Page 51 of The Quiet Tenant

It was the girl. You stayed for the girl. You know that now.

Whichever way you wiggle out of this, it has to involve her. You want her safe. You want your eyes on her at all times.

Just before he left, her father pointed west. On the first night,when he brought you into the house, you came from the opposite direction. You think. You need to trust your memories of the road, of the tire tracks, of the side you assumed you came from. You could drive east and follow the same roads. He made you close your eyes but you felt them underneath you, the smooth movements of the truck that meant asphalt.

You have been waiting for him to mess up. You have been careful. You have waited to be sure.

This has to be it.

If you don’t run now—with him gone, his phone and car key at your disposal, and the contours of an escape plan—then when?

Your ears start buzzing. How much time have you already wasted thinking this through—two minutes, three?

It has to be now.

You could be home by Christmas.That does it. It’s the final thought you needed to push you over the edge. You grab the remote and pause the movie. Cecilia raises her eyebrows at you, likeIs there a problem?

You don’t know how to pitch this to her. How to tell her that you both have to go. That there are things you know and she doesn’t, and that she needs to trust you.

You have to trust you, too.

“I’m going to go,” you tell her. “For a ride.”

She frowns. “Now?”

“Yeah.” You swallow. You try to speak in the clear, stable tone of someone who goes for rides all the time, who keeps her car parked just around the corner. “I just remembered…something. I have to go.” It sounds so real in your mouth,I have to go I have to go I have to go.“It won’t take long.”

She shrugs. She’s used to this, you realize, adults slipping away at all hours of the night, disappearing for unknown reasons, returning like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Then you tell her.

“You need to come with me.”

Her forehead creases. She looks like he does when he’s annoyed. When you talk to him, ask him for things. She is Cecilia. She is a father’s daughter.

“Just go with me,” you say.

She turns to face the screen again. “I can’t, really. I’d have to tell my dad. And um, there’s the movie.”

She’s so sweet, so polite. Beating around the bush, sparing your feelings. Making up excuses instead of stating the obvious:I can’t disappear with a stranger at night.

“It’s all right,” you say. “Your dad won’t mind.”

She frowns. You are lying and she knows it.

You insist, “It’ll be fine.” You don’t have any arguments to convince her and no time to think of any. He could be back any minute.

You have to go.

“Come on.”

You get up. She doesn’t move. She’s thirteen. Not ten, not six. She won’t follow you just because you said so.

You nudge her. “Let’s go.”

She recoils slightly. You are annoying her, scaring her. She wants you to leave her alone.

Now’s not the time to back down. You will explain later. For now all she needs to know is you’re on her side, and life will be better if she follows you.

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