I backpedal, trying to escape his grasp, but he's too fast. His grip closes around my wrist, yanking me toward him. My breath catches in my chest as he towers over me, his eyes flickering with dangerous intent. I fight against the panic welling in me, reminding myself that I'm not defenseless.
"Let go of me," I snap, trying to pull away from his grasp, but he doesn't budge.
"You really should've stayed out of this, Emily," he murmurs, pulling me even closer. His grip on my wrist tightens, and I wince at the pain. "You've made this personal now."
Stepping down the staircase, he drags me along after him, pulling me up when I stumble.
“Where are you taking me?” I demand. Then, realizing that Lauren and Christopher are in the house and probably within earshot, I take a deep breath and scream as loud as I can. The scream is cut short, however, as Oliver slaps me across the face. My head snaps back from the impact; my cheek stings. But the pain isn't what frightens me most—it's the coldness in Oliver's eyes, the absence of empathy. That's when reality hits me: this man, whom I once saw as both professional and friendly, is looking at me like I’m some rodent that has crept into his house. He’s not just throwing me out—no, that wouldn’t be enough. He has to silence me—permanently.
“Scream again,” he warns, “and it’ll be your last.”
I have no doubt he means it. I nod, playing along for now, and he yanks me forward again.
As we make our way to the front door, I try to think of some way to convince him that I'm not a danger to him. After all, what can I prove? He has the bottle of monkshood. Who's going to believe me when I say I was wrong about Christopher, but now I know who the actual murderer is—Lauren's personal trainer?
Still keeping a hand on my arm, Oliver opens the door. He shoves me outside, and as I stumble and try to regain my balance, I find myself staring into the dark waters of the lake barely a hundred feet away.
Of course. He’s going to drown me in the lake, just like he drowned those other two women.
My heart hammers in my chest as he drags me closer to the water's edge, his fingers digging into my arm with ruthless determination. Despite the vulnerability I feel, I force myself to stay calm. Panicking won't help me now.
"Oliver," I say, "you don't need to do this."
He merely chuckles, a low and sinister sound that sends goosebumps crawling down my spine. "Oh, Emily, you’re very wrong. You have no idea just how much I need to do this."
“I won’t tell anyone about you, I swear! Not even Lauren!” It’s a ridiculous thing to say—there’s no way he’ll believe me—but I’m desperate.
Oliver, however, ignores me. When I dig in my heels, refusing to go any farther, he kicks me hard in the shin. I yelp in pain, and he yanks me forward again.
He’s too strong for me. I can’t stop him.
“They’ll know!” I say, panting now. “Lauren will know, and she’ll expose you!”
Oliver snorts a laugh. “Not likely. They’ll just think you took off a little early, especially when they discover your things missing.”
My heart sinks at the thought that he can just make me disappear. My body may turn up eventually, just like the bodies of the other two women, but if nobody knows Oliver came here tonight, who’s going to suspect he’s the one who killed me? His car is parked at the house, but if he removes it while Christopher and Lauren are still sleeping—
Headlights cut through the night as a vehicle pulls up to the house. I squint, trying to guess who’s in it. Oliver pulls me down and drags me behind a bush, his hand clamped over my mouth. He's just as startled as I am—I can tell by the sudden tension in his body, his eyes narrowing suspiciously at the approaching vehicle.
The headlights go off. The car door opens, and a man steps out. He pauses to reach up to his neck—adjusting his tie, by the look of it. Where have I seen that gesture before?
Then it hits me: Detective Vaughn! But how did he know to come here? He didn’t seem to be giving my theories any credence at all, so what is he doing showing up at the Hollingsworth mansion in the middle of the night?
Vaughn walks over to Oliver’s car and begins to circle it, peering in through the windows with a flashlight. Oliver's grip on me tightens. I risk a glance at Oliver and find his expression unreadable, though there's a glimmer of panic in his eyes that wasn't there before.
That's when I realized this might be my chance to escape. I suck in a deep breath and kick back violently, hoping to hit Oliver where it hurts. Surprise must be on my side because my foot connects and he lets out a gasp of pain, his grip loosening for just a moment. But that moment is all I need to wriggle free.
I scramble to my feet and start running toward Vaughn, waving my arms over my head like a madwoman. “He’s over here!” I shout. “Over here!” I brace for Oliver to tackle me from behind at any moment, but to my surprise, no such thing happens. I reach the driveway, panting and shaken, and Vaughn reaches out to steady me.
“What’s going on, Emily?” he asks, staring at me with surprise and worry. “What are you hollering about?”
“Oliver!” I shout, turning around. “He’s right—” I fall silent as I survey the empty lawn. Oliver has vanished.
Dread fills me. Where has he gone? To attack Lauren or maybe Christopher? He could be setting the house on fire with them inside, for all I know.
"Emily," Vaughn says, his voice stern. "You need to tell me what's going on."
“He was going to kill me,” I say, swallowing hard. “Just like he killed those other poor women.”
"Who?"
"Oliver! Aren't you listening?" I glance around frantically as if Oliver might materialize from the shadows at any moment.
Vaughn says nothing for several seconds. I sense that he’s trying to determine whether I’m still in my right mind.
“Why don’t you sit down?” he says.
"Don't you hear what I'm saying?" I ask, my voice rising. "There's a murderer running around! You need to catch him!"
"What I need is for you to listen to me and sit down," he says, his gaze hardening. "Panicking won't do any good for anyone."
Realizing he's not going to back down, I let him lead me to the passenger side of his car. I sink onto the seat, my chest heaving with ragged breaths. He doesn't shut the door, instead leaning against it, watching me carefully.
“Now,” he says, “from the very beginning. What happened?”
I take several deep breaths, trying to figure out where to start. “Oliver… I found these pills in his gym bag—monkshood, very poisonous—and I figured out that it can cause cardiac arrest. He wanted the pills back—he’s been poisoning Lauren, trying to get rid of her because he wants to hurt Christopher. Everything’s about Christopher—about getting revenge against him, I mean, because Oliver’s a Walpole—well, not really a Walpole, but he grew up with them and—”
“Woah, woah, woah,” Vaughn says, holding up a hand. “Slow down. I’m going to need to record this.” He leans into the car, opens the glove box, and starts fumbling around. “Where is that blasted thing…” he murmurs.
While Vaughn is halfway in the car, I see movement behind him—a figure approaching.
“Behind you!” I cry.
Vaughn straightens, hitting his head on the roof of the car. Just as he pulls himself out of the vehicle, a heavy planter smashes against his head, the shards spilling over me. I scream as the detective collapses to the ground, blood streaming from a gash in his head.
Oliver is there, breathing heavily as he stares at me. “What do you say we go for a swim?”