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“Ma’am, I need you to speak louder.”
“I can’t.”
“Ma’am, if you don’t speak louder, there’s no way I can—”
“Atlas Studios.” Olivia raised her voice slightly. “Now! I’m trapped in here with a killer.”
The studio door swung open.
Shit.
She put down the phone.
“I know you’re in here, Olivia.”
It was the same voice she’d heard before, but without the Australian accent, and the tone was mocking.
Click-click.
Tap-tap.
He was unsteady, uncertain in his gait.
Itwasdark. And if he wanted to turn on the studio lights, it would be more difficult than flipping a wall switch.
“You led me right to you,” he said. “Want to know how?”
She didn’t answer. She didn’t move.
“Your friend’s blood. Your footprints tracked his blood right to this door, Olivia. It was clearly meant to be. Thank you.”
A sound came from the console in front of her.
It was the telephone, she realized. The operator’s voice squawked from the handset still dangling off the hook.
Olivia backed away still farther.
“You found a phone.” The man clicked his tongue. “That means I’ll just have to work faster.”
He stepped closer.
Her hands closed around a boom microphone stand…
Click-click.
Tap-tap.
She jumped to her feet and swung the mic stand in front of her.
Contact!
He staggered backward.
Before he could recover, she struck him again. And again.
He grunted in pain.
She threw the stand in his direction and ran. There was an almost inaudible buzz in the rear of the studio, one she often heard in institutional buildings.
