Page 20 of The Quiet Tenant

He’s holding a pair of scissors. You freeze.

“It’s too long.” With the scissors, he points at your hair. It hasn’t grown as much as you imagined it would. After the first twelve months—twelve months of one meal a day—your body decided to use its resources for more pressing matters. Your ends thinned out, forever hovering underneath your shoulder blades.

He needs you neater than this. He needs you to look like someone who never lost access to haircuts.

“Don’t move,” he tells you. “Be a shame if you made my hand slip.”

You keep still as he runs the blades across your back, repress a shiver as the metal bounces against your skin. In a couple of snips, he brings your hair back to shoulder length.

He stuffs the scissors in his back pocket and tugs at your arm.

It’s all he ever does, jerking you this way and that, hurrying you up, never the right amount of time for anything. You turn to face him. His blue eyes, the ones you swear turn dark at times. His carefully groomed facial hair, his cheekbones, shockingly delicate, almost fragile.

There is probably nice shampoo hidden in the drawers under the sink. Aloe vera aftershave and pomade in the mirrored cabinet. Nothing expensive, just enough to feel clean and put together.

Anger rises, hot, up your spine. Your eyes dart around the room in search of things to grab and throw. Perhaps the soap dish could crack his skull. Or you could use your hands, and how good would it feel, for a few seconds, to hit his chest with your closed fists againand again and again, perhaps land a punch on his face, hit the bone just above the eye, split his lip, turn his teeth red, push his nose right into his brain? But his grip on your arm tightens. This well-fed, well-rested man who knows where the weapons are hidden. The master in his domain.

“Sorry,” you say, and you zip up your hoodie. “I’m ready.”

He picks up your old clothes and tells you to follow him. Swiftly, he opens the door to the bedroom, throws your stuff inside. In the daylight, you get a better look at the door: the round knob with a lock at the center, the kind that latches from inside, like you had when you lived with roommates. This one isn’t meant to keep you in. It’s for Cecilia, here to make sure she stays out. Only her father has the key. Only he can come in.

You step back into the room. He handcuffs you to the bed again. At the end of the hallway, an alarm chirps. Right on time.

You sit and wait, your hair damp against your back. It’s not long until he returns and uncuffs you again. This time, he shuts the door behind you and grabs your wrist. You follow him downstairs. The house comes alive underneath your feet. Gray carpet on the steps, walls painted white, ditto the banister. You make a left and walk into the open kitchen.Your name is Rachel; you are Rachel.To your right is the living area. No foyer. Just the front door, beckoning to you. A couch, an armchair, a decently sized television screen. A coffee table with a couple of magazines. Photo frames on the walls and that bookshelf in the corner, lined with paperbacks. Underneath the staircase, a door.

You want to inspect it all. You want to turn drawers upside down, empty all the closets, open all the doors. But he pulls you toward the kitchen table—wooden, a few scratches, but freshly shined. Not too far from it, a back door. The entire house is clean and devoid of personality, like it’s afraid that if it starts talking, it will say too much.

He points to a chair, also wooden, the farthest away from the back door. You sit. The table is set with three plates, two empty mugs, three kitchen knives. A Mr.Coffee sputters on the counter. He puts his hand on your shoulder, gives you a shake. You glance at his waist. No holster.

“Remember.”

You are Rachel. You are a friend of a friend. You will not take a knife to his throat. You will act naturally.

He opens the silver fridge, takes out a bag of white bread, places slices inside the toaster. The breakfasts of your childhood come back to you: Pop-Tarts pinched between two paper towels, still hot, eaten on the way to school. Later on, a similar routine, but with scrambled-egg sandwiches and paper cups of coffee from a cart. As far back as you can remember, you didn’t sit down to breakfast with your parents. Certainly not on weekdays.

From your chair, you make a note of everything you see: a block of knives on the counter, tongs on the drying rack. Ladle, can opener, a long pair of scissors. A kitchen towel draped over the oven handle. Everything clean, every element in its allocated spot. He has unpacked his boxes. Made himself at home in this new space. It is his now,under his control.

He goes to lean against the banister, tips his head in the direction of the first floor.

“Cecilia!” he calls out.

He shuffles back to the Mr.Coffee to check whether it’s done brewing. A dad on breakfast duty, going about his morning routine.

—

THE FIRST YOUsee of her is her feet. Two light-blue socks padding down the stairs. Skinny black pants, a fuzzy mauve sweater. Halfway down the staircase, she leans over to peer into the kitchen.

“Hi,” you say.

Your voice startles her, him, and most of all you. His gaze bounces from you to his daughter. You worry you’ve done it wrong. One word, and already you’ve ruined everything. But Cecilia makes her way to the table and sits across from you.

“Hi,” she says.

You can’t say hi again, so you give her a little wave. You’re trying not to stare, but you can’t help it, devouring her face, feasting on the details of her features.

You scan her for any trace of her father, search for the story of her upbringing. There is some resemblance to her dad—a stranger onthe street would assume they’re related—but she is her own person, her face rounder than his, softer. Dotted with freckles and framed by wavy red hair. Her eyes, however, are his—the same blue-gray, same glimmers of yellow around the irises.

He sets a plate of toast on the table. With his back to his daughter, he raises his eyebrows at you.Don’t fuck up.

---