Page 1 of Before the Night Falls
PROLOGUE
The darkness suffocated her.
It closed in until Olivia could see nothing else. If only she had a ray of light, a ray of hope . . . but she didn’t. She only had this blinding abyss of despair.
She pulled against the ropes that bound her wrists to the wall. The concrete floor felt cold and damp beneath her. A chill crept into her chest and rattled every time she drew in a breath.
The damp scent of the earth mingled with the sickly-sweet perfume of roses The Admirer always brought with him.
Roses shouldn’t be in this underground prison. They belonged in sunlight, in gardens, on the sets ofThe Inside Scoop with Olivia, where she interviewed celebrities under bright lights. Not here where the flowers’ scent was twisted into something sinister.
No one was around to help her—except the monster who put her here. The monster who began his countdown with twelve perfect roses delivered to her door. Ten the next week. Eight after that.
His calling card became clear too late. By the time the bundle of four roses appeared inside her network dressing room, even her viewers had noticed her jumpiness on air.
The police had nodded sympathetically when she finally went to them. But without evidence of a threat, there wasn’t much they could do.
“Flowers aren’t a crime, Ms. Montgomery,” the detective had said, scribbling notes she suspected would never be read again.
Then the two roses appeared on her car.
The single rose appeared on her nightstand. In her locked apartment.
It came with a note:Finally.
Now she was here.
Each day, the door to her prison would creak open, and The Admirer would enter carrying fresh roses. Always roses.
Olivia never saw his face. Only the porcelain Casanova mask he wore—white and expressionless with hollow eyes that revealed nothing of the man behind it.
She remembered him sitting across from her, trimming roses with silver shears that caught the light from the single bulb overhead. His voice was distorted when he spoke, almost sounding mechanical.
“I’ve admired watching you on TV for years. The way you connect with celebrities, draw out their secrets. You have a gift.” The mask tilted slightly. “I’ve been watchingThe Inside Scoopsince the first episode. I knew you were special when you interviewed Preston James. You asked him about his divorce with such compassion. You understood his pain.”
“Please,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Please, don’t turn off the light when you leave.”
The mask regarded her silently, head cocked like a curious bird. “The darkness frightens you.” It wasn’t a question. “Yet you face the harsh lights of television studios daily. You navigate the shadowy world of celebrity with such confidence.”
“Please,” Olivia repeated, hating the weakness in her voice. “Stay. Talk to me.”
“You want me to stay?” The mask couldn’t smile, but she heard it in his voice—pleasure, triumph. “They never want me to stay.”
By “they,” he meant the other women. The ones who hadn’t survived. There were at least six she knew of. Each had died after being in captivity, their throats slit . . . as if they’d been roses being pruned.
Her blood went colder.
After that, he came daily, always with roses. Always wearing the mask. Always sharing stories of his “admiration.”
He told Olivia how he’d tracked her career from back when she’d started as a local reporter in Baton Rouge to her breakthrough hosting the People’s Choice Awards two years ago.
He told her how proud he’d been whenThe Inside Scoopbecame the highest-rated entertainment show in its time slot. How he’d collected every magazine that featured her. Every interview she’d given.
“People think roses are delicate,” he told her on the fifth day, arranging a fresh bouquet in a vase he placed just beyond her reach. “But they’re survivors. They endure through winter, through drought. They protect themselves with thorns.” The mask turned toward her. “You’re like that too, Olivia. Your life hasn’t been easy. Your father leaving to cook for the ‘admiring masses’ instead of his family. Your struggles in those early reporting jobs. But you survived. You thrived. That’s why I chose you.”
Brian Elliot—she would learn his name only after her escape—had the lean build of someone who spent hours tending gardens somewhere aboveground. His hands bore the calluses and small scars of his work.
Olivia never saw his face, but she memorized those hands. The way they moved when he spoke about her. The way they tightened on the shears when he grew excited.
