Page 101 of Before the Night Falls

He didn’t press her on the issue. Did that mean he wasn’t the culprit?

She wasn’t sure.

After ending the call, she decided—against her better judgment—to see if what had happened to her had been reported on. To see if the media had seen the police report about her attack.

A quick internet search pulled up tons of results.

Olivia closed her eyes. Of course. The story was too juicy to ignore.

Entertainment reporter abducted while filming with fitness guru.

Journalist disappears while retracing killer’s steps.

Reporter becomes the latest victim . . . again.

The medialovedstories like this. What had she expected?

The headlines were lost as Olivia’s gaze fixed on something outside her window.

A figure walked along the beach’s edge in the distance. The person was too far away to identify, but something about the posture, the deliberate stride . . .

Olivia’s heart hammered against her ribs.

The figure turned toward the house. As he got closer, she recognized him.

It was just the caretaker. Ernest. Tyson had introduced him to her earlier when he’d given them a ride to the cottage.

Olivia released her breath, wanting to laugh at herself. But she couldn’t.

She was too on edge, seeing danger around every corner.

She didn’t anticipate those feelings letting up any time soon.

* * *

The first couple of days at the beach house with Tyson had passed in a blur.

She spent some time exercising. Other time she spent sleeping. And the rest of her time, she spent trying to research her suspects, which had proven harder than expected.

The one thing she had discovered was that Lyle had been out of the office several times since Olivia had been gone. She’d called another friend of hers who also went to Lyle. Her friend had said she’d had to do telehealth services also.

So where had Lyle been? What was the chance he’d been in North Carolina?

The question left her feeling unsettled.

Olivia ate when food was placed before her, though she tasted nothing. She slept in fits and starts, waking gasping from dreams where the mask appeared in darkened corners of her room.

Tyson was always there for her, waiting for her to indicate she needed him.

She knew she was pulling away. But she wasn’t ready to accept Tyson’s offer to help yet.

Finally, on the third day, she ventured out to the beach.

Something about the endless horizon and the rhythm of waves against sand anchored her when nothing else could.

Her first time out, she’d only managed ten minutes before the exposure—the feeling of being watched—drove her back inside. Later that same day, she managed twenty minutes. By that same evening, she stayed for an hour, letting the salty air scour away the lingering scent of roses that seemed permanently lodged in her nostrils.

Tyson didn’t push. Didn’t prod her with questions or demand responses. He simply existed nearby, a steady presence who asked for nothing.