Page 117 of The Quiet Tenant

“She took my kid.” His voice ricochets across the room. It bounces on the walls, high-pitched and plaintive.

Once. Just once, you took something of his.

He wants them to know. Before you can say anything. He wantsto get there first, make sure his voice is heard so yours vanishes forever.

It’s not just the voice. There’s his body, too, tall and lean and trying to push past the man in blue.

The man in blue turns halfway to face you. A cop. Young, all baby fat and bouncy cheeks. An officer. Two ears and a brain. You must get to him.

“Aidan,” the young cop says, a plea for reason.

He doesn’t listen. “She took my kid.” The outrage of it. The sheer disbelief.

Cecilia raises an arm. “Dad,” she says, an echo to his litany. “Dad. Dad.”

Maybe it’s her voice, years of parenting having predisposed him to leap at that word,Dad, Dad, Dad.The most essential part of her, waking up the most essential part of him.

“Let me through,” he says, trying to step toward you. The young cop stays where he is.

“Aidan,” the cop tries, “calm down, I don’t want to have t—”

A scuffle. Voices rising, bodies colliding. Your eyes shut, a reflex. You squeeze your hands into fists.Breathe. Inhale, exhale. Stay alive.

“I’m so sorry, Aidan,” the cop says. There’s the click of metal, handcuffs zipping shut. When you open your eyes again, Cecilia’s father is standing with his arms behind his back, wrists crossed, head bowed. Silent. Finally.

“You, too,” the cop says. He reaches for something, and your shoulders are burning. Hands on your back, cold metal against your skin. Again. Maybe this is your life forever. Wherever you go, a man will be waiting with handcuffs, demanding you hold out your wrists.

“All right,” the officer announces. “Now we can talk.”

Another silhouette in blue approaches. “You take her, I’ll take him,” she tells the young cop. He nods and nudges you away.

You look back. Cecilia. You need to know what they’re going to do with her.

From the corner of your eye, you see her try to follow her dad. A third officer—older, almost too old to be her father—stops her. “Hang back here,” he says, and you think you hearsweetie.You heardad,you heara few questions.Cecilia nods as the older cop gestures toward an empty chair.

From the other side of the room, he looks back, too. The father. The man in handcuffs.

His gaze catches yours.

There is a recognition here, an air ofOf course.Like he was expecting this. Like he was waiting for you to betray him all along.

This is how it had to end,you want to tell him.

Both of us chained to ourselves and, in the middle, the girl. Free.

CHAPTER 82

The woman with a name

The room is small and windowless. A desk, fluorescent lights, a manila folder. Lingering smells of sweat and instant coffee.

You love it. All of it. A room where the air doesn’t belong to him.

“Sit,” the cop says.

You sit.

“I need to tell you,” you say, and he interrupts.

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