Page 95 of Before the Night Falls
“Ma’am, if you don’t mind me saying . . .” Scarborough paused and shifted as if uncomfortable. “It’s likely that the person behind this is someone you know. Maybe even someone from New York who’s followed you here.”
She buried her face in her hands.
“Olivia.” Tyson’s voice came from the doorway. “Please, don’t go.”
How long had he been standing there?
She looked up, stared at the concern etched into his features and felt something inside her crumble. “I can’t be responsible for anyone else getting hurt, Tyson. Especially not you.”
He crossed the room and closed the space between them, his eyes meeting hers. “This isn’t your fault. None of it.”
“Stephen Pearson is dead because this person—this monster—came looking for me.”
“Stephen is dead because a killer made a choice.” Tyson’s voice sounded gentle but firm. “The only person responsible for that is the one who did it.”
Olivia wanted to believe him. Desperately. But the weight of guilt and fear pressed down on her, suffocating.
“I’ll give you two a moment.” Scarborough rose and nodded to Tyson. “We’ll talk about the additional security measures when you’re ready.”
As the detective left, silence settled between them.
“I need to go, Tyson,” she whispered. “I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to you.”
An unreadable look flickered in his eyes—determination tinged with an emotion she couldn’t quite name.
“I understand why you feel that way,” he said quietly. “But I’m asking you to stay.”
The simple request, spoken without demand or pressure, lodged in her chest as if it were a physical object. She looked away, unable to bear the intensity of his gaze.
“Why would you want me to stay?” Her voice was barely audible as she asked the question. “I’ve brought nothing but danger into your life.”
“No one should have to face something like this alone.”
The words broke something open inside her.
A tear slipped down her cheek, then another as Tyson pulled her into his arms.
When he finally pulled away, he murmured, “Don’t do anything rash. Promise?”
“I won’t,” she murmured.
But what Tyson considered rash and what Olivia considered rash might be two different things.
* * *
Tyson stood at the window of his office, watching the police continue to scour his yard.
All he could think about was Olivia.
He’d sent her upstairs to rest after her interview with Scarborough, though he doubted she was sleeping. The sedative had mostly worn off, but the psychological impact of being in that cellar again—bound, helpless, at the mercy of someone wearing that mask—would linger far longer than any drug.
A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.
Hobbes entered, his normally composed demeanor fractured by concern. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“I don’t think so. But thank you.” He paused. “Any word on Donald?”
Hobbes shook his head grimly. “Nothing yet. Detective Scarborough has officers searching the surrounding woods.”
