Page 118 of The Quiet Tenant

“What happened out there?” he wants to know. “Who are you? How do you know Aidan?”

You take a breath. Your skin prickles.I’m trying,you want to say.I’m trying to tell you. I’ve been sitting on this for five years and now it’s time and you have to listen to me.

You have to believe me.

Promise you’ll believe me,you want to say.Promise that after I tell you this, it will all be over.

The way he said his name just now. The way he apologized as he put him in handcuffs.I’m so sorry, Aidan.Buddies. Two men who have known each other for a while.

Aidan Thomas?the young cop will say on TV.He was just a very nice guy. The type of person everyone likes. Polite. If your car broke down, he was there with jumper cables. We never had any issues with him. He got along with everybody.

You take a gulp of stale air.Listen,you want to say.Let’s make a deal. I will give you the case of a century. I will change your life, as long as you change mine.

Look at him. The words that follow are words you need to say with your back straight, your head held high. No hesitation. You have waited five years for this. For a room devoid of his presence, for a pair of ears to listen, for your voice in the middle of it all.

“Officer,” you start. Your voice thick like syrup, your jaw working its way heavily through each syllable.

You have to say it.

Remember it. The sound, the feeling of it in your mouth.

Your name.

Illicit, like a curse word.

For five years, you have not spoken it.

Even thinking it felt wrong. In the shed. Anytime he was around. You worried he might hear the syllables in your head. That he would feel your deception, a part of yourself kept out of his reach.

“My name,” you say. Start over. You can’t fuck it up.

It has to be perfect.

When you say these words, you have to give them the power to unlock doors and keep them open forever.

“Officer,” you say again, and this time you don’t stop. “My name is May Mitchell.”

CHAPTER 83

Emily

Everywhere I go, he stares at me.

Abandoned on park benches. Next to the registers at the drugstore. At home, on the living room table, where Eric abandoned a copy of the newspaper yesterday. I came back before Yuwanda could tell him to put it away.

Most papers have been using his mug shot. Two of them, tabloids from the city, got their hands on a couple of family photos. One was taken years ago at a Halloween party, when his daughter was a little kid. He’s wearing a plushy gray sweater, holding on to her waist as she bobs for apples in the town square, her face pixelated. The invisible child of the most visible man.

The other photo is even older. He’s young, posing next to his wife in front of their former house, the big one in the woods. Both of them smile at the camera. She’s resting her head on his shoulder; he has one arm around her. It was taken, I imagine, around the time they moved here. Back when they looked into the future together and liked what they saw.

It’s been ten days. No one believed anything at first. The news articles kept coming, and people kept shaking their heads. Then he confessed. Some of it, not all. But enough.

The cops tried to ask me questions the first night. At first, I waited outside in my car. Nothing happened. I went in and couldn’t see him anywhere. The kid was by herself, sitting on a chair. I motioned toward her but an officer stopped me. She took me to a separate room. “Do you know this girl’s father?” she asked. “Do you know Aidan Thomas?”

And then she said words that didn’t make sense to me. Still don’t. She kept probing, but I was useless. Confused. Cold. She gave up and told me to go home, that she’d come by the next day.

“Can I come in instead?” I asked. I didn’t want her inside ourhouse. Didn’t want to drag Eric and Yuwanda into any of this. The officer said sure.

I kept my promise. I returned the following day. By then, the FBI had arrived. The fucking FBI. They were helping with the investigation, the officer said. Could I speak to them?

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