Jennifer Hillier: Creep

How could I have been so fucking stupid?

S heila sat naked on the bed, staring into the barrel of the gun she’d had in her hands only moments before.

She had risked it all, and lost. Now he was going to kill her.

Ethan stood over her, his feet planted firmly on the floor. With one hand he pulled his jeans up. “You’ll never win, Sheila. You see that now, don’t you?” His jaw was tight as he pulled up his zipper. “But well played, my love.”

“Ethan-”

“Shut up.” With his free hand he grabbed his T-shirt and worked it over his head. “I admit, I believed you. You had me going. But I should know better, shouldn’t I? I’m a liar, too. Except about the killing part.” His face was unreadable. “You will be my first time. And I have to say, after everything we’ve been through, I’m actually glad it’s you.”

God, he wasn’t even making sense. He’d already told her about his first kill, about the sick, perverted, horrifying way he’d accidentally ended that girl’s life, and how he’d liked it. How it had spawned what he’d become.

He was watching her. “I know what you’re thinking, but I haven’t finished my story.” He lowered the gun an inch. “The girl didn’t die.”

Sheila stared at him, incredulous. What did he want her to say? It seemed as if he actually wanted to convince her of this new absurdity. “But you just finished telling me-”

He laughed, and it was genuine. He really was amused. “She didn’t die, Sheila. She was unconscious for a little while, that was all. She was groggy for a minute after she woke up, and her throat was killing her, but she was okay.” His eyes grew distant at the memory. “But holy shit, was she mad. She smacked me across the face so fucking hard I saw stars.”

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.