Chandler’s eyes widened with alarm. “I’ll get Wes.”
Tyson sprinted toward the guardhouse.
When he reached it, his fears were confirmed.
Stephen lay face-down, a pool of blood congealing beneath him.
Tyson dropped to his knees, feeling for a pulse.
Nothing.
With shaking hands, he pulled out his phone and dialed Scarborough.
“Detective, someone’s taken Olivia.” His voice sounded distant to his own ears. “One of my security guards is dead, and the other’s missing. I need you out here. Now. Before it’s too late.”
CHAPTERFORTY-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.”