Page 108 of The Quiet Tenant

“I didn’t realize you were here,” she says. “My dad said you’d be away tonight.”

You shut the door behind you.

This is the part where you start pretending. It has to look real, or it won’t work. It has to look real, or you all die.

“Don’t scream,” you say.

She gives you a look, then spots the gun in your hand. Her bodyrecoils. She takes a step back. When she gazes at you again, she’s a beam of fear and confusion.

Maybe part of her knew. Maybe she could feel it, running in the pipes like hot steam, snaking through the foundations of the house. The prospect of violence.

Maybe part of her expected it, but she never saw it coming fromyou.

“If you scream, I won’t be happy,” you say. The words, his, like dirt in your mouth. You have to wrestle them off your tongue, every part of your body fighting back.

“What’s going on?” she asks, a whimper.

I can’t say,you think. You feel yourself beginning to give in, a tenderness in your stomach, words crowding the back of your throat. You want to tell her everything. You want her to understand. You want her to know that you would never—

No.

“We’re going to go for a ride,” you tell her. Not a question. Not a request. Someone looking into the future.

She nods. Is it that easy? You point a gun at people and they do as you tell them?

“You won’t make a sound,” you say. “You won’t run. You won’t scream.”

Then, the one truth you have to offer: “Just do exactly as I say, and everything will be all right.”

Another nod.

What you don’t tell her: That this is the only way to make sure she’s safe. To have eyes on her at all times.

Later, when she thinks about tonight, here’s what you hope she’ll remember: A great commotion. You doing something bad, and her father slipping away from her.

She will think herself the victim of a great injustice. She won’t be wrong about that part. One day, she will get the full story. One day, she will find out. But not now.

You gesture toward the door with your free hand.

“Let’s go,” you say.

Her eyes travel to the dog. You prepare to tell her again:I said, Let’s go.But she thinks better of it, steels herself on her own.

What you don’t tell her:I wish the dog could come, too. I hope she finds her way back to you.

She goes down the stairs, and you don’t even have to rush her. Don’t have to pull or tug, don’t have to press the gun at her side. She’s thirteen and you’re an adult with a gun and it breaks you, it destroys you one step after the other, how easy it is with her.

“Stop,” you say.

A break halfway down the stairs to peer into the living room.

It’s empty.

“Let’s go,” you say.

You make it to the back door.

“Here’s how it’s going to happen,” you tell her. Whispering, hunching your shoulders, disappearing. He could be anywhere. “We’re going to go to the truck. You will follow me. Do not try anything, okay?”

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