Creep - Jennifer Hillier [55]
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.”
CHAPTER : 18
She was running late. Or she wasn’t coming. Morris didn’t know what to think.
He was standing in the plush, formally decorated Garden Room of the Fairmont Olympic Hotel, BlackBerry in hand. He’d tried calling Sheila three times, and all three times it had gone to voice mail. She’d missed lunch and it was now thirty minutes past their scheduled appointment time.
He was starting to worry. She was