents coming? Where is his body?”
The police tilted his head towards the butcher shop across the street. Ugh, they must’ve put the body in with all the sheep and cattle carcasses. Abby felt a wave of shame go over her again. She’d never expected any of this to happen, she had no clue that she’d be sending Greg into danger. If she were truly a good person she’d wait for Greg’s parents to arrive and explain it all personally. She shuddered, knowing she’d never be able to say a word to them. And moreover, she didn’t know if she was still being followed.
Then it was clear. She’d leave that night, head to Paris on a bus and try to forget about Greg. About what she was doing with her life.
— Von
It was as bad as Abby feared. The creepy baseball cap guy who’d been looking at her had apparently gone up to her room and when Greg followed him inside, the guy whirled around and shot him in the neck. He died instantly. The shooter had fled the scene and because of the baseball hat no one seemed to have a clear idea of his face, or even the color of his hair. The one security camera at the hostel recorded the man running away into the streets of the village, but no one had a clue of where he went.
Abby spent the next few hours at the village police station, getting interviewed on the creepy baseball guy, what did she know about him (nothing), how long had she known Greg (twenty minutes), what did the shooter want with her (she had no idea—well-she did but she wasn’t going to share that with the police).
Abby had felt safe in that station. It was bustling with people going in out of the office where they’d placed her, mostly to take a look at her or to ask her if she wanted more sandwiches or coffee. Abby steeled herself for the Greek police to call up the CIA or the FBI and then Abby would likely have to tell them the real story: that her aunt had left her five million dollars that apparently had been stolen, and now some goons were after her. Even to her the story sounded ludicrous.
But as secure as she felt in the police station, by the time it was five o’clock everyone had cleared out and the one English-speaking policeman told her she was free to go.
“Do you need me to stay around the village? For more questioning?”
The police looked at her curiously. “No. We are done. You are free to go. That is all we need of you. You are free to go home, if you like.”
“That’s it? Do you think you’re going to catch this guy?”
The policeman shrugged. “We think he took a train out of the country. We’ve sent out a notice to the train commissioner. Maybe they will see him.”
Abby slumped. She had the impression this guy could care less if the shooter was caught. It was a bit of excitement on an off-season weekend for the village, but now it was over with.”
“Are Greg’s parents coming? Where is his body?”
The police tilted his head towards the butcher shop across the street. Ugh, they must’ve put the body in with all the sheep and cattle carcasses. Abby felt a wave of shame go over her again. She’d never expected any of this to happen, she had no clue that she’d be sending Greg into danger. If she were truly a good person she’d wait for Greg’s parents to arrive and explain it all personally. She shuddered, knowing she’d never be able to say a word to them. And moreover, she didn’t know if she was still being followed.
Then it was clear. She’d leave that night, head to Paris on a bus and try to forget about Greg. About what she was doing with her life.
— Von
Oh! I thought it would be the baseball-hat guy that would be killed by Greg. This is worse for Abby, of course. I like that she's rather clueless, but she's spending the money anyway. So human. I seem to recall that Abby had gone home and talked with her mother, but maybe that was just a visit or a memory? I'm involved, so I hope this continues! ---Macoff
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