Page 59 of Before the Night Falls
“Is that your professional diagnosis, Dr. Stone?” Her attempt at levity fell flat.
“Just an observation.” He paused and lowered his voice. “For what it’s worth, I’ve never seen you as a victim.”
Her eyes met his, surprise evident. “No?”
“I see someone who survived something unimaginable. Someone who still has nightmares but gets up every morning anyway.” Tyson held her gaze. “That’s not a victim, Olivia. That’s a warrior.”
Her breath caught and, for a moment, Tyson thought she might cry. Instead, she smiled—a small, genuine smile that reached her eyes.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “I needed to hear that today.”
The air between them shifted, charged with something neither was ready to name. Tyson found himself wanting to reach for her hand but resisted. He had his promise to keep, his school to build. Getting involved with someone—especially someone as complicated as Olivia Montgomery—wasn’t part of the plan.
But plans changed. He knew that better than most. Still, he needed to be careful and not make any rash decisions.
“I should finish cleaning up,” he said finally, breaking the moment.
“Of course.” Olivia nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I need to review tomorrow’s segment anyway.”
As he stood to leave, she called his name. When he turned, the vulnerability in her expression nearly undid him.
“I’m glad I’m here, Tyson. Even with everything that’s happening.”
“So am I,” he admitted.
And despite all the reasons it was a terrible idea, he meant it.
* * *
Olivia watched Tyson leave, her emotions in turmoil.
Paul’s call had surprised her. She hadn’t expected him to return her call so quickly, or to call on Tyson’s landline.
With a sigh, Olivia wandered through Tyson’s living room, needing to move, to think.
She found herself drawn to the display cabinet in the dining room, one filled with trinkets and souvenirs.
A small, carved wooden box caught her eye. It seemed out of place among the modern pieces, its dark wood weathered with age.
Curiosity piqued, she opened it.
Her heart stopped.
Nestled inside on red velvet lay a white porcelain mask—the elegant, expressionless face of Casanova.
Identical to the one The Admirer had worn.
The room tilted. Her vision narrowed to the mask’s hollow eyes, empty and soulless.
She stumbled backward, knocking into the table, unable to tear her gaze from the nightmarish object.
“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no.”
The crash brought Tyson running from the kitchen. He found her pressed against the wall, eyes fixed on the open box.
“Olivia?” Alarm filled his voice as he approached. “What’s wrong?”
She pointed a trembling finger at the mask. “Where did you get that?”
