Escape from Mr. Whitman (Emma and Theodore) novel Chapter 338

Those people came and went in a flash.

In no time, Theodore was left alone, hunched over the trash can by his car, retching but unable to bring anything up. His stomach twisted in knots.

The janitor emerged from the garage, took one look at the mess scattered across the floor, and exploded at Theodore. “Look at you, all dressed up like a gentleman, and this is the kind of crap you pull? Of all the things you could mess with, you choose garbage? Maybe you are garbage! Why don’t you throw yourself in the dumpster while you’re at it?”

She punctuated her tirade by jabbing her broom at his feet.

Theodore couldn’t even defend himself. He fought the urge to vomit as he took the broom from her, mumbling, “I’m sorry… ugh… ma’am… let me… I’ll clean it up… ugh…”

“Hmph. Clean it good! And don’t forget to mop the floor!” she barked, unwilling to cut him any slack.

Around the corner, behind a wall, a pair of people exchanged glances. They nodded, then slipped away.

They’d been planning to clean up after Theodore left, but since he was doing it himself, they figured they’d let him. After all, that’s where he belonged—down in the dirt with the trash.

There was no way Theodore could show his face at the office in this state. Once he finished cleaning, he drove home.

He showered again, scrubbing away the grime and humiliation, then sat in a chair, staring off into space.

It was Emma’s chair—the one she used to sit in all the time. She’d curl up here to binge her favorite shows, read a book, and, yes, sometimes to practice her English.

Her things were still scattered on the desk. Pens filled the holder, and the books she’d been reading—mostly on art history—were stacked neatly on the surface.

He pulled open a drawer, finding it packed with even more books. He picked one at random—an IELTS prep book.

He remembered her English had never been great. She’d studied art, and as far as he could recall, her grades in high school were nothing to write home about. The last time he’d flipped through her IELTS practice book, her answers had been all over the place.

But as he leafed through it now, something caught his eye. Her reading scores—she’d managed a 7.

He looked closer. Every test was dated, each one carefully marked with the exact day and month she’d finished it.

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