Page 91 of Before the Night Falls

The voice was distorted, deliberately changed by some device.

A light flicked on—a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. In its harsh glare stood a figure in dark clothes. His white Casanova mask gleamed with an otherworldly pallor.

Olivia forced herself to look directly at the mask, fighting the waves of terror threatening to drown her.

“You’re not him.” The steadiness of her voice surprised her. “The Admirer is dead.”

A laugh escaped from behind the mask. “Are you sure about that, Olivia? You never saw his face.”

The figure moved closer, and she caught the glint of something metallic in his hand—garden shears. Just like before.

Her throat went dry. What would he do with them this time?

“Why are you doing this?” she asked.

“To finish what was started.” The man reached for something beside him. “Only this time, there won’t be any escape.”

He placed two roses on the ground before her. “The countdown is coming to an end. Only one more remaining.”

Her blood turned to ice. Right now, this man only wanted to scare her—and it was working.

But he wouldn’t kill her down here.

He had something else planned for that.

His countdown wasn’t complete yet.

“You’re making a mistake.” Her voice still trembled. “People will realize I’m missing. They’ll come looking for me. They’ll find you.”

The figure tilted the mask, studying her. “They didn’t find me last time.”

“Last time you weren’t on Tyson Stone’s property,” she countered. “Now, there are guards on duty.”

“Or are there?” he taunted.

Her blood ran cold. What had he done to the guards?

She had to think fast. Keep him talking.

“The police are already on their way.” She gambled everything on a bluff. “Detective Scarborough has been monitoring every rose delivery.”

The masked figure stepped closer, leaning down until the expressionless face was inches from hers. “You’re lying.”

“Am I? Listen.”

In the distance—so faint she might have imagined it—came the sound of a car engine.

The figure straightened, head cocked toward the cellar doors. The shears lowered slightly.

“This isn’t over, Olivia,” the distorted voice whispered. “It was never about killing you quickly.”

He reached into his pocket and withdrew something that gleamed in the dim light—a syringe. Before she could react, he plunged it into her thigh.

“A parting gift,” he said. “Something to keep you company in the dark.”

The injection burned like ice in her veins. Almost immediately, her vision began to swim.

“What did you—” The words slurred on her tongue.