Page 94 of Before the Night Falls
And somewhere, hidden behind a Casanova mask, The Admirer was planning his finale.
CHAPTERFORTY-EIGHT
Olivia saton 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.”
