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CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Darkness. Cold. The smell of damp earth.

Olivia awakened with a gasp, disorientation giving way to a paralyzing terror as memory returned.

The Casanova mask. The chloroform. The hands dragging her away.

She blinked hard, trying to force her eyes to adjust to the pitch black, but it was absolute. The air was stale and lifeless.

Underground.

Again.

The root cellar.

She knew it instinctively. The same wooden doors she’d glimpsed on her walk with Tyson, the ones that had triggered her panic attack—that was where she’d been taken.

A sob threatened to escape her throat, but she choked it back. Panic wouldn’t save her. She needed to think. To act.

Maybe she could get out of here.

She tried to pull her arms forward, but they were tied above her. Rope dug into her wrists.

No . . .

Breathe, Olivia. Breathe.

She gulped in a few breaths and tried to soak in her surroundings.

The floor beneath her was packed earth, cold and slightly damp. The air smelled of soil and something else—a familiar, sickly-sweet scent that made her stomach lurch.

Roses.

A faint scraping sound came from somewhere to her left.

She startled.

She wasn’t alone. Nausea filled her.

“Who’s there?” Her voice emerged as a croak.

Silence, then: “You’re finally awake.”

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.

“Just a sedative. Enough to keep you quiet while I make my exit.” The mask tilted again. “I’ve waited this long. I can wait a little longer for our finale.”

Through increasingly blurry vision, Olivia watched as the figure extinguished the light, plunging the cellar back into darkness.

She heard the scrape of the wooden doors opening above, a sliver of daylight appearing and then vanishing as they closed again.

Then silence.

As consciousness began to slip away, one thought cycled through her mind: The final rose.

The final rose was coming next.

And she felt powerless to stop it.

* * *

Tyson ran as he’d never run before, lungs burning as he sprinted across his property toward the old root cellar. Detective Scarborough and his team were on their way.

But something told him there wasn’t time to wait.

The image of Stephen’s body haunted him.

How had someone taken the guard by surprise? Who would go to such lengths? And where was Donald?

The cellar doors came into view, partially hidden by the wild rosebushes Tyson had meant to clear away days ago. His heart sank when he saw the padlock lying broken on the ground.

He approached cautiously, straining to hear any sound from within. He didn’t want to set this guy off. But time was of the essence right now.

He heard nothing.

Drawing a deep breath, Tyson yanked open the wooden doors.

Sunlight spilled into the darkness below, illuminating a dirt floor and stone walls.

“Olivia?” He peered into the shadows.

No response.

Turning on the flashlight on his phone, he descended the earthen steps into the cellar.

The beam cut through the darkness, finally landing on a still form at the far end of the space.

“Olivia!” His heart dropped at the sight of her motionless body.

No . . .

He rushed forward, dropping to his knees beside her.

She was unconscious, her wrists bound above her head, her breathing shallow but steady.

Her pulse thumped against his finger.

It was there—strong, though slightly irregular.

Relief washed through him.

Something caught his eye—two roses laid carefully beside her.

Rage and fear churned in his gut as he worked to untie her bonds. Her skin felt cool to the touch, and she didn’t stir at his efforts.

“Olivia, can you hear me?” Tyson urged, cradling her face. “Wake up. Please wake up.”

Her eyelids fluttered but didn’t open.

Tyson noticed a small puncture wound on her thigh, a drop of blood staining her light blue pajama pants. She’d been given something.

The ties loosened and then gave way. He gathered her into his arms, lifting her as he stood. “Hold on, Olivia. Just hold on.”

As he carried her toward the cellar steps, sirens wailed in the distance.

Scarborough was close.

The sunlight was blinding as Tyson emerged from the cellar, Olivia limp in his arms. He scanned the property, looking for any sign of the perpetrator.

The grounds appeared empty.

Whoever had done this was long gone.

Scarborough’s car skidded to a stop in front of the house—Tyson had left the gates open—and the detective leaped out.

“Over here!” Tyson shouted, already moving toward the house. “She needs an ambulance!”

“Already called it.” Scarborough jogged to meet him. “What happened?”

“Found her in the root cellar, unconscious. I think she’s been drugged.” Tyson didn’t slow his pace. “There were two roses beside her.”

Scarborough’s face darkened. “Any sign of who did this?”

“None.” Tyson’s voice was tight with fury and frustration. “He was gone when I got there.”

As they reached the house, the distant wail of an ambulance joined the chaos. Tyson laid Olivia gently on the couch, brushing hair from her face with a trembling hand.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I should have protected you.”

Her eyelids fluttered again, this time opening slightly. Her gaze was unfocused, pupils dilated.

“Mask,” she murmured, the word slurring. “Casanova . . .”

“Shh, don’t try to talk,” Tyson urged, gripping her hand. “Help is coming.”

“He said . . .” She struggled to form the words. “Not over . . . finale . . .”

A chill ran through Tyson as her meaning registered.

This wasn’t the end. The killer had deliberately left her alive.

Which meant this guy intended to return.

Scarborough stood in the doorway, his expression grim as he watched the exchange.

“We’ll post officers here round-the-clock,” he said, answering Tyson’s unspoken question. “And I want a detailed description as soon as she’s able.”

Tyson nodded, his eyes never leaving Olivia’s face as she slipped back into unconsciousness.

Outside, the ambulance arrived, its lights painting the walls in flashes of red.

As paramedics rushed in and took over, Tyson couldn’t shake the cold dread settling in his chest.

The countdown was almost complete.

And somewhere, hidden behind a Casanova mask, The Admirer was planning his finale.