Voices drifted in from the hallway and Ethan straightened up. Through the open doorway he could see Sheila in her red Donna Karan suit as she passed, animated, chatting with another professor. No pause, not even an apprehensive glance into his office even though she knew he’d still be there.
The only thing worse than being insulted was being ignored.
Ethan waited sixty seconds, mentally picturing the length of time it would take for her to catch the elevator to the first floor. Then he bolted out of his chair and followed suit.
He made it to the parking lot in time to see Sheila drive away in her white Volvo sedan. He was on his Triumph ten seconds later.
It was barely 6:00 p.m. but the skies were already darkening, the road slick with the light rain that seemed to torture Seattleites from September to June every year. Motorcycles on wet roads were never a great idea, but Ethan wasn’t planning to do anything stupid. He was getting pretty good at tailing her. Making sure to stay a few cars back, he kept one eye on Sheila’s car and the other on the vehicles around him. Traffic on I-5 South was bumper-to-bumper, something he’d normally weave around, but he couldn’t if he wanted to keep pace with Sheila.
He’d been following her a lot the last couple of weeks. One never knew what information might be useful. Besides, everybody had secrets. If he was going to ruin her life, it would help to know everything about it first.
A little over an hour later, in a city called Renton, Ethan parked at the curb outside the Front Street Methodist Church. Sheila’s car was parked in the lot. She had entered the church through a side door a few minutes before, and Ethan, still in his helmet, was frowning, trying to figure out why the hell she was here. She wasn’t religious. If she’d suddenly found God, it was news to him.
Over the next few minutes, he watched as more cars pulled into the parking lot. Adults of all ages, races, and attire entered the church the same way Sheila had, through the side door rather than the front entrance. Ethan checked his watch. Were there normally church services at seven fifteen on a Thursday night? Wasn’t that a Sunday thing?
Ethan had never been to church, so he didn’t know. But even in his limited experience, something seemed off.
If this was a regular church thing, or maybe an evening wedding or memorial service of some kind, why weren’t people entering the church through the front door? And why weren’t people in pairs? Most people didn’t go to church alone, right?
He finally locked his bike and headed toward the side entrance, keeping his helmet on. He didn’t think this would seem weird since it was raining and the lower half of his face was completely exposed anyway. The door was sticky and it took a good yank to get it open. Stepping into a small landing, he had the choice of taking the stairs up or down, or he could walk straight through. A glass door was six feet away, leading to what he assumed was the main area of the church.
He wasn’t sure which way to go.
He peered at a bulletin board to his left, hoping it would tell him what was going on here tonight. Scores of notices on colored paper were stapled to the corkboard—bake sales, yard sales, Sunday-school updates, walking and exercise groups, offers for free Avon makeovers. He squinted to read them through his tinted visor, his scalp beginning to feel hot under the helmet.
The door in front of him swung open and a man with red hair and a wiry, ginger beard stepped through. He passed Ethan, eyeing him curiously as he headed toward the stairs leading to the basement. About two steps down he stopped and turned around.
“Are you looking for the SAA meeting?”
“Uh, yes, I am,” Ethan answered quickly. Essay meeting? What the fuck’s that?
The man sighed and shook his head. “They don’t post it on the bulletin board. It’s such crap. The church lets us use the room in the basement, and we pay a fee to use it, but they refuse to let us post even a small notice, which would clearly”—he gestured dramatically to Ethan—“help new members like yourself figure out where to go. And yet they have no problem advertising the AA and NA meetings that go on here three times a week, each. But sex addicts? Forget it. We only get the room once a week, no bulletin board, and we’re supposed to be grateful.” The man pursed his lips. “Sorry, didn’t mean to rant. It just irritates me. The meeting room’s downstairs and we start in ten minutes. I’m Dennis if you have any questions.”
Sex addicts? This was Sex Addicts Anonymous?
“Thank you.” Ethan’s mind reeled. “I’ll be right there. I just need to use the restroom first. Say, Dennis?”
The man glanced at him.
Ethan cleared his throat. “Do you guys hire professional therapists or psychologists to do some sort of counseling at these meetings?”
Dennis looked confused. “Of course not. It’s a twelve-step program like any other. Addicts helping addicts. Why?”
Ethan grinned under his visor. “Just wondering. First time and all.”
Dennis returned the smile. “You should know that today’s the first day of the rest of your life. You took an important step by coming here tonight, and you should be proud of yourself. See you inside.”
Ethan waited until Dennis was out of sight, then exited the church. He could barely contain his exhilaration as he headed back toward his bike.
The infallible Sheila Tao was a sex addict.
He wondered if Sheila’s fiancé knew and thought there was a helluva good chance the big Texan might just be as clueless as Ethan had been five minutes ago.
It was too delicious for words.
Abby looked up from her station at St. Mary’s Helping Hands. The brown hairnet might have looked ugly on anyone else, but she still managed to look gorgeous. Large blue-violet eyes searched Ethan’s face.
“Where have you been?”
He stiffened at her tone. Her voice was reproachful so he didn’t respond, just watched as she dropped a helping of mashed potatoes onto the plate in front of her. The recipient, an older woman with two missing teeth, smiled and moved on to the next station.
“You totally blew off tonight’s shift,” Abby said, wiping a drop of rehydrated potato from the side of the large tin. “We’ve been really swamped and Maxine’s pissed you didn’t call in. I didn’t know what to tell her.” Maxine was the head volunteer, in charge of scheduling.
“I’m sorry.” Ethan touched Abby’s arm. “My cell phone died. I had a last-minute meeting that took longer than expected.”
“With Dr. Tao?” Abby’s gaze was cool.
Ethan blinked. “No, with a student. A guy named Dennis.” The lie rolled off his tongue.
Abby turned back to her mashed potatoes.
Ethan couldn’t read her body language and a ripple of fear went through him. “Is there anything you need me to do now?”
“Start cleanup.” His girlfriend’s voice was clipped. “Or wait for me outside. Or go home. I don’t care.”
He touched her arm again. “You’re that mad at me?”
She shrugged off his hand. “We’ll talk later.”
He was dismissed. Chastised, he slunk into the kitchen, where another volunteer named Horace was loading the dishwasher.
“Look who decided to show up.” Horace grunted, his pockmarked face shiny under the harsh kitchen lights. “We have a schedule for a reason, rock star.” Horace jerked his head in the direction of three black garbage bags piled in the corner, bursting at the seams. “Take those out for me. Least you could do.”
Ethan’s skin immediately itched at the thought of touching garbage, but he managed a weak smile. “Sure thing, H.”
He grabbed two of the bags, his nose wrinkling at the smell. Pushing open the back door with his hip, he stepped out into the alleyway where the large metal trash bin sat. It was already overflowing with garbage, but he heaved the bags up and into the bin anyway.
One missed. Swearing under his breath, he heaved it again.
The alleyway smelled like piss and shit. It made him think of Marie, the former beauty queen from Albuquerqu
e turned meth addict and whore. He took out his small bottle of hand sanitizer from his jacket pocket and liberally doused his hands with the clear liquid, savoring the memories of the last time he’d seen her.
Marie. Who had twisted and writhed under him, helpless, while his hands were around her throat. Who had looked at him with terrified eyes, just as he liked it . . .
His groin twitched. Hands clean, he reached into his jeans to adjust himself, his fingers lingering down there a little longer than necessary. She never did get her hundred bucks. What for? Dead people don’t need money.
A voice spoke suddenly and Ethan jumped, his hand flying out of his pants.
“You a bad man,” the voice said softly, seeming to come from nowhere.
Ethan whipped around, almost dropping his hand sanitizer. The alleyway was completely dark. Only the spot he stood in was lit, thanks to the dim bulb above the soup kitchen’s back door.
“Who’s there?”
“You do bad things.” The voice was deep. It had to be a man’s. And he sounded forlorn, as if things weren’t strange enough. “Very bad things.”
Ethan’s heart thumped. He stepped away from the trash bin and closer to the door, his posture rigid.
Was it his imagination, or was the voice vaguely familiar?
“Who’s there?” Ethan hardened his voice. “Speak, motherfucker, before I call the cops.”
“Bad things happen to bad people,” the voice said, drifting away.
Ethan looked down the alleyway, first left, then right, but there was nothing but blackness.
Shaken, he pulled open the door to St. Mary’s and stepped inside quickly.
And came face-to-face with his very pissed-off girlfriend.
CHAPTER : 10
The sun was still low across the sky, and the light in the room was golden against the plush white décor. Very soothing. Sheila would have killed for an office like this, but only those in private practice were entitled to such luxury. She was an educator at heart, though at the rate she was going, not for much longer.
She sipped her coffee and stared out the window.
“Did you finish that book on grieving I gave you?” Marianne Chang asked.
“I did. It helped.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“My father’s death?” Sheila shook her head and grimaced. “No thanks. Not today.”
“I think it’s important we open up a dialogue about this again. We’ve gotten sidetracked with all this Ethan business, but we’ve been neglecting the reasons that led you here.” The therapist’s voice was soft. “The things your father did to you, his categorical denial when you confronted him—”
Sheila put up a hand. “Not today, okay?”
It was seven thirty in the morning and Marianne had agreed to meet for an early session. Not that their sessions were really sessions—Marianne was a friend first, and their conversations didn’t mirror that of a typical therapist-patient relationship.
Sheila’s anxiety was through the roof. After several days of icy, monosyllabic communication, Morris had disappeared. Sheila hadn’t heard from her fiancé in forty-eight hours, and after leaving numerous messages on Morris’s cell phone and direct line at the bank, she had finally caved and called his executive assistant directly. She was flabbergasted to learn Morris was out of town on business. Darcy wouldn’t tell her where and would only say that she’d have her boss call when he returned. Morris had never gone away without telling her.
And was it Sheila’s imagination, or had his secretary’s tone been a bit snippy?
Marianne didn’t think it was anything to be concerned about. Sheila had told her about their failed attempt at lovemaking, and Marianne was convinced that Morris was just taking some time to lick his wounds.
In any case, the last thing Sheila wanted to talk about was her dead father.
“Okay, then.” Marianne folded her hands in her lap. “Moving on. There’s something new I want to discuss with you. And I want you to hear me out before you say no.”
The therapist’s tone was ominous and Sheila looked at her in surprise. She’d never seen her friend look so serious. “You’re scaring me,” Sheila said, half-joking. “What is it?”
Marianne took a deep breath. “Do you consider me a friend?”
“You know I do.”
“You remember I had reservations about being your therapist in the beginning?”
“Yes, and we’re past all that.” Sheila had no idea where Marianne was going with this. “Clearly it’s worked out. You’ve retained your objectivity—”
“Have I?” Marianne said, her brow furrowed. “I don’t think so. I’m starting to think I’ve let our friendship get in the way of our therapy. I think I might be doing you a disservice by being your therapist. I’m not nearly as objective as I should be, and I think if you’d been treated by someone else, you might not have ended up in this mess in the first place.”
Sheila’s mouth dropped open. It was the last thing she’d expected to hear. She thought she was going to get another lecture about Ethan, or another list of reasons why Morris should have been told everything up front. She would never have guessed Marianne was doubting her own abilities as a therapist.
“What are you talking about?” Sheila was shocked. “It’s because of you I’ve been doing so well—”
Marianne put up a hand, looking tired even though the day had barely started. “No, you haven’t been doing well. If you were truly doing well, you wouldn’t have relapsed. And you did relapse, Sheila. Badly. On my watch.”
Sheila stared at her in disbelief. “You and I both know a psychologist can do only so much. Therapy only works if you make it work. I screwed up. I own that. It would have happened whether you were my therapist or not.”
“I’m not so sure. Which is why I want you to consider this.” Marianne leaned over, reaching for something on the side table. Apparently it had been there the entire time, but Sheila hadn’t noticed. “Here, take it.”
Sheila looked down at the brochure in her hand. Glossy color trifold. Serene faces pictured against a beautiful backdrop of green trees and blue sky. An italicized slogan across the bottom that read, You don’t have to do it alone. We’re here for you.
It was a pamphlet for the New Trails Treatment Center for Addiction in Roseburg, Oregon.
Sheila didn’t bother to unfold the pamphlet. “You’re kidding me, right?”
“Do I look like I’m kidding?”
“You want me to go to rehab? In Oregon?”
Her friend nodded.
Sheila opened the brochure and read it quickly, the hysteria rising in her gut. She jabbed at the page with a hard finger. “Marianne, it says this an eight-week, in-facility program. I can’t do this. I have a job. I’m getting married in two weeks. I haven’t even talked to Morris yet.”
“Then the timing is perfect.” Marianne spoke calmly, unfazed by Sheila’s anxiety. “When he finds out you’re a sex addict, you can show him that brochure. It will help him to know you’re serious about getting help.”
“You’ve got to be shitting me!” Sheila’s voice was only a few decibels shy of a shriek. “You seriously want me to go to rehab? Now?”
“I didn’t say that. But I think it should be part of the discussion, yes.” Marianne pinched the space between her eyes and sighed. “I’m not trying to make your life more complicated, Sheila. I’m trying to help you uncomplicate it. I’ve been thinking about this a lot, and I believe you need more intensive treatment. I don’t think Sex Addicts Anonymous is helping you enough. You need more.”
“I have you.”
“I’m not enough either.” Marianne’s smile was sad. “I’m your friend, right? You trust me, don’t you?”
Sheila slumped. “I can’t believe you’re springing this on me now.”
“Well, that’s where I screwed up,” Marianne said bluntly. “I wasn’t separating your therapy from our friendship. I’m trying to now, and I should have said thi
s a long time ago.” She leaned forward. “Listen to me. I want you to go to New Trails. Before the wedding, after the wedding, no matter so long as you discuss it with Morris before you get married. He deserves to have the option of backing out. If you want your relationship to survive this, you have to let him feel he has a choice in the matter. Otherwise he’ll feel like you trapped him. But regardless of what he decides, you need to go.”
Sheila took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. She felt like a rabbit caught in a trap. “I’m already committed to telling Morris everything, Marianne. As soon as I see him. But I can’t go to rehab. You don’t know what you’re asking. I don’t want the university to find out about my addiction. Ethan hasn’t released the video, and if he’s bluffing, there’s no need to—”
“I understand your logic. I agree Ethan could be blowing smoke. But that has nothing to do with this. I don’t care what you tell the university. You still need to go, whether the university knows the truth or not.”
It hurt to breathe. “I’d have to take a leave of absence. What am I supposed to say?”
“We’ll figure something out.”
Sheila stared at the plush carpet for a full minute before looking back up at Marianne, feeling more helpless than she ever thought possible. She knew Marianne was right. If their positions had been reversed, she’d be saying the exact same things. “Fine, I’ll consider it. I’ll talk to Morris, see what he thinks.” But she already knew what Morris would say. Morris would tell her to go. Without a doubt.
The question was, would he still marry her?
Sheila put her head in her hands, tears welling in her eyes. How had it come to this? She was a smart woman, a trained psychologist, an excellent teacher. How could she have made so many mistakes? “Ethan Wolfe. Jesus Christ. What was I thinking?”
Marianne, her face filled with a mixture of compassion and relief, reached across the coffee table and touched Sheila’s arm. “Not that I’ve met him, but I’d guess he’s a textbook antisocial personality. He’d have to be to take it this far.”