Page 70 of The Quiet Tenant

Focus.

So far, he’s gone left, left, and right. Left, left, and right. You hold on to it like a cheat code. Left, left, right, and straight ahead past the Butcher Bros.’ cattle.

A bed-and-breakfast on the left. To your right, a library. And, suddenly—open, available, free for the taking, right in front of you—a town center.

You must be hallucinating.

He drives down what you assume is Main Street. It’s too much, way too much to take in all at once—a sandwich shop and a bookstore and a coffee place and a bakery and a liquor store and a hair salon and a yoga studio and a drugstore. Around a corner, a restaurant called Amandine. It’s closed. Restaurants, you remember, often close on Mondays.

It feels so normal. Like you could step out of the car and do things again—grab a latte, catch a vinyasa class, shop for a new lipstick.

You turn to look at him. His eyes gleam, translucent in the winter sun. His palms whoosh on the steering wheel. So basic. The bookstore in the background. Hands in the ten-and-two position. A guy running errands. A dad about town. A well-respected man, living a respectable life in a respectable town.

He pulls over by the bakery. Parks behind a silver BMW, puts the engine in idle.

“So what do you think?” he asks.

You have no clue what he expects from you. You risk a glance to the side. Shouldn’t he be worried? Someone could see you. Any second now. He has spent five years hiding you, pulling shades down, locking doors behind you. What is he doing?

“It’s…lovely,” you try.

A small laugh. “That’s a good word for it,” he says. “The people arelovely,too.” He glances outside. “Speaking of…”

You follow his gaze. A man walks out of the bakery. He’s hunched over, wrapped in a gray coat, a paper bag under his arm. The man spots the truck and changes his trajectory.

He heads toward you.

As he gets closer, you can see the details of him: balding hair, brown spots lining the base of his scalp, silver band on his left ring finger. You cling to every element, captivated by his completely average physique. Five years without new faces has done this to you.

The man waves in the direction of the truck. “Aidan!”

This is it. He’s going to pull out the gun, and it will be the end of the man in the gray coat. You grip the passenger seat. Your jaws lock. Your teeth squeak against one another, a record scratch echoing through your brain.

A sound on your right. You risk a glimpse.

The window on the passenger side is going down.

What the fuck is happening?

“Good afternoon, Judge.”

His voice is warm and polite and syrupy. On his face is the simple, believable pleasure of running into an old pal on the street.

Now your window is fully down. The man in the gray coat leans against the truck and says hello again.

“How’s everything?” he asks. “No work today?”

The man on your left laughs, taps his fingers on the steering wheel.

“Just on a break, Judge. You know how these things go. Boss never lets me out of his sight for too long.”

The man chuckles, too. Sure, he says, don’t I know it. “Call me Francis,” he says, “I’ve told you a hundred times. No need to be so formal.”

“If you insist.” Then, in a joking tone: “Judge.”

You raise your gaze to the man in the gray coat, stare as intensely as you can without arousing suspicion from the driver’s seat. Your eyes water. Your face is burning.Look at me. Hear my thoughts. Look at me, you fucking fucker. Do you know who I am?

There must have been posters. After he took you. That was somewhere else, but it couldn’t have been that far away. If you were a judge in a nearby town, wouldn’t you have heard? Wouldn’t you remember? Wouldn’t the faces of the missing be etched in your brain forever?

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