Page 49 of Before the Night Falls
She was already backing away, moving toward the house, needing distance.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. Her throat constricted.
Get away. Get to the light. Get away from the roses.
“Olivia, wait?—”
But she was already running, feet carrying her back toward the safety of the house, away from those wooden doors and what they represented. Away from the darkness waiting to swallow her whole.
* * *
Something was wrong.
One moment, they’d been walking comfortably side by side. The next, Olivia had gone pale, frozen in place like she’d seen a ghost.
Maybe she had.
Tyson watched her sprint back toward the main house.
He looked back at the old root cellar, half-buried in the hillside. It was nothing special—just an old farm feature, probably built a century ago. The rosebushes surrounding it had grown wild, untamed. He’d been meaning to clear them out, maybe convert the space into a wine cellar someday.
But Olivia’s reaction . . .
The nightlights. The way she startled at sudden noises. The shadows under her eyes that spoke of sleepless nights.
And now this.
The way she looked at that root cellar told him more than any interview could.
She was terrified of it.
He tried to remember the details of her abduction. That was when it hit him.
She’d been kept underground, in a similar space, hadn’t she?
He hadn’t meant to upset her. He hadn’t even thought about the root cellar causing a reaction. He should have known better.
He started back toward the house.
Tyson thought about the missing nightlights again, about her panic when they’d disappeared. About the news that her captor had been killed in a police standoff. About the countdown of roses.
The wild roses by the cellar . . . had she noticed them too?
He quickened his pace. He wouldn’t press her for details—that wasn’t his style. But maybe tomorrow those rose bushes would mysteriously disappear.
As he approached the house, Tyson saw her through the window, pacing in the living room, phone pressed to her ear. Her other hand was wrapped around herself, protective.
Vulnerable.
Tyson had talked to hundreds of patients during his career as a psychologist, learning to read their body language, their micro expressions.
What he saw in Olivia now was pure, unfiltered fear.
He would give her space. He wouldn’t ask questions. But he would make sure that for as long as she stayed on his property, nothing—not even a hint of darkness—would touch her again.
CHAPTERTWENTY-FOUR
Olivia wasquiet over the next couple of days.
