Chapter 3: The Face Behind the Nightmare

That tour guide was a Brit named Charles Turner. He’d lived in the States for years and went by an Americanized nickname. He ran a tour company, shuttling Americans back and forth to Europe.

Turner was the kind of guy who could charm anyone—slick accent, expensive suits, always ready with a joke. He’d built a business out of showing Americans the wonders of Europe. But underneath, he was rotten. I’d heard stories, but never thought he’d go after my wife. Never.

Coincidentally, one of my friends, Jason Lee, was on the same tour group. I’d asked him to keep an eye on her during the trip.

Jason and I go way back—college buddies who’d gotten into plenty of trouble together. I trusted him. Before Emily left, I’d called him up, told him to watch out for her, make sure she was safe out there.

I tracked Jason down, hoping he’d noticed something off.

We met up at a coffee shop downtown, the place buzzing with the morning rush. He looked tired, dark circles under his eyes. I slid into the booth across from him, my hands shaking as I gripped my mug.

But he didn’t have a clue. "After we got off the plane, I never saw your wife or the foreign guide again."

He shrugged, stirring his coffee absentmindedly. His voice was apologetic, but there was a hint of confusion, too. "I figured she was just doing her own thing."

"That Brit seemed to take your wife on a private tour. The rest of us got stuck with some local college kid."

Jason frowned, glancing around like someone might be listening. "Honestly, it was weird. Most of us stuck together, but Emily and Turner just disappeared."

Hearing this, a chill ran down my spine. He must’ve planned this all along, zeroed in on Emily.

I clenched my fists under the table, my nails digging into my palms. The pieces started to fit together, each one more damning than the last. I could feel the rage building again, hot and blinding.

I talked to a lawyer friend—he said making him pay would be tough.

We met in his office, stacks of legal books lining the walls. He listened patiently, jotting down notes as I poured out the whole story. When I finished, he leaned back in his chair, his expression grim.

It happened overseas—U.S. law couldn’t touch him.

He explained the legal red tape, all the international loopholes and complications. Even if I wanted to press charges, my hands were tied. The law was no comfort—it felt like just another way for Turner to escape justice.

If she’d reported it to the police there, maybe there’d have been a chance. But now, with no evidence—and if that bastard denied it—we were screwed.

My friend shook his head, sympathy in his eyes. "I’m sorry, Kyle. Without a police report, without witnesses or physical evidence, it’s your word against his."

After hearing all this, I hit rock bottom.

I left his office feeling like I was wading through molasses. The world seemed grayer, the future darker. I drove around for hours, not wanting to go home to the empty house.

Was Emily really going to die without justice?

The question gnawed at me, keeping me up at night. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. I kept replaying everything in my mind, searching for a way to make it right.

Every time I thought about it, I felt like I was going to explode. If I couldn’t take it, how could she have?

I punched the walls, screamed into pillows, anything to let out the anger. But nothing helped. The pain was too deep, the loss too raw.

So I made up my mind—I was going to make Turner pay.

I started planning, gathering information, watching his every move. I wasn’t sure what I’d do, but I knew I couldn’t let him get away with it.