Jerry sat back in the springy, ergonomic desk chair at Torrance’s desk and wondered where the hell Morris was. He’d called him several times, unable to fight the feeling that his client had gone back up to the Lake Stevens house. He hoped not—it was ridiculous to think of the investment banker, untrained and unarmed, snooping around the house of a probable killer—but Morris was so stubborn that Jerry couldn’t put it past him. Because, frankly, it’s what Jerry would have done if the situation had been reversed and the love of his life had gone missing.
A husky voice interrupted his thoughts. Jerry glanced up from his mindless computer game to see Abby Maddox standing there. She didn’t look bad at all considering she’d just found out her boyfriend might be a murderer. Her shiny black hair was tucked behind her ears, and without makeup, she could have passed for eighteen.
“How’re you holding up?” Jerry closed his solitaire game and looked up at her. Her pale skin was luminescent under the fluorescent lights. “You must be tired.”
She sat on the edge of the desk. “Too wound up.”
“Maybe you should have gone to the motel.”
Maddox shook her head. She’d declined Kellogg’s offer to drive her there earlier, preferring instead to wait until her apartment was cleared and she could go home.
“There’s a sofa in the break room if you want to lie down,” Jerry said. “But I can’t guarantee how clean it is. More than a few cops have slept there over the years and I’m pretty sure it smells.”
This got a small laugh out of her. “Thanks, I’ll pass.” Maddox looked at him closely. “Listen, this might sound weird, but . . . I’ve seen you before, right? You followed us.”
Jerry grimaced. “Yikes. Guess I wasn’t as sneaky as I thought.”
“No, you were pretty good. I wouldn’t have noticed you at all. It’s just that Ethan was always really paranoid about stuff like that.” She averted her eyes. “I guess now I know why.”
The young woman looked so sad that Jerry had to restrain himself from putting his arm around her. “Hey, how about some coffee? It tastes like shit, but it’s hot and fresh. Just made a pot.”
She peeked into his mug and wrinkled her nose. “Tempting, but do you know if there’s any tea?”
“There wasn’t anything in the break room?”
“I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to look. I don’t exactly work here.”
Jerry stretched his arms over his head and yawned. “I don’t either, but it didn’t stop me.”
“I saw a twenty-four-hour diner a couple blocks down.” Maddox leaned on the edge of the desk and Jerry got a whiff of her scent. She smelled fresh, almost tropical. It was rather inviting, even under the circumstances. “Think it’d be okay if I went and grabbed something there? I could use some food, too.”
Jerry gave her a sympathetic glance. “You’re not supposed to leave without a police escort. Did Torrance explain that to you? You’re a material witness now. They have to keep an eye on you, for your own protection.”
“Yeah, he told me.”
“You have a place to stay in case they don’t clear your apartment tonight?”
She blinked and her face sagged a little. He noticed her eyes were moist. “No.”
Jerry mentally kicked himself for upsetting her. “Don’t worry, we’ll get it figured out.”
“You used to be a cop, right?”
“Used to.”
“Can they charge people for being blind, deaf, and stupid?”
Jerry smiled and reached out to pat her knee, but snatched his hand away before he actually made contact. His hand on her leg would not be appropriate. Slightly embarrassed, he said, “It’s not a crime to believe in your boyfriend. I’m sorry it turned out this way.”
“Diana St. Clair and Professor Tao weren’t the only times Ethan cheated, you know. There were others. I just didn’t want to face it.” Maddox looked down. “There were women at the soup kitchen we volunteered at. He took a close interest in some of them. For his thesis, he said. But some of them . . . some of them never showed up again. I always wondered—” She bit her lip, struggling to control her emotions.
Jerry sat up, alarmed. “You didn’t tell Torrance this yet, did you?”
“They’re just suspicions.” Maddox finally crumpled. She put her face in her hands as a sob escaped her throat. “I loved him. I still love him.”
Nothing made Jerry feel worse than to watch a woman cry. Especially one as beautiful and as vulnerable as this one. “Easy now. It’s going to be all right, you’ll see.” He stood up and took her gently by the arm. “Come on, let’s see if we can’t rustle you up some type of drinkable beverage. And this is a cop shop, no way there’s not a doughnut or muffin somewhere. If we can’t find any tea, maybe we can put our heads together and figure out how to make a cup of coffee that doesn’t taste like sewage.”
The young woman lifted her tear-streaked face. She took a few breaths to calm herself until the sobs subsided. “You’re very sweet. Thank you.” She turned and headed for the break room. Jerry followed, trying not to stare at her ass, firm and ripe and perfect under the tight jeans she wore.
“It’s quiet here.” Maddox looked back over her shoulder, and Jerry averted his gaze immediately. “Is it normally like this?”
“Depends. A lot of the available officers are assisting in your boyfriend’s arrest.”
“Oh. Right.”
They entered the small break room and Jerry looked around with a sigh. The smelly old couch sat against one wall, and an old television was mounted in the corner of the ceiling. The volume was low and it was playing a late-night infomercial for an exercise machine that was guaranteed to flatten your stomach in only six weeks. The sink was filled with dirty mugs, and crumbs were all over the counter. To the right of the sink, a soiled bread knife lay beside an opened bag of bagels. The room was a pigsty, not much better than a frat house.
“Sit,” Jerry said, pointing to the small table and chairs in the corner. “I’ll make the tea.”
He started opening the cupboards, his back to her, pawing through the mounds of crap inside. He could swear some of it was still here from when he’d retired three years ago. “Bingo!” He reached for a box of Earl Grey tea. A name was scrawled in black marker on the side. “You’re in luck. This is Detective Kellogg’s, but I’m sure she won’t mind.”
Behind him, Maddox sighed. “She felt sorry for me, I could tell. I bet she’d never fall for someone like Ethan. She’s too smart for that.”
Jerry thought it best to keep his thoughts about the perky Kellogg to himself. He reached for the kettle and turned on the faucet. “Ethan Wolfe is a smart guy. And a very good liar. He strikes me as the kind of person who could fool anyone.”
“You’re being kind. It’s pretty obvious I was an idiot. Looking back now, there were so many signs. I just can’t believe I didn’t see them for what they were.”
Jerry plugged the kettle into the outlet and bustled over to the fridge to look for some milk. “Like what?” he said, bending over. His nose wrinkled as he pushed some of the contents around. The fridge didn’t smell too good.
“Like when Diana died,” Maddox said. “He was her TA, but he didn’t even seem bothered by it. Considering he was the one who sliced her throat, you’d think he’d have reacted in some way. But he was like stone. It was like he felt nothing. That should have told me something.”
Jerry froze, his hand on a small container of milk he’d found stashed near the back of the fridge. Did she just say that Diana St. Clair’s throat was slashed? His mind flew back to his conversation with Mike Torrance at the Golden Monkey the week before, when his ex-partner had specifically told him that this detail had been omitted from all their press releases.
So how could Abby Maddox know about it?
The kettle whistled. He straightened up slowly, clutching the milk container in his hand. Heading to the counter, he unplugged the kettle and went about the business of fixing them both a cup of t
ea. His back to her, Jerry said casually, “Where’d you hear that? About her throat being slit?”
A full five seconds of silence.
Then in a soft voice she said, “I think I read it somewhere.”
Bullshit.
Jerry rapidly dunked the tea bags into both their mugs, his mind racing. The police definitely hadn’t released that detail to the media. No way in hell Maddox could know about it. Unless Wolfe had told her. Unless she’d been there when he’d done it. Did she know more than she was telling? What was she hiding? Maybe she knew all along that Wolfe had committed the murders, but she was afraid for her own life if she told anyone. Maybe—
Before his thoughts could fully form, Maddox was right behind him.
Her slender arms encircled his waist and he could feel her head leaning softly against his back. “Jerry.” Her voice had dropped to a throaty whisper and she pulled him closer. “Thank you for being here with me. You’re really helping me through this night, and I appreciate it more than words. I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t here.”
Jerry stiffened in surprise, almost knocking over one of the mugs. “Uh . . . Miss Maddox . . .” He put his dark hands on top of her milky white forearms. “I don’t think—”
Before he could finish his sentence, her hand was under his chin. Her wrist jerked hard, just once.
As the bread knife slid into his throat, like a Ginsu cutting into a steak, Jerry had one last thought before he lost consciousness.
How could I have been so fucking stupid?
CHAPTER : 41
Sheila sat naked on the bed, staring into the barrel of the gun she’d had in her hands only moments before.
She had risked it all, and lost. Now he was going to kill her.
Ethan stood over her, his feet planted firmly on the floor. With one hand he pulled his jeans up. “You’ll never win, Sheila. You see that now, don’t you?” His jaw was tight as he pulled up his zipper. “But well played, my love.”
“Ethan—”
“Shut up.” With his free hand he grabbed his T-shirt and worked it over his head. “I admit, I believed you. You had me going. But I should know better, shouldn’t I? I’m a liar, too. Except about the killing part.” His face was unreadable. “You will be my first time. And I have to say, after everything we’ve been through, I’m actually glad it’s you.”
God, he wasn’t even making sense. He’d already told her about his first kill, about the sick, perverted, horrifying way he’d accidentally ended that girl’s life, and how he’d liked it. How it had spawned what he’d become.
He was watching her. “I know what you’re thinking, but I haven’t finished my story.” He lowered the gun an inch. “The girl didn’t die.”
Sheila stared at him, incredulous. What did he want her to say? It seemed as if he actually wanted to convince her of this new absurdity. “But you just finished telling me—”
He laughed, and it was genuine. He really was amused. “She didn’t die, Sheila. She was unconscious for a little while, that was all. She was groggy for a minute after she woke up, and her throat was killing her, but she was okay.” His eyes grew distant at the memory. “But holy shit, was she mad. She smacked me across the face so fucking hard I saw stars.”
Sheila stared at him, feeling as if her brain were swelling inside her head as she tried to process what he was saying. “I don’t understand.”
“She was mad because I’d gone too far. I hadn’t let go when she wanted me to. Believe me, I never made that mistake with her again.” He shook his head. “Eventually we found . . . other ways to satisfy my need for . . . that. And we haven’t been apart one single day since then. It’s been over seven years.”
Sheila didn’t get it. She couldn’t see the connection.
“Hold on,” Ethan said. “It’ll come to you.”
It did, an instant later, after she had done the math.
“Seven years . . . oh God,” she said, shocked. “Of course. Your girlfriend, Abby. You’ve been together all this time?”
He nodded.
“And you’ve kept it from her all this time?”
“Kept what from her?”
“That you’re . . . a killer?” The words sounded absurd, even here, even after all the days locked away in this godforsaken basement by this godforsaken monster.
Ethan’s jaw tightened. “Excuse me? I’m not a killer.”
It was dizzying trying to keep up with him, and Sheila felt as if she were the one losing her mind. She worked hard to keep her voice patient. “Ethan, those bodies in the next room. Those dead women—”
“I didn’t kill any of them, Sheila.” Ethan frowned, then stood up and began to pace the room again. “I’m a lot of things, but I’m not a murderer. I admit I fantasize about it . . .” He looked at her, a guilty expression on his face. “But I haven’t acted on it. Yet.”
Sheila tried to make sense of it. It was hard to figure out where Abby fit into all this. Maybe Ethan had dissociative identity disorder, also known as multiple personalities. It was the only explanation that fit, not that it mattered now.
Ethan frowned again, the lines in his face deeper. “I might have had fantasies, yes, but I also have restraint. Those women, they come with me willingly. I have . . . sexual needs. And they’re willing to play along. Sometimes I give them money. But I don’t force them.”
Stepping toward her, he raised the gun high again. “I resent that you think I’m a psychopath.” His face turned pink with anger. “Apologize, Sheila.” He pressed the gun hard to her forehead, just between her eyes, and it hurt.
“I’m sorry.” The words came out a whimper. There was no point in arguing with people who were delusional. There was no way to win—their logic defied reason. She folded herself against the headboard. “I misunderstood. I’m sorry.”
“How could you misunderstand?” Ethan looked down at her with what appeared to be genuine hurt and confusion. “I’m not a killer. I only clean up the mess. Her mess. Always her mess. Not mine. She plays games. How can you not get that?” He shook his head in disbelief, the gun never moving from the spot in the center of Sheila’s forehead.
Once again, she had no idea what he was talking about.
“This house is where I hide her mess. Remember Diana St. Clair? We were hooking up, I’m sure you knew that. It was your class and not much gets by you.”
He started pacing again and Sheila crumpled when the gun was removed from her forehead. “Did you know Diana was stabbed forty times?” Ethan’s face was pained, his eyes moist. “Forty fucking times. It was in the papers. But instead of putting her in there”—he pointed toward the workroom with his free hand—“she made me drop Di’s body into Puget Sound. The cruelest way for her to be found. And poetic, you know? But it was a lesson for me, for stepping out of line. I’m not allowed to have feelings for them. Feelings fuck up everything.”
Sheila tried to make sense of his words. Something in them rang true, but who was the she he was referring to?
Ethan stared at her, his gray eyes dull and sad. “She lets me have them. She points them out at St. Mary’s. Lets me have whoever I want. Then she kills them. That’s why I brought you here. She’s wanted you dead for a long time. Because she knows I care about you. The way I cared about Di.” He shook his head. “But I never wanted this. I thought I could buy us time, but Morris just won’t give up—”
Sheila’s head snapped up. “Morris is alive?”
Ethan stopped talking immediately. His eyes flickered away.
The son of a bitch. He’d been lying the whole time. Morris was alive. Sheila’s heart surged with so much joy she thought she might faint.
“Yes, I lied,” Ethan said bluntly. “But it’s too late now. You can’t go back to him. I don’t know that I want to go back to her, but she’s all I know. I don’t know who I am without Abby.”
Abby. Abby was the murderer? Holy shit. Sheila tried desperately to process this, to figure out what it all meant, bu
t she was still reeling from the news that Morris was alive. In the end, that was all that mattered. Oh, Morris . . .
Ethan clicked off the safety. “I want you to know, Sheila, that you were special to me. I really did love . . .” His voice trailed off.
Forcing herself to focus, Sheila gave it one last try, even though she knew it wouldn’t do any good. “Then please let me go.”
“Get on your knees.” His voice hardened. “Don’t make me ask you twice.”
The harsh truth washed over her. She wasn’t going to survive this. It was going to end, right now.
But somehow, it was bearable. Morris was okay. He was safe. Sheila hadn’t caused his death. He was out there somewhere, and he would live a long, healthy life. He would be happy.
She did as she was instructed, feeling a sudden numbness pass through her. It was almost as if she were dissociating from herself. A protective mechanism, she knew. There was nothing left to say. No amount of pleading would change this.
Sheila closed her eyes and tried to prepare for the end, hoping that by the time she felt the bullet rip through her skull, she’d be dead.
CHAPTER : 42
The last time Morris had felt this scared was during a football game—and not even one he’d played in the NFL.
December 31, 1980. The Bluebonnet Bowl. If he could get through that, surely he could get through this. Closing his eyes, he forced himself back to that night.
Longhorns versus Tar Heels. Fourth quarter, two minutes left, down by three, Texas had the ball. A twenty-one-year-old Morris in the huddle, listening to the quarterback call the play. His stomach burned with a mixture of fear and ferociousness, and he was hyperaware of the NFL scouts sitting in the first three rows of the Astrodome near the fifty-yard line. He’d vomited, some of it landing on his own shoes. It hadn’t mattered. All that had mattered was winning.