loudly to the frazzled clerk.
Trying to tune them out, Sheila mentally strategized her next move. Dammit, she had no choice but to call Lenore in Texas. She shuddered; that was bound to be an awkward conversation. Morris and his ex hadn’t parted amicably, and Sheila wasn’t even sure if the woman was aware her ex-husband was getting remarried.
Her thoughts were disrupted by a movement at the store window. Through the fancily dressed mannequin displays, Sheila caught a glimpse of a face, blurry through the rain-streaked glass. The little hairs at the back of her neck suddenly pricked.
Someone was watching her.
She strode to the double glass doors where there was a clear view of the street. The man was already walking away. The rain made it difficult to see clearly, but something about him was familiar. Her breath caught in her throat.
She watched through the watery glass as the man sauntered down the wet sidewalk toward his green and chrome motorcycle, hands stuck casually in the pockets of his worn jeans. Zipping up his leather jacket, he threw a leg over the bike and slid a shiny black helmet over his short, mussed hair.
That walk. Those jeans. The scuffed leather jacket bought used from a secondhand shop on Howell Street. Somewhere on the sleeve of that jacket was a streak of red permanent marker where she’d accidentally bumped his arm while grading papers.
She’d know him anywhere.
Her BlackBerry pinged at that moment, but she kept her eyes focused on Ethan as he sped away. When he was completely out of sight, she pulled out her phone and saw she had one new text message.
He must have sent it while he was at the window. There were no words, only an attachment. She clicked on it, waiting the three seconds it took for it to download, her heart beating so hard she could feel her pulse throbbing in her temple.
The photo was small and grainy, but it was irrefutable. Her back was to the camera, as was her naked ass, but there was no doubt it was Sheila on all fours, looking back with a smile as Ethan took her from behind.
A still shot from their sex video. The one she’d been so sure he didn’t have.
Her life, as she knew it, was over.
CHAPTER 6
S t. Mary’s Helping Hands looked and smelled like a shithole because it was a shithole. Overcooked vegetables, salty gravy, and the body odor of eighty or so homeless human beings combined to form a vomit-inducing aroma not unlike that of a garbage dump.
Then there were the sounds. The constant thrum of voices, metal forks clanging against metal plates, the scraping of cheap chairs on scarred pine floors, the occasional outbursts of laughter or shouting.
It was an assault on the senses.
Volunteering here had been Abby’s idea. In theory it was brilliant. What better place to study the psychological consequences of poverty than at Seattle’s premier soup kitchen?
St. Mary’s was a cesspool of living, breathing human beings representing almost every behavioral, mental, and societal issue Ethan had read about in books. These were the forgotten folks, the dregs of society, the people you didn’t notice and made a point not to see while you stood in line wearing your $300 boots waiting to order your $5 latte. These were the people you believed you’d never become, despite the fact that at some point in the past, they’d all had normal lives.
Someone whose name Ethan couldn’t remember now had once described it as Before and After. Before was when they were normal, when they had jobs and homes and loved ones, before the financial devastation, drug abuse, or mental illness had overpowered them and taken everything away. This was the After. And there was nothing after the After, just this, every day, until the end.
It made for a great thesis.
He slopped another portion of green beans onto someone’s plate, managing to avoid eye contact even though the person murmured a polite thank-you. On another night he might have engaged this person in small talk, and if that had been interesting, the small talk might have led to a deeper conversation. But not tonight. Tonight Ethan was in a foul mood, because Dr. Sheila Tao had dumped him. For Morris. An oversize gorilla who’d somehow managed to make him feel tiny and inconsequential.
He wanted to kill them both.
Her lovely face appeared again in his mind, all dark eyes and red velvet lips. Delicate Asian bone structure. The curve of her slender white neck and the sweet spot above her collarbone he liked to kiss. He’d chased her for the better part of a year… only to have it end as if it never even started. Did she really think he would let it go that easily?
It was never supposed to be anything more than a convenient affair. Screwing the professor had yielded some nice perks. Flexible deadlines, a reduced workload, more one-on-one help with his thesis. Plus she could hoover him senseless.
It had never once occurred to him that it would end this way, on her terms. That she’d try to get rid of him, as if she were taking out the trash. She’d caught him off guard, and it was his fault for being surprised. He was normally never surprised.
He normally couldn’t feel surprise.
He might have been able to accept the sexual relationship ending, but trying to pawn him off onto another professor? Unacceptable. She was flexing her muscles, and that was not okay. And then that gaudy display with Morris and the bracelet, sitting on his lap, batting her eyelashes like a lovesick teenager? Making wedding plans as if everything were all right with the world?
That was very not okay.
Ethan thought of the picture he’d e-mailed her-the one with her ass in the air-and finally allowed himself to feel a twinge of satisfaction. It was Photoshopped, but she didn’t need to know that. Hopefully it had done its job.
Okay, he needed to think of something else. Anything else. Forcing Sheila out of his thoughts, he surveyed the large room.
Dozens of dirty heads were bent over plates of hot food, open mouths consuming whatever slop St. Mary’s was serving tonight. The room was filled with skin diseases, lice, and respiratory infections he was sure you could catch just by breathing. His skin itched thinking about it and he pulled a small bottle of hand sanitizer out of his pocket. The ventilation system worked well and air fresheners were scattered everywhere, but the smell of filth was never completely masked.
A few feet away, Abby was at her station handing out cups of apple juice and milk. Ethan watched her mouth form words he couldn’t make out over the constant din of chatter and eating. Even wearing an apron stained from the grease of a thousand meals past, Abby looked beautiful, her un-made-up complexion making her look even younger than her twenty-three years.
Abby Maddox was Ethan’s live-in girlfriend. He adored Abby.
But he craved Sheila. Nothing in life was ever simple.
A guffaw of laughter drew Ethan’s attention to the corner of the room, and he saw that Marlon was here tonight, looking no better or worse than normal. The old black man sat in his usual spot by the window, under the sign that read BELIEVE IN MARY BECAUSE SHE BELIEVES IN YOU. He was muttering to himself as he scanned the newspaper. Ethan hadn’t seen Marlon in a month, but knew the schizophrenic man wouldn’t be able to explain where he’d been. Even if he could articulate it, he wouldn’t, because Marlon believed himself to be a spy for a supersecret government agency disguised as a homeless man, right down to the feces- and urine-stained clothes. His job was to find old newspapers and circle code words. During one brief hour of clarity a few months back, Ethan learned that Marlon had once been a high school custodian in Portland with a wife and daughter. But as far as the volunteers could ascertain, Marlon had been off his meds for at least a year. And nobody was looking for him anymore.
The young woman with the old face sat at the table nearest the restroom. Her name was Marie, and she was a prostitute, thief, and crystal meth addict. For twenty bucks, Marie would tell you anything you wanted to know
