Page 16 of The Quiet Tenant

Stupid. This is what happens when you think about the people outside.

Rule number one of staying alive outside the shed: You don’t run unless you’re sure.

He stops again. You stumble to a halt, just in time to avoid ramming into him. You are standing next to the passenger door of his truck. He pulls it open and you place the crate onto the backseat. One last flash of green leaves, one stealthy breath of fresh air. You lower yourself onto the polyester seat at the front. His end of the handcuffs clicks open. He brings both of your hands behind your back and cuffs them into place.

“Don’t move.”

He leans over, secures your seat belt. Not the kind of man who risks getting pulled over for minor traffic violations. He stays out of trouble and the world thanks him for it.

After double-checking the seat belt, he stands upright again. Fumbles with the waistband of his jeans, pulls the gun out of the holster. Waves it in front of your face. Your skin melts to nothingness in front of a gun. Your body offers no help, no protection—just parts to be broken. Only the endless promise of pain.

“Don’t move. I won’t be happy if you move.”

You nod.I believe you,you want to tell him like a pledge, like a sermon.I always believe you.

He slams the passenger door and crosses over to the driver’s side, gun pointed at the windshield, his gaze never leaving yours. His door opens. He slides onto his seat. Drops the gun onto the dashboard, buckles his own seat belt. A sharp outtake of breath.

“Let’s go.”

He says it to himself more than you.

He switches on the ignition. Returns the gun to the holster. You wait for him to press the gas pedal, but he turns to face you instead. Your jaw contracts. He could change his mind. At the very last minute, he could decide that this isn’t going to work. That it would be easier, better, if you disappeared for good.

“When we get there…It’s late. She’s asleep. You will be very quiet. I don’t want her to get up in the middle of the night and start asking questions.”

You nod.

“Okay. Now close your eyes.”

You can’t help but frown.

“I said, close your eyes.”

You close your eyes. The explanation comes to you as the truck rumbles to life under your thighs: he doesn’t want you to see where you are or where you are going. Same as five years ago, when he took you, except that time, he blindfolded you. Handed you a bandanna and made you wrap it over your eyes while he brought you to his property. But that was then, and this is now. He knows you now. He knows you do what he tells you to.

In any other circumstances, you’d risk it. You’d open your eyes and take a quick look. But not tonight. Tonight, all that matters is staying alive.

You focus on the sways and jerks of the truck. It bumps acrosswhat you imagine is the driveway before reaching a smooth surface—asphalt, presumably. A road. You feel dizzy, not with motion sickness but with possibility. What if you leaned over, as much as the seat belt allows, and disturbed his posture? Made him turn the wheel? What if you turned it yourself, with your knee or your foot or any other part of your body? What if the both of you went careening toward a guardrail or a ravine? He wouldn’t have time to grab the gun. Maybe. Or maybe he’d get the truck back on the road in a matter of seconds, drive to a secluded area, pull out the pistol, and deal with you.

So you stay still. There’s only the purr of the engine, the occasional tapping of his fingers on the steering wheel. It’s hard to say how long he drives for. Ten minutes? Twenty-five? Eventually, the truck slows, then stops. You hear the jingle of a key getting pulled out of the ignition.

You don’t move. You don’t open your eyes. There are things you don’t do unless he tells you to. But already you know. You have arrived. You can feel it. The house, calling out to you. Yearning.

CHAPTER 11

The woman in the house

The driver’s door opens and shuts. A few seconds later, he’s at your side. He reaches for your hands, still tucked between your back and the passenger seat. The handcuff slides off your left wrist. A fumble, a click. When he tells you to open your eyes, you’re chained to each other again.

“Let’s go.”

You make no move to step off the truck. He sighs, then leans over to undo your seat belt.

“Couldn’t have done that yourself?”

So you could freak out? Pistol-whip me from behind? I don’t think so.

He gives you a tug. You step onto a patch of grass. He leans to retrieve your crate from the backseat. Your chance to look: You are standing at the edge of a tiny front yard, a border between his world and the sidewalk. The truck parked to one side in a small graveled driveway, tire tracks you have to assume were made when he parked just now. Roads in two directions: the one you came from, and the unknown. A tree and a door with a doorbell and a welcome mat. Trash bins with wheels, one green, one black. Tucked underneath the ground floor, wedged at the foot of a hill, a garage door. On the other side of the house, a tiny patio, metallic chairs, and the matching table.

---