Creep - Jennifer Hillier [65]
He hated Michael. He hated all these men because they came into his house and took his mother away from him and did things to her he couldn’t.
Tonight her bedroom was filled with candles. They were everywhere, on the dresser, on the window ledges, on the nightstands. Mom said candlelight made women look more beautiful.
And she did look beautiful. The sex thing went on for a few hours, maybe longer. Ethan had finally fallen asleep, his head pressed against one of his mother’s long winter coats.
It was the smell of smoke that woke him.
In the dark, he sat up straight, confused at first by the intense but unmistakable odor, his nostrils working like a rabbit’s. He felt the closet door.
It was hot. Very hot.
Panic washed over him like a rogue wave. He looked through the keyhole. His mother’s bedroom was awash in bright orange flames. He scrambled to his feet, pounding on the door, screams pouring out of him.
“Mom! Mom! Mom!”
Nobody answered. The closet was locked as it always was. The house was burning down, and she had locked him in a closet.
He was trapped.
“Bye, Ethan.”
He looked up to see Ben waving at him from a few feet away. He waved back. “See you, buddy. Best of luck.” He forced himself to sound enthusiastic. “Remember what I told you about the laser,” he added, and nodded to the boy’s father.
Ben grinned. “I will. Anything else I should know?”
Ethan smiled. “Yeah. Don’t get locked in any closets.”
CHAPTER : 22
Morris missed Sheila the most in the evenings.
On a night like tonight, with the television tuned to CNN, it was hard not to see her sitting in her usual spot near the fireplace, her small feet curled under her, marking papers or skimming a magazine while keeping her ears pricked toward the TV.
Morris sat in his leather Barcalounger, his tired feet stuck in the wool house slippers he’d had for ten years. His whiskey—not the blended Johnnie Walker Red but a more expensive single-malt Macallan—sat beside him on the side table. Remnants of cold pizza were hardening on the plate next to the bottle.
He’d fallen off the wagon all the way. Back to drinking, back to junk food. So much for all the weight he’d lost last year. Not that it made much of a difference. Losing forty pounds on a body his size was like brushing a long-haired cat—some fur might come out, but there was still a whole lot more where that came from.
The phone rang, disrupting his gloom. At first he thought it was the television; it took him a second to realize it was his home phone line. Hardly anybody ever called him at home anymore save for telemarketers and a couple of golf acquaintances.
He checked the number on the call display. Private name, Seattle number. Likely a telemarketer. Should he even bother? Then again, it might be Sheila.
He picked up on the fifth ring. “Hello.”
“May I speak with Sheila Tao, please.” The woman’s voice was crisp and unfamiliar.
Morris muted the TV. “Who’s calling?”
“It’s Dr. Chang, her therapist. Am I speaking with Morris?”
“Yes.” He was totally caught off guard, and it took him a second to find his voice again. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know Sheila had a therapist.”
There was a pause on the other line. “She listed you as her emergency contact. I normally wouldn’t phone, but she missed her last appointment and hasn’t returned my calls. Would you put her on the phone, please?”
“She’s not here.” Morris rubbed his head, trying to process that his psychologist fiancée had been in therapy. Another thing she hadn’t mentioned.
“Would you tell her to call me?” The woman’s tone was careful. “I need to know she’s all right.”
“I . . .” Morris was confused. “Can’t you call her? She went to the treatment facility.”
“I’m sorry?”
Maybe he’d had too much whiskey. He rubbed his head again. “What did you say your name was?”
“Marianne Chang.”
He finally placed her name. “You