A Trusted Stranger, page 15
I dart into the nearest room and close the door, pressing my back against it as though that could lock out whatever disaster might be about to unfold. My heart is hammering in my chest so hard it aches. The silence of the mansion feels like a physical pressure now.
But wait… what am I afraid of? Oliver has always been friendly to me, considerate. What’s he going to do, hurt me? Surely there’s a reasonable explanation for the monkshood. If I just ask him about it, everything could be cleared up. Or is that just wishful thinking? Is my fear turning me into a coward, convincing me to hope for the best even when the evidence of danger is right in front of me?
Doubts cloud my mind, but I can't afford to let them take over. I need to act, but I also need to be smart about this. Rushing headfirst into confrontation could only put me and Lauren at greater risk.
The important thing is to warn Lauren. It’s ultimately up to her what to do with the evidence I’ve found—if she dismisses it like she’s dismissed everything I’ve said, then there’s nothing I can do. But at least I’ll have a clean conscience.
Opening the door, I listen for any sounds in the house. I hear none.
Where is Oliver? And why in the world is he here so late? Did Lauren call him, or has he shown up on his own?
Worried he might already be upstairs with Lauren, I head toward the stairs. Just as I reach the first one, I hear his voice behind me.
“Emily, what are you doing up so late?”
I turn around—and there is he, smiling up at me from the doorway of the exercise room.
Holding his gym bag in his hand.
I swallow hard, wondering if he looked inside and discovered the monkhood was missing. "Just… couldn't sleep," I say, forcing a weak smile onto my face. "So I thought I'd do some cleaning."
He nods, his eyes measuring me.
“What about you?” I say quickly. “I didn’t expect to see you here so late.”
“Just came to pick up my bag. Must've left it here by mistake.” He hoists the bag a little higher and gives a wry smile. His grin doesn't quite reach his eyes, and a flicker of something I can't identify flashes within them. Is it wariness? Suspicion? I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry.
“Well,” I say, “I won’t keep you.” I turn away, but before I can take a step, he speaks up again.
"Actually, do you know if Lauren is up by any chance?"
“Lauren?” I keep my back to him, not wanting him to read the unease on my face.
“Yeah, I just wanted to check in with her quick, see how she’s doing. I know it’s been a challenging week—the heart attack, Sophie’s funeral…” He trails off.
I tighten my grip on the banister, my knuckles turning white. “She’s doing alright,” I say, finally turning around. “She really just needs to rest now. I’m sure she’d be happy to see you tomorrow.” Take the hint, Oliver. Take the hint.
He nods thoughtfully. “Sure, sure. Wouldn’t want to disturb her.” He pauses. Then, just when I think he’s about to leave, he says, “Listen, I know you mentioned you were cleaning because you couldn’t sleep—I get it, sometimes I feel like that’s the only time I get any of my laundry folded.” He chuckles at this. I do not.
“You didn’t happen to open my bag, did you?” he asks. “Maybe thinking it was Lauren’s?”
A lie forms on my tongue, then dissolves just as quickly.
He takes a step toward me. “I only ask,” he continues in an apologetic, reasonable tone, “because I seem to be missing something, something very important to me. It’s a small pill bottle. Monkshood. I use it for my arthritis.”
Arthritis? I feel a moment’s doubt. Could he be telling the truth?
He takes another step toward me. “Anyway,” he says, “it’s very important I get it back—it’s really the best remedy I’ve found. You haven’t come across it by any chance, have you?”
The hairs on the back of my neck prickle, and I try to suppress the tremor in my voice. "No, I haven’t seen it. But I’ll let you know if I do.” I turn around, climbing the stairs—and hoping he’ll leave. Maybe he’s telling the truth about the monkshood, but his words ring false in my ears. He’s hiding something; I know it. But so long as he doesn’t know for sure that I have it, so long as I can maintain my story—
A hand grasps my elbow. I spin, surprised by Oliver’s touch, but he doesn’t let go.
He smiles, revealing perfectly white teeth. “Come on, Emily. There’s no need to play games. Just give it to me and I’ll forget you took it.”
“I don’t have it,” I protest, trying to free myself. His grip, however, is like iron.
“No?” he says. “Then you won’t mind if I look through your pockets, will you?”
“Excuse me? I’m not going to let you just—”
Gripping my arm with one hand, he uses the other to roughly assault my pockets, digging around, his fingers pressing painfully against my hips. I try to jerk myself away, but it’s too late—he’s already found the bottle. He pulls it out and holds it up, smiling.
“Ah, there it is,” he says. “Guess you did come across it, after all, didn’t you?”
Breaking his hold on me, I stagger back, tripping on the stairs. Then I push myself back up to my feet and glare at him, feeling so very, very violated. If I had any uncertainty as to the character of this man, it's gone now.
“You’re the one who’s been poisoning her, not Christopher,” I whisper. “All this time… it was you.”
He chuckles as if it’s a light matter. “Emily, Emily. You and your harebrained ideas. Lauren’s told me all about them—how you thought Christopher murdered Tracy Walpole and Sophie Dennison. How you thought Christopher was trying to murder Lauren, too, so he could be with Sophie.” He pauses, miming confusion. “But wait. If he was going to kill Lauren so he could be with Sophie, then why would he kill Sophie? Something’s not adding up.”
“You killed Sophie and Tracy,” I say, disgusted.
He laughs again, but this time there's an edge to it.
I stare him down. My blood is boiling, my heart pounding loud enough to echo off the high mansion walls. “Why?” I ask. “What did you have to gain from Tracy and Sophie's deaths?”
“For a nosy home aide, you pay very little attention to what’s going on around you.”
My gaze is suddenly drawn to his necklace, which has fallen out of the front of his shirt. Up close, it’s clear the design is a crest of some kind, a roaring lion perched over a dead buck. Where have I seen that before? Where—
“The Walpole family crest,” I murmur, surprised. “But why…”
Then Mia’s words come back to me, and it all hits me at once. Oliver is the boy who grew up with the Walpoles, the adopted one. They lived with the Hollingsworths, and Oliver must have idolized Lauren as a child—her beauty, her success. He’s always wanted to be a part of this community, but he doesn’t fit in naturally—no more than I do.
Then Christopher came into the picture and ruined everything. He not only married Lauren, but he cheated on her as well, seducing Oliver’s adopted sister, Tracy Walpole. Oliver could've gone after Christopher directly, but that wouldn't have been good enough, would it? No, he wanted Christopher to suffer, so instead of targeting Christopher, he targeted Tracy. Then, when Christopher fell for Sophie, Oliver killed Sophie as well, again destroying the focus of Christopher’s affections.
“You love Lauren,” I murmur. “You’re not just attracted to her, not just interested in a fling—you want her.”
He stares at me and says nothing. There’s a dark hunger deep in his eyes.
“But then why poison her?” I ask. “Why try to kill her?”
“I thought she would realize what a pig Christopher is,” he says. “But somehow, against all reason, she stays loyal to him. She left me no choice.”
“If you can’t have her, nobody can, is that it?”
He says nothing.
I can’t believe this. All this time I thought Christopher was the villain, but it was Oliver—a man consumed by a toxic obsession, willing to kill for his twisted love. I feel nothing but revulsion as I stare at him.
"You're a monster," I say, but he just grins, his teeth stark against the dim light. He raises an eyebrow as if my accusations are nothing more than a mild inconvenience.
"I prefer 'determined,'" he says coolly, tucking the small bottle into his own pocket. "But let's not quibble over semantics."
“So what happens now?” I ask. “You said that if I gave you the bottle, you’d forget about the whole thing.”
He smiles patronizingly. “Oh, Emily. So innocent, so unaware. How do you survive in this world?”
Then he lunges.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
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?”
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
I try to slam the door shut, but Oliver grabs it with his hand. I kick him, but he just grabs my leg and drags me out of the car. As I land painfully on the asphalt, he continues dragging me into the grass, down toward the lake. I scream, reaching out for something to grasp, but there’s nothing.
But surely Lauren or Christopher will hear me. Surely, they'll rush out of the mansion to help. But will they do so in time?
A light flicks on in the house, then another one. They’re awake! They’re coming to find me!
I take a deep breath to scream again, but Oliver drops me hard, causing the air to leave my lungs in a pained grunt. Then he’s on me, hauling me to my feet, a hand covering my mouth.
The front door of the house opens, and Christopher walks out. I try to scream, but Oliver's hand muffles the sound. Christopher peers around, looking confused, and then makes his way to the driveway. Lauren emerges a few moments later and follows, a hand to the side of her head as if she's fighting off a headache.
My heart surges with hope. They'll find Vaughn, and when Vaughn wakes up, he'll tell them what's going on. They'll all come looking for me and stop Oliver!
When Vaughn wakes up.
And what if he doesn’t wake up for, say, an hour—even fifteen minutes? What if he doesn’t wake up at all?
Step by step, Oliver continues to drag me toward the lake. There’s no escaping his grip. The water laps at the shoreline, shining dimly under the moonlight, the water calm and still and unruffled.
I fight him every step of the way, but each desperate attempt to escape only seems to solidify his hold on me. He's stronger than I expected him to be, his grip unyielding, his face set in a cold, cruel mask devoid of any sympathy.
