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CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Olivia eased out of her room, planning to slip outside—avoiding detection by anyone.

Instead, she ran into Tyson on the stairs.

Her heart skipped a beat. “Tyson . . .”

Something washed through his gaze as he nodded at her. “Going somewhere?”

“Just outside.”

“I was going to take a walk—just around the backyard. Want to join me?”

Though part of her wanted to avoid him, she knew she couldn’t do that for long. She might as well pull off the Band-Aid. “I’d love to.”

They stepped outside together and walked along the fence until they reached a gate in the back.

“The property extends all the way to those pine trees.” Tyson pointed toward the horizon. “About thirty acres total.”

Olivia nodded. The setting sun felt good on her skin—warm, safe. Different from the artificial lights of her studio. Different from darkness.

“Every time I’m out here, I can’t help but think how beautiful it is,” she said.

“It’s one of my favorite places—my oasis, I suppose. Everyone needs a place where they can breathe.”

Something fluttered in Olivia’s chest when she saw the gentle smile on Tyson’s face—a feeling she quickly quenched.

“Mind if we walk a bit farther?” Tyson asked. “There’s an old stone cottage nestled back here between the pines that dates back to the 1800s. Great visual for your segment.”

“Lead the way.”

They followed a winding path through the pine trees. In the distance, birds called to each other, their songs punctuating the quiet. For a moment, Olivia felt peace wash over her.

Until she saw it.

Half-hidden by wild rosebushes, two small wooden doors lay flat against the hillside. Two weathered and gray wooden slabs with rusted iron hinges and a heavy padlock.

Her steps faltered. Her lungs seized.

Darkness. The smell of damp earth. The sound of footsteps approaching. The mask.

Always the mask.

“Olivia?”

She realized she’d stopped walking. Her hands were trembling.

“What is that?” Her voice sounded strange to her own ears, thin and fragile.

Tyson followed her gaze. “Oh, just an old root cellar. Been here since before I bought the place. I don’t use it. The main house has better storage.”

Root cellar. The words echoed in her mind, bringing with them the scent of roses. She could almost feel the cold concrete against her skin, the weight of thick ropes fastened around her wrists.

“Are you okay?” Tyson peered at her with concern.

“I—” She swallowed hard. “I’m sorry. I just remembered I need to make a call. For the show. My executive producer needs . . . something.”

She was already backing away, moving toward the house, needing distance.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. Her throat constricted.

Get away. Get to the light. Get away from the roses.

“Olivia, wait?—”

But she was already running, feet carrying her back toward the safety of the house, away from those wooden doors and what they represented. Away from the darkness waiting to swallow her whole.

* * *

Something was wrong.

One moment, they’d been walking comfortably side by side. The next, Olivia had gone pale, frozen in place like she’d seen a ghost.

Maybe she had.

Tyson watched her sprint back toward the main house.

He looked back at the old root cellar, half-buried in the hillside. It was nothing special—just an old farm feature, probably built a century ago. The rosebushes surrounding it had grown wild, untamed. He’d been meaning to clear them out, maybe convert the space into a wine cellar someday.

But Olivia’s reaction . . .

The nightlights. The way she startled at sudden noises. The shadows under her eyes that spoke of sleepless nights.

And now this.

The way she looked at that root cellar told him more than any interview could.

She was terrified of it.

He tried to remember the details of her abduction. That was when it hit him.

She’d been kept underground, in a similar space, hadn’t she?

He hadn’t meant to upset her. He hadn’t even thought about the root cellar causing a reaction. He should have known better.

He started back toward the house.

Tyson thought about the missing nightlights again, about her panic when they’d disappeared. About the news that her captor had been killed in a police standoff. About the countdown of roses.

The wild roses by the cellar . . . had she noticed them too?

He quickened his pace. He wouldn’t press her for details—that wasn’t his style. But maybe tomorrow those rose bushes would mysteriously disappear.

As he approached the house, Tyson saw her through the window, pacing in the living room, phone pressed to her ear. Her other hand was wrapped around herself, protective.

Vulnerable.

Tyson had talked to hundreds of patients during his career as a psychologist, learning to read their body language, their micro expressions.

What he saw in Olivia now was pure, unfiltered fear.

He would give her space. He wouldn’t ask questions. But he would make sure that for as long as she stayed on his property, nothing—not even a hint of darkness—would touch her again.