How many bullets were in a gun that size? Was it fully loaded? Was there some kind of safety mechanism she had to turn off before it would fire? She cursed herself for not taking Morris up on his offer to teach her how to shoot a gun. Then again, Morris had hunting rifles, which probably didn’t work the same way at all. Was she supposed to just point and pull the trigger? What if she missed? Did the gun reload automatically or would she have to do something to… chamber it? Was that even the right word?
The questions swirled around her head like ingredients in a recipe doomed to fail. The longer she stared at Ethan’s motionless body, the more desperate she felt to make a move, but she couldn’t decide if the risk was worth it. What if he came at her? She wouldn’t hesitate to put a bullet between his eyes. Assuming she could hit her target.
Then what? With Ethan dead and no code to get past the door, what next? The gun looked so small and the door was heavy-she had banged on it plenty of times when he wasn’t around. It felt thick and impenetrable. Could bullets that small blast through it? If they couldn’t, she’d be stuck down here with his dead and rotting body. Oh, God. She’d die a slow, painful death from starvation because nobody knew where she was. Hell, she didn’t know where she was.
Unless… unless there was a phone in Ethan’s bag somewhere. She had never seen one, but that didn’t mean one didn’t exist. Her own phone might be in there. Wherever this place was, it had cell phone reception-he had made her call Morris’s answering machine from her BlackBerry and the message had gone through just fine.
Yes, it was definitely worth the risk.
She planted her bare feet on the floor and stood up. She eased toward Ethan, afraid to breathe.
Three steps in, he opened his eyes.
“Don’t even think about it.”
His voice was perfectly clear. His hand moved to the butt of the gun. Her heart sank. “What are you talking about?” she said, backtracking. “I was going to the bathroom.”
He sat up slowly, never taking his eyes off her. “Don’t fuck with me, Sheila. You should see the look on your face. You were going for the gun, weren’t you?”
“Of course not. I wouldn’t even know how to use it.”
He took the gun out of his waistband and rested it on his thigh, keeping his finger on the trigger. “I thought things were better between us. Why do you want to fuck that up?”
“Okay.” She relented immediately. Ethan’s face was pink with anger and this was not the time to play stupid. “Okay, I was looking at it. It makes me nervous, Ethan. It scares me.”
“I thought we were building trust. This really disappoints me.” His bleary eyes were sad.
Sheila stood her ground. “Trust? You want to build trust? You can start by getting rid of that thing. What do you need it for? I can’t overpower you, and even if I could, I don’t know the codes to get out. I’ve done nothing since I’ve been here to make you not trust me. You could cut me a little slack and get rid of the gun.”
Ethan seemed to be listening. He slipped the gun back into the waistband of his jeans. “I’ll think about it.”
“Think harder.”
He chuckled. “You sound like my mother.”
“I thought your mother was dead,” she said, taking advantage of the opening. The tension had passed. They were okay again.
“She is.”
“Did you kill her?”
Ethan didn’t blink. “Ha. Right. I was just a kid when she died.”
There was a minimum age requirement for monsters? “Sorry,” she said, attempting to sound sincere.
“I know you don’t give a shit. That’s okay. Neither do I. She died in a house fire.”
“What happened?”
He snorted and settled back into the sofa. “You want to know this stuff? Fine. My father left us when I was five and my mother went batshit crazy. She died when I was ten. Burned the house down.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not.”
“Why not? The death of a parent is one of the most damaging things that can happen to a child.” Or an adult. Her father’s face flitted through her mind. She pushed it away.
“You trying to headshrink me, Dr. Tao?”
“Just making conversation. Were you in the house?”
“Yep.” His voice sounded robotic. No anger, grief, or bitterness. His jaw stayed relaxed. “I was locked in the closet, as usual. Neighbor smelled the smoke, heard me screaming, pulled me out. It was all very dramatic. Would have made a great after-school special about the dangers of playing with candles.”
“They couldn’t save your mother?”
“Her dress caught fire.” The corners of his mouth twitched and she realized with horror that he was trying not to smile. “She died in the hospital three days later. Third-degree burns over eighty percent of her body.” His face looked dreamy. “I like to imagine that she was in great pain when she finally went, but she was unconscious and never woke up.”
Sheila shuddered.
“I got a nice, fat inheritance when I turned eighteen,” he continued, his eyes blank and staring into nothing. “Insurance from the house, the trust she had from the grandparents I never met. Came to just over two million bucks.”
Sheila’s shock was genuine. “That’s a lot of money.” And it explained a lot. The souped-up vintage motorcycle, for one. A thought occurred to her then. “Do you own this place? Whatever this is?”
“This is my house, yes.”
“So why pretend to be a poor, starving student?”
“When did I ever pretend?” Ethan shrugged. “People assume. I don’t correct them.”
“You’re awfully young to be a millionaire.”
“You think so?” He finally turned his gaze toward her. “How much money does Morris have, anyway?”
Somehow their conversations always drifted back to Morris, which frightened her. “I don’t know, I’ve never asked him. It never mattered. I make my own money, you know that.”
“Just making conversation.”
Silence filled the room and she felt a desperate need to say something before Ethan retreated inside his head. Taking a deep breath, she blurted, “So why do you do what you do?”
His blank gaze became more focused. “Which is what, exactly?”
“You’re a master’s student in psychology.” She cleared her throat and spoke in her best professorial voice. “Why are you the way you are? What possesses you to do the things you do?”
He laughed, his face a picture of delight. “What, you want me to headshrink myself? That’s a first. Planning to teach a course on antisocial personality disorder, Dr. Tao?” He saw her expression and laughed again. “What, you don’t think I can diagnose myself?”
“That’s your diagnosis?”
“I was being facetious.” He rubbed his head, his eyes bright with amusement. “ Au contraire, I would say I’m a highly intelligent, highly motivated individual with good impulse control.”
“So you don’t think you’re a psychopath?”
“Psychopath,” Ethan repeated. “Let’s see. The definition according to the Hare Psychopathy Checklist is ‘a predator who uses charm, manipulation, intimidation, sex, and violence to control others and satisfy his own needs. A psychopath lacks empathy and conscience, takes what he wants and does what he pleases, and violates social norms and expectations without guilt or remorse.’” He finished his recitation with a raised eyebrow, his gaze fixed on Sheila. “That’s half the people I know. Including you.”
“I don’t-”
“Ever bumped a car in the parking lot and not told the owner? Ever sweet-talked a salesclerk into giving you a better deal on something? Ever seduced a guy to get what you want? With no feelings of guilt afterward?” Ethan raised an eyebrow. “We all do it.”
“There are limits. We don’t all rape, kidnap, and murder.”
“Is that what you think I do?”
Sheila stared at him. “Isn’t it? I am here, after all.”