Creep by Jennifer Hillier Page A

Morris’s ex-wife, wasn’t too appealing.
    She left Morris in the changing area and headed toward the cashier’s counter at the front of the store. Angling her way past the racks of men’s suits and tuxedos, she took her place in line behind a young couple complaining 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 Sheilawasn’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. Herback 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 hadonce 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,