Page 82 of The Quiet Tenant

Truck. The roar of the engine, then silence.Snap, snap—the door on the driver’s side opens and shuts. Front door.

A brief silence. The thud of his steps. Remote, then close, and then even closer.

The door opens.

“What are you doing in here?”

He looks at you, folded into a ball by the heater, where you don’t have to be.

“I was just…resting,” you tell him. Should you start explaining right away, or wait for him to ask?

He’s decided not to care. “She in her bedroom?”

He means his daughter. You tell him yes. Does he want to know if the coast is clear? If he can drag you down the stairs undetected?

“Okay,” he says. “Well. I’ll be in the kitchen. Why don’t you stay here until dinner, since you like it so much.”

He closes the door softly.

Your throat tightens. You have no idea what he’s up to. You can’t get a read on him. Your ability to stay alive has depended on this, above all else, his thoughts like a knot you could work on until it unraveled.

Cooking smells rise through the house. He calls from the kitchen. You and Cecilia run into each other at the top of the stairs. She gestures for you to go first.

Her father deposits a steaming pan of mac and cheese at the center of the table and hands you a serving spoon. It’s torture, at this point. His calm manners, something an outsider would mistake for politeness.

Just let me have it,you think.Say something. Anything.

But he sits down, asks his daughter about her day. While they talk, you take a better look at him. You search for signs—a pep in his posture, a glimmer in his eyes, adrenaline coursing through his body like it always does after a kill.

Nothing.

You move the mac and cheese around your plate until he and Cecilia are done. You follow along with their motions, cleanup, couch, TV. Still, you wait for a snag that doesn’t come.

As the house settles for the night, he handcuffs you to the radiator. That part hasn’t changed with Christmas break.

You lie awake until he returns.This is it,you think. You await instructions.Get up,he’ll say, and then he’ll take you to the truck and drive away.

A sigh. Little smile. He gets to work on his belt, slides off his jeans.

It all happens as usual.

Afterward, he puts his clothes back on, runs a hand over his face, suppresses a yawn.

With a calm assurance, he brings your arm above your head, wraps one end of the cuffs around your wrist, the other around the bed frame. Routine gestures. Everything normal.

The door shuts behind him. You lie, eyes open. Ears ringing.

He doesn’t know.

A woman came into his house, stood in his living room. Stole his key. Invaded his domain. And he has no idea.

She did it all under the gaze of his cameras. The ones that don’t miss anything. The ones that keep him informed via phone of your slightest movements.

His alleged cameras. The ones he made up. The ones that exist only in your head.

CHAPTER 57

Number seven

---