Page 49

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Olivia sat on the couch in Tyson’s living room, a thick blanket wrapped around her shoulders despite the warmth of the afternoon.

Paramedics had checked her vitals, drawn blood to identify the drug in her system, and assured her that whatever sedative had been used was already metabolizing.

She’d be fine—physically, at least.

She’d already recounted the morning’s events to law enforcement three times, each retelling dredging up memories she’d rather forget. Scarborough and Paul had been on scene.

Wes and Chandler had also come in to check on her.

Everything had been a blur.

How much time had passed? It was well after lunch if she had to guess.

Just when she thought she was done, Detective Scarborough returned and sat across from her, notepad in hand.

“You’re certain this guy used the same voice distorter as The Admirer?” Scarborough asked, his pen poised above the paper.

“I can’t be certain of anything.” Olivia pulled the blanket tighter. “But it sounded similar. Mechanical. Deliberately inhuman.”

“And the mask—identical to the one from your previous abduction?”

She nodded, suppressing a shudder. “White porcelain. Casanova. The same expressionless face staring back at me.”

“But you never saw The Admirer’s face,” Scarborough said. “So we can’t definitively say whether this is the same person or a copycat with intimate knowledge of your case.”

The implication hung in the air between them.

Either Brian Elliot hadn’t been The Admirer—or someone had studied the case with disturbing thoroughness.

“What about the security cameras?” she asked. “Tyson has them all over the property.”

A shadow crossed Scarborough’s face. “They were disabled sometime before dawn. Professional job. Whoever did this knew exactly what he was doing.”

The news settled like a stone in Olivia’s stomach. “And the guard? Tyson mentioned something happened to him.”

Scarborough hesitated, exchanging a glance with the officer by the door. “Stephen Pearson was found deceased near the security booth. Blunt force trauma to the head. The second guard, Donald Banks, is still missing.”

Olivia closed her eyes, guilt washing over her. Someone had died because of her. Because The Admirer—or whoever was imitating him—had followed her here.

She jerked her eyelids back open, determination hardening inside her. “I need to leave. I’m putting everyone in danger by staying.”

“Ms. Montgomery?—”

“No,” she cut him off, her voice trembling but resolute. “A man is dead because of me. I won’t risk anyone else.”

The detective leaned forward, his expression grave. “Leaving won’t solve this. Whoever this is, he’s fixated on you. He’ll follow you wherever you go.”

“Then at least I’ll be the only target.” She tried to stand, but her legs were still weak from the sedative. Her knees tried to buckle.

She sank back onto the couch, frustration burning behind her eyes.

“We’re posting officers here round the clock,” Scarborough continued. “And Mr. Stone has already arranged for additional private security—background-checked by my office personally.”

Olivia shook her head. “It’s not enough. It wasn’t enough before.”

“Ma’am, if you don’t mind me saying . . .” Scarborough paused and shifted as if uncomfortable. “It’s likely that the person behind this is someone you know. Maybe even someone from New York who’s followed you here.”

She buried her face in her hands.

“Olivia.” Tyson’s voice came from the doorway. “Please, don’t go.”

How long had he been standing there?

She looked up, stared at the concern etched into his features and felt something inside her crumble. “I can’t be responsible for anyone else getting hurt, Tyson. Especially not you.”

He crossed the room and closed the space between them, his eyes meeting hers. “This isn’t your fault. None of it.”

“Stephen Pearson is dead because this person—this monster—came looking for me.”

“Stephen is dead because a killer made a choice.” Tyson’s voice sounded gentle but firm. “The only person responsible for that is the one who did it.”

Olivia wanted to believe him. Desperately. But the weight of guilt and fear pressed down on her, suffocating.

“I’ll give you two a moment.” Scarborough rose and nodded to Tyson. “We’ll talk about the additional security measures when you’re ready.”

As the detective left, silence settled between them.

“I need to go, Tyson,” she whispered. “I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to you.”

An unreadable look flickered in his eyes—determination tinged with an emotion she couldn’t quite name.

“I understand why you feel that way,” he said quietly. “But I’m asking you to stay.”

The simple request, spoken without demand or pressure, lodged in her chest as if it were a physical object. She looked away, unable to bear the intensity of his gaze.

“Why would you want me to stay?” Her voice was barely audible as she asked the question. “I’ve brought nothing but danger into your life.”

“No one should have to face something like this alone.”

The words broke something open inside her.

A tear slipped down her cheek, then another as Tyson pulled her into his arms.

When he finally pulled away, he murmured, “Don’t do anything rash. Promise?”

“I won’t,” she murmured.

But what Tyson considered rash and what Olivia considered rash might be two different things.

* * *

Tyson stood at the window of his office, watching the police continue to scour his yard.

All he could think about was Olivia.

He’d sent her upstairs to rest after her interview with Scarborough, though he doubted she was sleeping. The sedative had mostly worn off, but the psychological impact of being in that cellar again—bound, helpless, at the mercy of someone wearing that mask—would linger far longer than any drug.

A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.

Hobbes entered, his normally composed demeanor fractured by concern. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“I don’t think so. But thank you.” He paused. “Any word on Donald?”

Hobbes shook his head grimly. “Nothing yet. Detective Scarborough has officers searching the surrounding woods.”

The missing guard weighed heavily on Tyson’s conscience. Had Olivia’s attacker taken him? Killed him and hidden the body?

Or—a more disturbing thought—had Donald somehow been involved?

“Sir, if I may?” Hobbes hesitated, uncharacteristically uncertain. “Perhaps it would be prudent to consider relocating. At least temporarily.”

“Olivia suggested the same thing,” Tyson murmured. “She wanted to leave—without me, however.”

“Leaving is a sensible instinct, if I may say so. But I wouldn’t recommend she do so alone.”

“Running won’t solve this, Hobbes. Whoever is behind this has proven he can get to Olivia regardless of security measures. It’s better she’s surrounded by people who can protect her.”

Better she’s with me . Tyson didn’t say the words, though the thought resonated through him.

The older man studied him a moment. “You’ve grown fond of her.”

It wasn’t a question, and Tyson didn’t bother denying it. “This isn’t about feelings, Hobbes. It’s about keeping her safe.”

“Of course, sir.” But Hobbes’ expression remained knowing. Then he shifted and changed the subject. “I’ve prepared a light dinner. Should I bring a tray up to Ms. Montgomery?”

“I’ll take it.” Perhaps Tyson said the words too quickly. “I need to check on her anyway.”

As Tyson grabbed the tray from the kitchen, another idea filled his mind.

An idea that held the most promise.

An idea that could keep Olivia safe—and under his watchful eye.

But he had to convince her it was a good idea.

That might be the biggest challenge of all.