The engine of the car hummed softly under the dim glow of a flickering streetlight. It was past midnight in Crete, and the world outside felt distant—almost unreal.
Inside the car, Jenna Strobel sat in the driver’s seat, her breathing slow, controlled. Beside her, Jacob Lambert leaned back, eyes closed, trusting. The tension that had defined their relationship for years seemed, for a moment, to dissolve into silence.
“Just relax,” she whispered, her voice steady, almost gentle.
Her hands moved carefully across his shoulders, mimicking calm, mimicking care. For twenty minutes, there was nothing but the quiet rhythm of breath and the distant chirping of insects. Jacob didn’t notice the shift—the subtle change in her expression, the cold determination settling behind her eyes.
Then came the stillness.
Jenna reached down slowly, pulling a handgun from beneath the seat. The metal felt heavy, grounding. She raised it, pressing it against the side of his head.
Jacob’s eyes opened.
At first, confusion. Then realization.
“Jenna… what are you doing?” His voice cracked, fragile.
She didn’t answer.
Seconds stretched into something unbearable. The air thickened. Eight long minutes passed like a lifetime, the silence louder than any scream.
“I warned you,” she finally said, her voice no longer soft. “You never listened.”
The shot broke the night.
The second house stood quiet, unaware.
Jacob’s parents slept inside, wrapped in the comfort of routine, of believing that tomorrow would come like any other. The porch light flickered as Jenna approached, her steps slow but unwavering.
She didn’t knock.
Glass shattered as the door burst open. The first shot echoed through the hallway, tearing the silence apart. Patrick Ford barely had time to stand before the bullets found him. Stacy Ford’s scream followed—sharp, desperate—before it too was cut short.
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