Page 55 of The Quiet Tenant

You don’t know.

Whatever it is, you just violated it.

With great effort, you jerk your head a couple of inches to the left. Your gaze meets his for a second. This man. He should have killed you a long time ago. He sees that now, and you see it, too. So obvious, so undeniable. You have been nothing but trouble.

His left arm wraps around your neck. There is a pressure at the back of your head—his right hand, you presume. A choke hold. He has you in a choke hold.

You cannot move. You can barely think.

You don’t know if you’re breathing. That knowledge does not belong to you. What belongs to you is your blurring vision and your weakening limbs and the pulsing in your ears—your blood, each contraction of your heart like a strum on a guitar.

The sound fills you.

It slows down.

One beat after the other, farther apart.

There is one last try, a surge of brightness rocking your spine against his chest.

And then nothing.

Everything goes black.

CHAPTER 36

Cecilia

When I was little, my dad taught me how to read. Every night, he would quiz me: What sound do aniand annmake, strung together? What about a doubleo? And a doublee? Later on, he taught me words. Food words, nature words, plant words. Construction words, medical words, electricity words. One time we drove past a bunch of turkeys on the side of the road—I must have been six or seven—and he told me that was called a gang, a gang of turkeys.

I became obsessed. I went through a whole phase of wanting to know what different groups of animals were called. A swarm of bees, a quiver of cobras. He printed a list off the internet and every day he taught me a new one. A colony of bats, or a camp, or a cloud. A sloth of bears. A caravan of camels. A shadow of jaguars. We made a game of it, anytime he drove me anywhere. He’d say falcons and I’d say cast, a cast of falcons. Crocodiles? A bask of crocodiles. Rhinos? A crash. Lemurs? A conspiracy. Crows? A murder. That was my favorite one. A murder of crows. Crows are so goth. It had to be a murder.

We fight, my dad and I.

Of course we fight. He’s my dad. But I know he loves me.

Some daughters won’t ever know what it feels like to be loved this way. I hear people at school. In the stories of their lives, their dads are always in the background, working late, showing up for games and holidays like guests instead of actual parents.

Me, I’ll always know. Sometimes I think it’s the only thing I’ll know for sure in my entire life. No matter what, if I die old or young, sick or healthy, happy or miserable, married or not. If anyone asks—like if I become famous and suddenly everyone wants to know what it was like to be me before they knew my name—there’s one thing I’ll be able to say with certainty.

I will tell the world my father loved me.

CHAPTER 37

The woman in danger

He takes you to the woods.

Here’s how it happens: he lets your body slide, rag-doll-limp, to the living room floor. Hurt, but breathing. That’s the thing with you: you never stop breathing.

He slides one arm under your back, wraps the other behind your knees. Maybe that’s how he carries you to the truck. Or maybe he slings you over his shoulder, potato-sack style. You’re not some delicate little thing. You know what you are: A chore to be checked off. A problem to solve.

Or perhaps he nudges you and you open your eyes, not really conscious but awake enough to be lifted up. Maybe the both of you hobble to the truck together, your arm over his shoulder, his fingers tight on your wrist, one hand around your waist. Maybe you look like friends after a night out—you sloppily drunk, and he bringing you to safety.

A door opens. Cold air on your face. You hear the rustle of the wind in tree branches, but you can’t see anything. Not a single leaf. Someone has turned the lights off in your head, your brain a mess of broken bulbs. You cry silent sobs. If you’re about to go, you need to see the trees one last time. You need their roots to steady you, the sweet sway of their leaves to lull you to sleep.

He sits you down on the passenger seat. Your head rolls against the window, the glass like an icicle against your skin. He holds you upright to wrap the seat belt around your chest. What does it matter? you want to ask. Who cares if the truck skids off the road and you go flying through the windshield? You’d be gone, and he wouldn’t have to lift a finger.

But he’s not a man who leaves things up to fate. He slams your door shut and walks to the other side.

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