Creep

  He managed to hide it, at least at work. He was hardworking and affable, and the bank’s clients enjoyed his football stories and loud sense of humor. He moved up through the ranks with relative ease, thanks in part to his father.

  But life at home was a different story. Morris was filled with an anger he couldn’t control, and the drinking only made it worse. He was a distant, impatient father, and a harsh, resentful husband. The littlest thing would set him off. Every argument with Lenore seemed to end with something in the house—a vase, a stack of dishes, their framed wedding photo—being smashed to pieces.

  Like many alcoholics, Morris refused to acknowledge he had a drinking problem. Lenore, codependent and terrified to raise three boys by herself, stuck it out despite the marriage being a farce. Eventually she found a support group, who made her realize she’d never change him and that she could, and would, survive without him.

  They were both better off now, though Morris wouldn’t exactly consider them friends. Lenore was still living in Texas, happily remarried to a lawyer who apparently hated football.

  A few years after the divorce, Morris accepted a job at Bindle Brothers in Seattle, and he moved out of Texas for the second time in his life. The boys were finally out of high school and it seemed like a good time for a fresh start.

  The job was satisfying, but it was lonely being in a new place. It was hard to meet women his age, and most of the guys at work were married. So he didn’t have much of a social life. The pounds began to creep on—too much television, beer, and takeout. As he gained weight, his bad knee began to hurt again. Then the other knee began to creak. Exercise became torturous.

  When he met Sheila, he was still in denial about his drinking. Even when it began to affect his work—so much so that he was told by Bob Bindle Jr., the managing partner of the investment bank, to start Alcoholics Anonymous or lose his job—he still thought it wasn’t that big a deal.

  It was Sheila Tao who gave him the kick in the ass he needed. He’d had a crush on her long before anything romantic happened between them, but the thought that something might happen if he cleaned up his act was enough to spur him on. A few weeks after meeting her, he joined AA.

  When he’d completed all twelve steps a year later, Sheila was the first person he called. By then he was completely in love with her and determined to win her heart. He was over the moon to discover she felt the same way. When he kissed her for the first time, just before midnight at the end of their first date, holding the bag with the goldfish he’d won for her, he’d felt sixteen again. They’d been inseparable ever since . . . she was his whole world.

  As clichéd as it was, Morris was a better man because of her.

  His Bloody Caesar arrived. Before he even took the first sip, he asked Suki to bring him another. He ignored the look on the flight attendant’s face—yes, he was sure he wanted it, and, no, he didn’t need a lecture.

  He’d never had a problem making decisions. But he did have a problem with quitting.

  Halfway through his fifth drink, Morris made up his mind. He was going to stay with Sheila. He would marry her on Saturday, as planned. They could work everything out after the wedding. Every addict deserved a second chance, and he was damn well going to bet on her the way she’d bet on him. He was in it for the long haul.

  But goddammit if he wasn’t gonna get good and drunk first.

  CHAPTER : 17

  Sheila’s wrists and ankles burned from the handcuffs. After three days of being chained to the bed, her skin was raw, her back and shoulders ached, and she was constantly disoriented from whatever sedative Ethan was mixing into her water.

  He’d left the TV on, tuned to a channel that played old sitcoms. Sheila couldn’t stay awake long enough to watch an entire episode of anything, so she stared up at the white ceiling instead. Her greasy hair was sticking to her cheeks and forehead in itchy clumps she couldn’t swipe away. Her teeth—unbrushed since she’d been here—felt coated in wet cotton. She tried not to think about her full bladder. The adult diaper Ethan was making her wear was dry because she refused to pee in it.

  She wiggled the fingers on her left hand to keep the blood flowing. Her engagement ring was gone. She knew Ethan had taken it and wondered abstractly if he was planning to pawn it or keep it as a trophy of some sort. She’d never ask him. Her questions aggravated him. He’d talk when he was ready.

  The room was large and sterile, with a ceiling that appeared to stretch up forever. From her position on the bed, she couldn’t see any windows or doors, though a vent directly above her head funneled in fresh air. The only light in the room came from the overhead lights, which Ethan kept dimmed. A bottle of water and the remote control for the television sat on the bedside table next to her, but she couldn’t quite reach either. Against the wall across from her was a brown leather sofa where Ethan usually sat when he came to feed her. He never stayed long.

  Sheila decided it was good he was keeping her tired. It helped pass the time. If not for the sedatives, the hours would have been agonizing. She didn’t have an appetite so she couldn’t eat much, though she did try. It angered him if she didn’t at least take a few bites—it was as if he thought her rude for not eating the food he brought.

  So far, unless the chafed wrists and ankles counted, Ethan hadn’t hurt her. But she had no doubt he was going to. The anticipation of what was to come was the worst part of all.

  Sheila considered herself to be a pretty good judge of character—most psychologists were—so how was it possible she’d been involved with Ethan sexually for three months without having the slightest clue as to who he really was? Never in her wildest, darkest dreams could she have envisioned she’d be locked up here, that any of this could happen. She and Marianne had pegged Ethan as a sociopath, yes, and blackmail had come as naturally to him as breathing . . . but kidnapping and murder?

  Diana St. Clair’s face flitted through her mind. Ethan had killed the beautiful young woman—Sheila was certain of this now. To think, the comparison to Ted Bundy hadn’t been so absurd after all.

  A door slammed from somewhere on the other side of the wall, jolting her. She whimpered as her wrists rubbed painfully against the cuffs once again.

  Footsteps approached, and every muscle in her body tensed.

  “How are we doing today?” Ethan’s head popped into view. “Miss me?”

  Just the sight of him filled her with fear. But there was no point in screaming—the room was soundproofed and her shrieks were absorbed into the walls.

  “I have to use the bathroom.” Her voice was hoarse. She cleared her throat, but didn’t ask for water. She wanted to keep a clear head long enough to try to talk to him. “I really have to go.”

  “So go.”

  She couldn’t. Not in front of him. Not in a diaper. It was too humiliating. She’d have to wait and let it happen in her sleep, as she had the last couple of times, so he could change it while she slept.

  He smiled. It was the first time she’d seen him smile in the past couple of days. Something had shifted.

  “Can I ask you a question?” she said.

  “That in itself is a question.”

  Sarcasm. Decidedly normal for him. He was in a better mood. A good sign.

  “How come you’re not claustrophobic in this room? No natural light, no windows. Why aren’t you a basket case?”

  Ethan snorted. “That’s what you’ve been lying here thinking about?”

  “Yes.” It wasn’t, but she needed to get him talking.

  Ethan looked around the sterile room and shrugged. “I’m home.”

  Home. This huge white room with no windows was home? But of course she knew that all phobias stemmed from fear—fear of losing control. And Ethan was in complete control here. He would decide if she lived or died. It was a terrible thought.

  “You can change the channel on the TV, you know.” He frowned at the flickering screen. “You don’t have to watch reruns all day.”

  Maybe it was
the banality of his words, or the casual tone of his voice, or the sedative that had worn off, but something inside her snapped. “I can’t reach the remote, you piece of shit.”

  He smiled. “Aren’t we in a winning mood?”

  “Fuck you.” She sounded like a petulant teenager, but she didn’t care.

  He chuckled and reached toward the bedside table. “Here,” he said, putting the remote control directly into her cuffed hand. “Now you can watch whatever you want. CNN is channel forty-four. Didn’t you once tell me you had a crush on Anderson Cooper? Hey, do you think I’ll look like him when I’m his age?”

  Sheila opened her fingers and the remote control slipped to the floor, landing soundlessly on the industrial carpet. She spoke slowly, enunciating every word. “News. Flash. You. Are. A. Fucking. Psychopath.”

  Ethan’s face went still. “Watch yourself,” he said, staring at her.

  A chill went up her spine. He maintained eye contact for a few seconds as she held her breath.

  “Okay, time to make some calls,” Ethan said, oddly cheerful. He pulled her BlackBerry out of his pants pocket.

  Sheila let out a breath at the sudden change of direction. “It won’t work,” she said, staring at her small black phone with sudden longing. “The battery was already low on Thursday night at the meeting.”

  Ethan smiled, pressing the button on the phone to turn it on. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about that. It’s got enough juice, and we’ll only keep it on for a minute or two. Don’t want anybody trying to triangulate your signal.”

  “So you do realize people are looking for me?” The desperation in her voice overpowered the confidence she was trying to fake. “Which means you know this is stupid. Have you thought about this at all? It’s Sunday, and I’ve been here for three days. Everybody knows I’m missing by now.”

  “Aren’t we arrogant,” he said without looking up. His thumb moved across the trackpad as he scrolled through her data. “I’m sorry to inform you, my dear, but nobody is looking for you. You weren’t scheduled to work Friday, and Morris has been away in Japan. You’re not much of a social butterfly, so I doubt you missed any parties. And you have no living family. Ergo, if someone has indeed called you, it hasn’t been long enough for them to think anything’s wrong.” He chuckled again. “Sorry to burst your bubble.”

  “You son of a bitch.”

  He looked up, his gray eyes cold. “I’m not going to tell you again. Easy with the names. Why do you want to piss me off? I’m in a good mood today.” He found what he was looking for and held up the phone so she could see the screen. “Morris’s home number. You’re going to call him and leave a detailed message on his answering machine. Then you’re going to call Dean Simmons at the university.”

  “What?”

  “We don’t want people to worry, do we?” He waved the phone in her face. “I checked your schedule. You have an appointment today at the Fairmont with the wedding planner. But you’re having lunch with your fat fuck of a fiancé first. Thank you for being so detailed in your appointment calendar, by the way. And as a matter of fact,” he said, checking the time on the phone, “it appears you’re running late. Morris is there waiting for you right now, no doubt starving even though his body fat alone could sustain a small African tribe. So you’re going to give him a call at home—where’s he’s not—and leave a message there. Don’t you fret about finding the right words. I’ll tell you exactly what to say. We’ll rehearse it first.”

  Sheila stared at him in disbelief. “No way. I’m not doing it.” She shook her head. “I’ll scream. I’ll tell him to call the police.”

  Ethan sighed. “I was afraid of that. I see a little incentive is necessary.”

  He set the phone down on the sofa and disappeared behind the wall. Sheila guessed another room was there and wondered how big this place was. She heard a faint beeping sound—was he punching numbers into a keypad?

  Her BlackBerry lay on the sofa just a few feet away. She couldn’t take her eyes off it—she’d never wanted anything so badly. But there was no way to reach it. The bastard had left it there to taunt her.

  He was back a moment later with two items and a cocky swagger.

  “Gun to your head, or knife to your throat?” Ethan’s tone was boisterous, his eyes full of mischief.

  He held up one, then the other, letting her get a good look at both. The knife was slim, a surgeon’s blade. The gun was small and silver.

  They were equally horrifying.

  Ethan smiled. “I’ll let you pick. Though personally, I’d go with the gun. The knife’s super sharp, and I wouldn’t want to slice you by accident.”

  Sheila opened her mouth to speak, but all that came out was another whimper.

  Ethan sat on the edge of the bed. “Now, I want you to listen carefully because I’m going to tell you exactly what you need to say. If you do it right, I’ll let you live a little while longer.” His laughter sounded completely genuine. He was enjoying every second of this. “I know, right? You’re never getting out of here anyway, so why should you make the call?”

  Sticking the gun in the waistband of his pants, he moved closer with the knife outstretched until the delicate point rested against the spot just above her carotid artery. “Because if you don’t,” he said, answering his own question, “I won’t just kill you. I’ll kill Morris, too. Capiche?”

  The point of the knife dug into the thin skin at Sheila’s throat. She froze.

  “Want to see something else?” Ethan changed gears yet again. He tossed the knife onto the sofa and Sheila slumped, her body a rag doll of relief.

  Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out something small and shiny. He held it until it was just inches from her face inside his upturned palm. Sheila recognized it instantly. Her stomach did a somersault.

  “Do you know what this is?” he asked.

  Of course she did. It was Morris’s cuff link. The one he thought he’d lost, the Christmas gift from his sons. There was no mistaking it.

  “Yes,” she said, choking.

  “I thought you would.” Ethan looked satisfied. “I’ll leave it here, on top of the TV, where you can look at it. Hopefully it will serve as a reminder that if you try and fuck with me, you and your fat fuck of a fiancé will die. Painfully.”

  He leaned in close, and she could smell his cinnamon breath. “Because this is how close I’ve been to him, Sheila. I took it right off his fucking wrist, Sheila.”

  The thought of his being so close to Morris made her want to throw up.

  Ethan smiled. “So, do we have an understanding?”

  She nodded.

  “Good. Now pay attention. Here’s what I want you to say.”

  CHAPTER : 18

  She was running late. Or she wasn’t coming. Morris didn’t know what to think.

  He was standing in the plush, formally decorated Garden Room of the Fairmont Olympic Hotel, BlackBerry in hand. He’d tried calling Sheila three times, and all three times it had gone to voice mail. She’d missed lunch and it was now thirty minutes past their scheduled appointment time.

  He was starting to worry. She was never late. That was his flaw.

  Beside him stood Carmen Khan, the hotel’s assistant director of catering and events, also known as the wedding planner. Though her demeanor was pleasant, he knew the woman was annoyed because she’d checked her watch four times in the last ten minutes.

  Morris had only been in the Garden Room once before, and it was grander and more elegant than he remembered. The room was filled with natural light. The thirty-foot-high Palladian windows offered breathtaking views of downtown Seattle, but it still felt warm and inviting. White table linens offset the luxuriously patterned teal carpet, and the tropical trees that framed the windows added a lush and exotic ambience. As usual, Sheila’s taste was impeccable.

  He faked a smile as the woman checked her watch one more time. “I’m really sorry about this, Ms. Khan. She’s never late. I can only gue
ss that something held her up.”

  Carmen Khan returned his smile, but her shiny lips were pressed together too tightly for it to be genuine. “I understand, things happen. I’m available for another thirty minutes, but I do have another appointment at three. Did you want to try calling Dr. Tao again? Or do you want to go ahead and sign off on the preparations? There are only a few minor things left to be decided, and I’m sure between the two of us we can handle it. Worse comes to worst, she can call me tomorrow and make changes.”

  Morris didn’t know what to do. Sheila had planned everything and he had no idea what she wanted or didn’t want. Other than the fittings for his tuxedo, he’d been content to sign the checks and let her do all the work.

  “I’ll try her again,” he said. “Though I don’t think her phone’s even on.”

  “Would she have left a message with you somewhere else?” The woman’s tone was polite, but her unnatural smile remained.

  “I’m not usually at the office on Sundays.” Morris thought for a moment. “But I suppose it’s possible.”

  Carmen Khan stifled a sigh. “Well, I have to make a call myself anyhow. Why don’t I meet you back here in five minutes? If you can’t reach her, I suppose we could reschedule for Tuesday, though that really is cutting it close.”

  Morris agreed, and Ms. Khan walked away briskly. When she was out of sight, he pressed speed dial number two on his phone to call Sheila’s BlackBerry. But just as the previous three tries, it went straight to voice mail. He had no choice but to leave another message.

  “Honey, it’s me again. It’s two thirty-three now. The wedding woman is getting pissy. She’s got a stick up her ass something awful, and I’m scared she’s gonna combust if you don’t get here soon. We can reschedule for Tuesday, so if I don’t hear from you in the next five minutes, that’s what I’m gonna do. Call me.” He hesitated, then added, “I love you. If you’re scared to see me, don’t be. We’re gonna be okay.”