Page 2 of Before the Night Falls
On day six, he brought his scrapbook—newspaper clippings about the other women who’d died.
“These women . . . they weren’t right,” he’d explained as he turned the pages. “They didn’t appreciate beauty the way you do. The waywedo.”
The smell of roses had become unbearable by then. Each time he visited, he brought fresh ones. Each time he left, Olivia was plunged into darkness with only the flowers’ cloying scent for company.
By the evening of the ninth day, she’d memorized his routine—the precise times he’d visit, the exact moment he’d turn his back to arrange the latest roses he’d brought.
By day ten, Olivia had worked one hand free from the restraints.
When he bent to position a bloom in the vase, she’d brought the handle of the garden shears down hard against the back of his skull. Not enough to kill—she couldn’t bring herself to do that—but enough to run.
She’d used the sheers to free her other wrist. Then she’d staggered three miles through dense woods. Even though he’d brought her sandwiches to eat, she was still weak. But adrenaline propelled her onward.
Finally, she’d found a highway. Her feet had become bloodied and her wrists raw.
A trucker had spotted her and called 911.
By the time police reached Elliot’s property, he’d barricaded himself in. He’d claimed it was all a mistake, a misunderstanding.
The standoff lasted four hours. When the FBI had finally breached Elliot’s home, he’d pulled out a gun. The police had no choice but to shoot.
Even now, two months after Olivia had escaped, she still couldn’t look at flowers without smelling the damp earth of that cellar. Without hearing his voice behind that blank mask explaining patiently: “Do you know what makes roses bloom so beautifully, Olivia? It’s the pruning. Cutting away makes them stronger.”
Now, Olivia sat in her therapist Lyle Strassel’s office and stared at the New York skyline. People hurried past on the sidewalks below. Traffic crawled by.
Life continued just like it always had. Normal people living normal lives.
“How do you feel?” Lyle, a man in his mid-fifties with thinning brown hair and thick glasses, leaned forward to look Olivia in the eye.
Olivia slid up from her position on the couch and reached for her forehead. Her vision was fuzzy and her head heavy from recounting the story with Lyle.
“Like I’m trapped in a past I can’t escape from.” The view from Lyle’s office normally helped ground her, but not today. Today, Olivia felt as if she were about to tumble from the edge.
“The Admirer can’t hurt you anymore.” Lyle’s voice was soft but confident.
“It doesn’t matter. He already did enough damage to last a lifetime.” Olivia’s words sounded dry and forced.
She swallowed, trying to hold back tears. She’d already shed too many over what had happened. The man who’d done this to her didn’t deserve any more of her thoughts or energy.
Of course, he was dead now. His suffering had been short and sweet.
Olivia, on the other hand, had to live with hers for the rest of her life.
“You can get through this,” Lyle said. “You just have to be prepared.”
“How?”
“When you know night is falling soon, what do you do? You prepare. You turn on lights to see your path. You start a fire to keep warm. It’s the same with our emotional darkness.”
“So I need a plan.”
“Yes, I’m giving you the tools you need.”
She nodded slowly.
“Remember you’re not alone,” Lyle said. “I can help you heal from your wounds. It just takes time.”
Two months of therapy so far, and the nightmares hadn’t gotten any better. In her dreams, the mask was still watching. Still counting down with roses.
