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CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

While Tyson worked, Olivia decided to call Deb.

She sat cross-legged on the bed, her phone—a new burner Tyson had provided—pressed to her ear. Through the window, the afternoon sun cast long shadows across the beach.

Something about the scene intrigued her. Maybe she’d eventually get out there and see the beach up close. Feel the sand under her feet. Touch the salty ocean water.

“Wes and Chandler are back,” Deb told her after a moment of chitchat. “They’re being hounded for details.”

Olivia’s throat tightened. “Have they said anything?”

“No, you have their loyalty.”

“When does the network expect me back?” Olivia asked the question, even though she was fully ready to walk away from her job if it meant keeping her mental well-being.

But she really wanted to finish this story first. After that, her career was up in the air.

“We can talk about that later,” Deb said. “I know you need some time.”

As soon as she got off the phone with Deb, Olivia decided to call Lyle.

She needed to talk to him, but she also wanted to ask him some questions.

She gave Lyle the update.

“I’m okay, Lyle. Really.” She tried to inject conviction into her voice. But her suspicions about Lyle fluttered back through her mind.

He wasn’t The Admirer . . . right?

She swallowed hard.

Her therapist’s sigh carried across the line. “Olivia, you were abducted and drugged. That’s a significant trauma, especially given your history. You need proper care.”

“I’m getting it.” She didn’t elaborate on where she was or who she was with. “I’m reading my Bible. Praying. Doing the grounding exercises. Writing in my journal.”

“And the nightmares?”

She hesitated. “They’re becoming less frequent.”

A lie. But what good would it do to admit that every night she awoke gasping, convinced she was back in that cellar? That sometimes, in that space between dreaming and waking, she could smell roses?

And that had been before her second abduction. It would only be worse now.

“You need to come back, Olivia,” Lyle pressed. “I really think we should have an in-person session. I’m worried about you.”

“Soon,” she promised vaguely.

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 media loved stories 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.

Olivia was grateful to have the space to piece herself back together without an audience.

Sometimes, when the memories became too vivid—when she could feel the rope burns on her wrists or taste the chemical sweetness of chloroform at the back of her throat—she would wade ankle-deep into the cold Atlantic, letting the shock of it ground her in the present. Then she’d pray more.

But even as prayer and the ocean worked their healing magic, the question lingered beneath every moment of peace: How long would she be safe here?

She dug her hands into the sand, feeling the granules slip between her fingers.

The masked figure’s words echoed in her mind: This isn’t over, Olivia. It was never about killing you quickly.

Whoever was hunting her had been patient, methodical. The kind of obsession that wouldn’t be deterred by distance or difficulty.

She caught herself scanning the horizon and the dunes, searching for a familiar silhouette. For white porcelain gleaming in the sun.

The countdown was almost complete. Only one rose was left.

Unless the police caught this guy in time, Olivia was certain she’d end up dead. She didn’t want to be lulled into a false sense of security.

It’s most likely someone you know.

Scarborough’s words kept repeating in her mind.

But maybe he was wrong.