Page 47 of The Quiet Tenant

Another thing.

If he comes home and sees the open handcuffs, he’ll realize he’s slipping. On the surface, he’ll blame you, but deep down he will know. He will stop trusting himself. He will become more vigilant again.

You need him sloppy, distracted. You need his self-confidence intact.

Do it.

It is the greatest betrayal. It is an act of faith.

You don’t stand up. Instead, you wrap your fingers around the cuffs and push the metallic ends together.

The mechanism clicks shut.

CHAPTER 31

Number four

His daughter had just taken her first steps.

Soon she won’t need me anymore, he said.

What did he want me to do? Swear to him that wasn’t true?

I had three of my own.

I could have lied to him about anything, except my babies.

So I told him.

Maybe she won’t, I said. Maybe one day she won’t need you at all.

It wounded him.

It was the wrong thing to say, obviously. But it was all I had.

He was going to do it no matter what. That, I was sure of. He needed to do it. Even more: he needed to watch himself do it. I saw him, when it was happening. Checking himself out. Catching glimpses of himself in the rearview mirror of my car.

Like he wanted to check that he still could. Like he needed to see it to believe it.

I don’t regret what I said about his daughter. It probably shortened my life by an extra minute or so, but I don’t regret getting in that one shot.

Like I said, it was all I had.

CHAPTER 32

Emily

They’ve called off the search for the missing woman. The case is still open, according to the page-four story in the local paper, but we all know what this means. Investigators have run out of places to look, of leads to follow. They’ve got nothing.

We carry on with our lives. Selfishly. Stupidly. What else can we do? The holidays are around the corner. We’re all supposed to be happy.

Thanksgiving is brutal. I prepare for my shift like those kids inThe Hunger Games,except my weapons are comfortable shoes, an extra hair tie for my ponytail, a generous coating of hair spray, and the matte lipstick that only comes off when rubbed with olive oil.

Despite those precautions, my feet are crying out for a break by the end of the six o’clock service. A glance at the mirror behind the bar informs me that my cheeks are blotchy, my forehead shiny, my perfect hair just a memory. My arms are sore from shaking apple cider martinis and their espresso counterparts. My lower back is heavy. Every time I take a step, a sharp pain flashes up my legs.

The pain is fine. The pain is part of the plan. I took my first steps on the floor of my father’s restaurant. I spent my childhood collecting tips, bringing checks, refilling water glasses, burning my hands on hot plates. The pain, I can take.

What breaks me into too many pieces is the rest—the times I mess up, the injustices I allow to happen. Eric fucks up a four-top’s appetizers and I can’t bring myself to tell him to get his shit together. A sidecar comes back to me, “too weak.” And then, there’s the Shirley Temple debacle. Nick pitches the recipe to me in the afternoon—hard seltzer, crème de cassis, a twist, kind of like a Shirley Temple for adults, you know?I give it a try before the first service. It works. On the menu it goes.

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