Creep - Jennifer Hillier [68]
Her bedside reading lamp was still on. The bed, though made, was slightly rumpled, as if she’d just been lying on top of it. A novel was lying open and facedown next to the indent left by her body. Her reading glasses were beside the book.
It was all so peculiar—it didn’t even look as if Sheila had left in a hurry. It was as if she’d left knowing she’d be back right away. He was certain the police officers, if they ever arrived, would agree.
He felt every inch the intruder as he sat on the edge of her queen-size bed. He was invading the wall of privacy she’d so carefully constructed, and it made him uncomfortable. He had been in her bedroom only half a dozen times, if that. They weren’t having sex and she had no television here, so there’d never been much reason for him to come upstairs. Now he was alone in her room, trying desperately to get inside her head. He picked up the novel she was reading. The latest thriller from Jeffery Deaver. Morris had never heard of the guy.
He opened the top drawer of her nightstand and pawed through it. Hand lotion, another book by another author he’d never heard of, a few pens, receipts from various clothing stores. No recent purchases. He opened the second drawer.
And stared into it, his jaw dropping open.
It was a box of condoms. Jumbo pack. Trojans. And ribbed . . . for her pleasure.
The box was open. Morris looked inside, knowing damn well what he was going to find but needing to see it anyway.
A jumbo pack came with twenty-four condoms. In this box, only six remained.
The doorbell chimed three floors down and he jumped.
Morris gave his statement to the Seattle PD officers, trying hard to maintain a sense of professionalism. But in between every sentence was the nearly empty box of condoms, glowing like a fluorescent beacon in his head.
It didn’t help to know that she had at least practiced safe sex. No, sir, not one bit.
“So you don’t live here?” The younger detective was a petite woman named Kim Kellogg. Dressed smartly in a tailored pantsuit, she’d been making notes the entire time using a small black leather notepad she kept clipped to her belt. Her partner, Detective Mike Torrance, was wearing a shirt that needed ironing and a tie that looked outdated. He had been listening to most of the exchange without comment, his hawk eyes missing nothing.
“No,” Morris said. “But I am—was—her fiancé. I haven’t seen or heard from her since she left a message calling off our wedding.”
“When were you supposed to get married?”
“This Saturday.”
“And she called you from where?”
“I don’t know. She didn’t say.”
“She called you on your cell phone?”
“No, the home phone.”
“Did you check the call display?”
“I can’t remember. I was upset when I got home.”
“Can you check it when you get home and give me the number she called from?”
“Certainly.”
Torrance cleared his throat, interrupting them. He had a jawline full of razor bumps, and his short black hair stuck straight up from his scalp like he’d been electrocuted. “So, Mr. Gardener, if you don’t live here, you must have a key to get in.”
Morris suddenly wondered if he was going to be arrested for trespassing. “I do,” he lied. “We were engaged, after all.”
Detective Torrance’s face was expressionless. “And why is it you think something’s happened to your fiancée?”
Morris hesitated. “Truth be told, I don’t know what to think.”
Torrance stared at him. “Then why are we here, Mr. Gardener? Either you’re reporting her missing or you’re not.”
Kellogg was jotting everything down furiously, her pencil making loud scratching noises against the paper. Torrance frowned at her as if he wanted her to stop.
Morris rubbed his head. “It feels like something’s not right. Her house is messy. She wouldn’t leave it like this if she knew she was going away for a while. It would have bothered her. And her fish is dead.”
“Fish?”
“Her pet goldfish. It’s dead.”
Torrance and Kellogg exchanged a look Morris couldn’t decipher. “Let’s go see,” Torrance said, and Morris led the way to Sheila’s study.
Detective Kellogg