All we know so far is what he’s told police: Oliver was held captive beneath the floor of some psycho’s house, fed lies, and brainwashed into believing he was one of very few survivors left after an atomic bomb poisoned our air. Unreal. Oliver’s eyes dip to my cleavage, but he glances away quickly. “I enjoy wildlife,” he replies. I smile wide. It’s a happy, genuine smile, because Oliver is speaking to me. He’s engaging. He’s opening up. The sound of his voice is low and gravelly, rich and beautiful like my favorite song, and I want nothing more than to play it over and over again.
