S heila’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.”