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 m e, 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, but 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
T he 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.
This felt like that, multiplied by a hundred. Sheila might very well be trapped inside Wolfe’s house, and Morris was so sick with worry he thought he might vomit right now.
He wondered what he must look like at this moment-a hulk of a man standing in front of a big black Cadillac, scoping out Wolfe’s house in the middle of the night. Morris had made it past the old security guard at the gate without any trouble-Henry thought he was a cop. But if anyone saw him, the Remington 700 hunting rifle tucked under his arm, surely they’d call the police.
Let ’em come. Anything to get their heads out of their asses and over here, where they belonged.
Morris approached the rambler at 3513 Maple Lane. He took the three steps up to the front door quickly, knees creaking in protest. Hesitating for only a second, he rang the doorbell and got his weapon ready. The rifle was loaded, though he didn’t want to have to use it. But he would, if it meant saving Sheila’s life. Or his own. In that order.
Like the last time he’d been here, he heard the bell ring clearly through the stained-glass window panels on either side of the door. And, like the last time, there was no movement from inside. The house was dark. He rang the bell once more, waited another moment, then gave it a good bang with his fist.